On struggles, sacrifice, and drinking wine while being groped

I love concerts more than drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped

I love concerts a lot.

For a pair of tickets to see a performer I really admire, I'd gladly give up drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  my morning mug of tea.

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of seeing Brandi Carlile live for the first time. I've attended hundreds of concerts in my 38 years on the planet, so you know it's a big deal when I say this one made my top five list.

Brandi charmed me not only with her passion and musical talent, but with the stories she told between songs. Stories about struggling to make it as an artist. About the roller coaster of creative successes and failures. About what it's like to perform at outdoor venues in the summertime and finally, finally be the one standing onstage when the sun goes down.

I wish I'd written down the precise words she spoke about the things people are willing to give up to chase their dreams, but I was too busy drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  enjoying the music.

But it struck a chord with me anyway. And it got me thinking about how many artists have that thread running through their words. Shawn Mullins is another one of my favorite performers, and though he's from the South, I've had the pleasure of seeing him several times in Oregon. He often opens with a song titled, "Twin Rocks, Oregon" about a chance meeting with a transient man offering a unique perspective on life.

 

The lyrics that always sock me in the gut are these ones:

I told him I, too, had been travelin' around 
Living out of my van from town to town 
Playing for tips and whatever records I could move
I said, "I don't reckon I'll be making it big 
It's hard to get rich off a tour of coffeehouse gigs."
He said, "yeah, but ain't it a blessin' to do what you wanna do?"

I've thought more than once about having those last few words tattooed on my arm, particularly during the post-divorce struggles of this past year.

I make it a policy not to share specifics of money when it comes to my life as an author, but I don't think it will surprise you to learn I don't travel around on book tour in a pink Leer jet with shirtless male flight attendants groping me while I drink wine offering me in-flight magazines. Until last week, I drove a 15-year-old car with a dented bumper and a cracked windshield. Nearly every stitch of clothing I own comes from thrift stores, and my annual expenditure for haircuts & styling is under $100.

In the years before I had a book deal, I worked full-time in marketing & communications earning surprisingly good money. I was laid off just weeks before my agent landed me my three-book romantic comedy deal with Sourcebooks, and when I went job-hunting after that, I opted to find a part-time job that allowed me more time for writing.

The pay cut stung, and it stung a lot harder when I suddenly found myself single with a mortgage to pay. Over and over, I asked myself if I'd be smart to swap those extra writing days for the paycheck of a full-time job.

That might have been the smart thing to do, but it wasn't what I chose. Even though I knew it meant a lot of life changes – taking in housemates to pay the mortgage, eventually selling the house – I was willing to make sacrifices to give myself the time I knew I needed to pursue this writing career as wholeheartedly as I could.

Will that choice pay off?

If you mean will I eventually acquire that pink Leer jet with shirtless male flight attendants groping me while I drink wine offering me in-flight magazines, I can assure you it probably won't.

But that was never the payoff I expected anyway.

The thing I want most from my writing career is to wake up every morning knowing I'm doing what I want to do. Maybe not every moment of the day, and Lord knows there have been moments I wanted to stuff my laptop in the neighbor's septic tank and set fire to it.

But certainly I spend the bulk of my waking hours thinking I'm damn lucky to have the opportunities I've been given as an author. The fact that I've made a few sacrifices to achieve that only serves as a reminder how much I truly want to spend my time doing what I've chosen to do.

What are your thoughts on the subject? What struggles and sacrifices are you willing to endure to reach your goals? Please share.

I'll be over here drinking wine  being groped  drinking wine while being groped  working on my next novel.

The people I'd like to spank

I recently read the bestselling erotic fiction novel 50 Shades of Grey, a move that prompted the following responses from friends and strangers:

• Why are you reading that crap?
• I don’t understand all the hype over that book.
• Mommy porn, huh?
• Are you horny?

 For the record, that last one wasn’t my gentleman friend (he’s quite aware the answer is a three-letter word that starts with a D and ends with an –uh.)

But for the others, my response has been pretty simple: Have you read it?

Nine out of ten people shake their heads and tell me no.

Am I the only person who finds this upsetting?

Look, I get it if you’re morally opposed to books that reference blowjobs and sexy spanking. No one’s going to handcuff you to the bed and force to read it. Not even if you beg.

But for those not waving the white flag of vanilla sex, what’s the motive for passing judgment on a book you’ve never read?

I’ll confess right now that I hesitated to read The Hunger Games. I’m not a huge fan of young adult or dystopian novels, and by the time the buzz reached fever pitch, I felt the urge to dig my heels in like a petulant toddler refuse to read it.

What a silly, juvenile mistake that would have been. As it turned out, The Hunger Games is one of my favorite books of all-time. Ditto that for Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, another book I read grudgingly and ended up adoring to smithereens.

And yes, there have been plenty of books I’ve felt bullied into reading and ended up wishing I’d spent those six hours drilling holes in my eyeballs with a corkscrew before soaking my face in battery acid.

But at least the act of reading those books gave me the experience to offer up my own judgment – for better or worse.

As an author, I bristle at how acceptable it’s become for readers to make snarky comments about books they haven’t read. They somehow know without cracking the spine that the book is overrated. That it’s too trendy. That it’s trashy.

And that attitude makes me want to grab all the book snobs by the scruff of the neck, bend them over my knee, and spank them one at a time until my palm tingles pleasantly and my breasts heave from panting and sweat trickles from the tip of my collarbone down to my—

Ahem.

How do you feel about the trend of judging books by the hype, as opposed what’s between “it was a dark and stormy night” and “the end?” Please share!

And just to balance out my soapbox rant with a dose of humor, check out this hysterical Saturday Night Live skit featuring 50 Shades of Grey:

Why it feels good to get lucky

Friday morning, I felt the overwhelming urge to post to Facebook about my breakfast.

Though it's true I was amused by my mutant egg, I was mostly just being goofy.

But within minutes, Facebook friends began commenting about how double-yolk eggs are notorious good luck signs. Many congratulated on my good fortune. One person noted that a recent month in which she found two double-yolk eggs turned out to be one of her best ever. The manager of the grocery store where I bought the eggs even jumped into the discussion.

Apparently, my breakfast is a hotter topic than I imagined.

I'll admit the whole thing had me on the lookout for good fortune throughout the day. Unsurprisingly, I didn't have to look hard. A hairbrush I'd been missing for two days turned up in my bathroom drawer. A media pitch I'd done earlier in the week for the day job yielded a nice piece of press coverage in a prominent publication. My pharmacist noticed I don't have prescription drug coverage and offered to sign me up for a discount program that knocked an extra five bucks off my birth control pills (I thanked him by offering a Believe it or Not bookmark and suggesting his wife might enjoy the book, and that he might enjoy his wife's enjoyment of the book. Or something like that. Never let it be said I won't got the extra mile for marketing).

Looking at that list of my good fortune, I'm struck by something interesting. Every single one of those items could be viewed through a negative light. I could choose to be pissed off the hairbrush went missing in the first place (the result of a poorly constructed bathroom drawer and a hidden area where the brush had slipped unnoticed.) I could point out that while that media pitch yielded a positive outcome, at least 20 others I did last week failed to produce any results. I could also gripe about the fact that my health insurance – which I pay for out-of-pocket every single month – sucks wombat testicles.

But none of those things crossed my mind until I sat down to write this blog post. I'm a firm believer in the importance of keeping an eye out for my own good fortune. If I'm vigilant about noticing the ways in which I'm lucky, I'll always feel lucky.

And let's face it – few things feel as great as getting lucky.

Do you believe in luck? Do you tend to be on the lookout for signs you're lucky, or do you sometimes slip into the habit of feeling like you're cursed? Please share!

It's time to make some breakfast. Scrambled eggs, anyone?

The value of taking one mouthful at a time

I miss having time to respond to every blog comment, but rest assured, I read them all and have several tattooed on my body. I keep a special file for comments that seem to merit a blog post in response. This one in particular has been floating in the file – and in my brain – for awhile now:

I would love to see a post from you on how not to give up.

I’ve been mulling it for weeks, trying to find the right words, accompanied by trumpets and pom-poms and a hearty “don’t give up!” cheer. I’ve also been thinking about my bumpy road to publication and the fact that I once fantasized there’d be some magical post-book-deal moment when I’d stop wondering if removing my own spleen with a paperclip might be easier than trying to make it as an author.

As it turns out, my fantasies were misguided. (Well, not all of them. The thing with the spark plugs and strawberry syrup turned out great, but that’s a post for another time).

But I’m sorry to say, you’ll be disappointed if you’re holding out for a day when angels sing and you’re freed from the panic you’ve lost your writing mojo or your next book sucks or your editor is plotting to creep into your house at night and beat you to death with your vibrator to avoid reading one more word you’ve written.

That’s not very encouraging, is it?

But it’s reality, and it’s something you need to face early in your writing career so you’re prepared to face it again and again, and spit in its eye. That’s what it takes.

And now that I’ve told you all that, I’m going to tell you to forget every word of it. Ignore it. Erase it from your memory. Soak your brain in bleach if you need to.

Because the trick to not giving up at any point in your writing career is the same as the answer to that age-old joke, how do you eat an elephant?

Take it one bite at a time.

If you let yourself spiral down the ugly path of envisioning failure or the agony of picking up the pieces afterward, your journey as a writer will become so overwhelmingly terrifying that you’ll crumple into a ball behind your sofa to spend the day rocking back and forth humming Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me” until someone shows up and carts you away to a room with padded walls.

Maybe that’s just me.

I have a clear memory of sitting on a hotel bed the day after I’d finished writing Making Waves. My celebratory mood was dampened by the reality of the situation – I’d written half-a-dozen manuscripts before that one, and at least that many partials. I’d racked up countless rejections, been told, “it’s just not what we’re looking for,” and forced myself to keep trying.

Could I really do it again? I honestly wasn’t sure.

I sat there feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of rejection, of starting again, of seeing that effort rejected, and another, and another. How much more could I take?

At last, I sat up straight and blew my nose on the comforter (reason #259 you should never touch hotel duvet covers. You don’t want to know the other reasons).

“Enough!” I said out loud. “You’re making yourself crazy!”

A valid point, considering I was talking to myself in a hotel room.

But also very true. Absolutely no good would come from wallowing in what-ifs. I couldn’t control any of that, and fretting would just make me nuts. The only thing I could control was my ability to get back up and focus on the smallest, most immediate tasks in front of me – submitting that manuscript, and starting something new.

Small bites of elephant, mind you. Trying to fit the whole thing in my mouth was ludicrous.

Know what’s funny? Making Waves did get rejected. Over and over and over, even by the publisher that eventually bought it. It wasn’t until a year later when we shopped a new book – the one now scheduled as my March release, Believe it or Not – that Sourcebooks requested both manuscripts as part of my three-book contract.

Making Waves went on to be nominated for “Best Contemporary Romance” in the RT Book Reviews 2011 Reviewers’ Choice Awards. The magazine gave it a 4.5 star review – their highest rating, and the same score they just gave Believe it or Not in the brand new issue that hit shelves Friday.

I’m not telling you that to be smug.

I’m telling you that because two weeks ago, I had one of the lowest points in my writing career. I can’t go into details, but suffice it to say, it’s the closest I’ve come to throwing in the towel as an author and becoming a shepherd instead.

I didn’t give up, and I won’t. Not now, and not in the future.

But if you’re looking to me to say, “don’t give up because it’ll get easy someday,” I can’t do that.

What I can promise is that if you stay focused on taking things one bite at a time, it gets easier. And while the hardships and frustrations will always be there in one form or another, the moments of glory and good fortune have a way of balancing it all out.

Oh, and the thing about elephant? It tastes delicious with whipped cream. That’s a promise.

It may not look hard, but it feels good

I have the best day job on the planet.

I get paid to take journalists out for fancy lunches, or to escort people on beer-drinking adventures around the Bend Ale Trail. I've gone ice skating, snowshoeing, bloody mary tasting, camping, mac-n-cheese sampling, hiking, standup paddleboarding, and bar hopping – all required by my job in marketing/PR for my city's tourism bureau.

I love my job. But there are times I feel guilty.

There's been some PR chaos this week, and since I only work part-time, my attention has been spread thin. Tuesday evening, I checked my calendar and groaned (not in the fun way). My entire Wednesday was blocked off for a tour of local farms, ranches, and wineries specializing in organic and sustainable practices.

In other words, I'd be paid to spend the day petting animals, eating amazing food, and drinking wine. Not exactly a hardship.

But I worried about it. Could I spare a whole day with so much real work on my plate? Would my boss consider it a waste of time? Would my co-workers envy my day of play and band together to give me a wedgie in the break room?

I considered canceling, but since I'm already contracted to write a freelance article on the experience, I decided to go.

Good thing.

Yes, the day was fun. It felt great to get out of the office and suck down fresh air, good food, and great wine. I had fun petting the animals. On a scale of 1-10, my stress level was minus-3.

But it was also one of the best learning experiences I've had in a long time.

Hello, I'm an alpaca. Want some socks?

In seven hours, I packed my brain full of useful information about culinary tourism. I learned the differences between grain-fed and grass-fed beef, and which local restaurants are best suited to food critics who prefer one over the other. I visited one of the nation's largest alpaca breeding operations, and discovered the most amazing alpaca-fleece ski socks to suggest to winter sports enthusiasts. I saw rabbits and turkeys and pigs and goats in an enormous petting zoo I never knew existed, but I'll now recommend to tourists with young kids.

Sure, it seems like I spent the day eating and playing. In a way, I did. But you can be damn sure I'm more equipped to do my job than I would have been if I'd skipped the tour and written press releases until the dullness of my own prose rendered me unconscious and drooling on my keyboard.

This is something I need to remind myself constantly as a fiction writer. For the average debut author, there's a never-ending list of blog posts to write, email to answer, and manuscripts screaming for fresh words.

Still, I spent last Sunday afternoon snuggled under the covers with my gentleman friend eating pizza, skimming cookbooks, and talking.

That might be only a partial list of activities. Regardless, it was time spent connecting with another human being. A human being I'm quite fond of, as you might imagine.

Hard to argue that's not time well spent for someone who writes novels about love and laughter and the human experience.

It's taken me a long time to reach a point in life where I don't feel a constant need to be productive. Just because I'm not parked in front of my computer doesn't mean I'm not working. Just because I'm not cranking out media pitches or chapters in a novel doesn't mean I'm not supporting my career.

And just because it doesn't look like work doesn't mean it's not the most valuable thing I could possibly be doing with my time.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a glass of wine with my name on it. What? It's research.

The importance of sucking for awhile

I was making breakfast Saturday morning when one of the housemates stumbled blearily into the kitchen. I’ve learned to get out of the way fast and not make conversation until he’s downed at least six gallons of coffee.

“Morning,” I said at last.

“Morning,” he mumbled. “Got big plans today?”

“Writing. I’m working on a new book, so that’s going to occupy a lot of my time for awhile.”

“Mmmph,” he said into his coffee. “How many pages do you think you’ll write?”

I shrugged and stuffed a piece of bread into the toaster. “I’m aiming for 25, but we’ll see.”

“That’s all? Huh.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean that’s all?”

“I dunno. I just would have figured someone who writes as much as you would be faster than that.”

Two things kept me from beating him over the head with the toaster.

The first is that non-writers just don’t understand that creating a brand new book from scratch involves more than repeatedly typing the phrase, “he plunged his pork sword into the dewy cleft of her love wallet.” You’ve got characters to name, backstories to develop, emotional baggage to unpack, and clever dialogue to finesse.

Sometimes, my editor even expects me to come up with a plot.

All that to say, it takes a bit longer to write 25 pages than it does to read them.

But probably the biggest reason I didn’t brain my housemate with the toaster is that I was totally lying. There’s no way in hell I was going to write 25 pages over the weekend, and I knew it. Maybe later, maybe once I hit my stride in this middle of the book.

But now – when I’m in the ugly, early stages of a new story – I’m lucky to crank out four or five pages a day. And those four or five pages will be some of the most abysmal, unfunny, uncreative examples of fiction you might ever lay eyes on.

People often ask me to name the best part of being a published author. I usually make a smartass joke about my private jet or the sleepovers with George Clooney. Want to know the truth?

The best part about being published and about having written for as long as I have is that I know sucking is part of the process. I can spend a weekend slowly oozing out horrible drivel, and while I may be disgusted with the drivel, I understand it’s necessary to do that before I reach the point where I stop sucking and start writing decent prose.

It takes a crazy amount of patience to hang in there and keep going when you’re writing at the pace of a slug crawling through tar, and every other word you place on the page feels like the wrong one. I’ve seen plenty of writers get discouraged and give up before they ever know that glorious moment when it stops feeling like you’re polishing a turd and begins to feel like you might have a decent novel on your hands.

The trick to writing isn’t hammering out a lot of brilliant prose at a speedy pace. The trick is knowing that if you keep going, you eventually do stop sucking.

I didn’t say any of this to my housemate, of course. By then, he’d fallen asleep leaning against the refrigerator, and the dog was lapping up the puddle of coffee at his feet.

Have you learned the importance of sucking in writing or any other aspect of your life? Please share!

I’ve got some sucking to do. Wait, what?

The things you learn from butt bruises

On New Year’s Eve, I went ice skating with my gentleman friend and his two offspring. It was the kids' first time gliding over a frozen surface with blades on their feet and a desperate urge to avoid brain damage.

We all escaped major injury, though there were a few bumps and bruises and a possible case of butt frostbite. (I may have lied about the butt frostbite. It’s an excellent way to solicit warm, soothing butt caresses).

When it was all over and everyone was settled down with steaming mugs of cocoa, my gentleman friend checked with the two youngsters to see how they’d enjoyed the experience.

“We loved it!” they chorused. “But falling isn’t very fun.”

No, he agreed. Falling isn’t very fun.

And yes, he probably could have caught them or spent the evening propping them up so their well-padded backsides never hit the ice.

“But sometimes, falling is how you learn best,” he said. “It’s the way you figure out how to balance and stop and get back up and get moving again.”

I’m not sure if the message resonated with the kids, who were engrossed in determining whether gummy bears float in cocoa.

But it sure made sense to me.

My road to publication was a bumpy one. There were harsh rejections from publishers and agents, a canceled book deal, an agent relationship that didn’t work out, and two long years during which my current agent probably wondered why the hell she signed an author whose manuscripts prompted editors to say, “she’s funny, but there’s no market for this.”

I’m not vain enough to suggest we got the last laugh with our three-book deal for romantic comedies, and I’m also not delusional enough to suggest I won’t fall on my butt a whole lot more in my writing career. 

But I’m infinitely grateful for those butt bruises. They’re how I’ve learned the most about writing and publishing and editing and querying and the surprising depths of my own resilience. 

They’re how I know that whether I become an international bestseller, or leave readers asking, “Tawna who?” I’m going to be just fine.

What have you learned from falling that you couldn’t have figured out by gliding along in perfect form? Please share!

And feel free to rub my butt in a soothing manner. It’s what friends do for each other.

Forgetting the balls you miss

When I'm not toiling away as a romance author, I work part time as the marketing & communications manager for my city's tourism bureau.

That's a fancy way of saying I get paid to write blog posts about beer and take journalists snowshoeing.

A key element of my job involves wooing reporters so they write nice articles about Bend, Oregon. I like to believe I'm pretty decent at my job, and I continue believing that by never, ever looking at my own success rate on media pitches.

This came up in conversation with three co-workers the other night while we swilled holiday cocktails and recapped the year's successes. I told them about a media pitch I'd just done for a national publication.

"The reporter is listing the top ten places on earth you should be when the world ends in 2012," I explained. "I told him about the beer cooler at Good Life Brewery – how it's built to withstand a 10.0 earthquake and has enough beer to keep 100 people well-sauced for several weeks."

They all laughed and patted me on the back for my cleverness. I smiled and said a polite thank you. "I doubt anything will come of it."

I wasn't being modest. I was being realistic. Of the hundreds of pitches I do each year, only a small handful ever amount to much.

Surprisingly, that doesn't discourage me. It just means I need to keep my head down, keep my eyes peeled for opportunity, and keep pitching 'til I run out of balls.

Since there's no shortage of balls in my life, I seldom worry much.

Still, I hope no one ever makes me count how many media pitches I've done that never went anywhere. I'd much rather focus on the successes – the New York Times piece raving about a great new hotel in town, or the glossy magazine spread touting Bend as a top ski destination.

It's the same reason I cringe at author-related public speaking engagements when someone asks how many books I've written. Honestly? I can't remember. I could probably count, but I'm too lazy and frankly, the number would just be discouraging.

I'd rather focus on the three-book deal for romantic comedies, my upcoming interactive-fiction release with Coliloquy, and all the other successes I've had in my writing career.

The dead books are there collecting dust bunnies under my bed, but they don't keep me up at night.

I didn't go into all this detail with my co-workers, but one of them knew instantly what I meant about the media pitches.

"I saw a motivational speech where the guy talked about how many photographs are taken to get one, single, picture that appears in National Geographic," she said. "I don't remember the exact number, but it was hundreds of thousands."

Exactly.

But you can be damn sure the photographer who has a picture appear on those pages doesn't pout about shots he took that now sit rejected on his hard drive. He's too busy dancing around screaming, "I got a photo in @#$% National Geographic."

In the end, there's no sense wasting time or energy focusing on your failures. Keep playing, keep swinging, and keep your mind on the times you whack that damn ball out of the park.

Oh, and keep snickering about balls. That helps.

Incidentally, I heard from the reporter several days after my pitch about the beer cooler. They decided to include the brewery on their list of the top ten places to be when the world ends.

Don't you love it when balls go right where you want?

Why I’m thankful to be wrong

Not long ago, a friend shared that during bouts of insomnia, she counts her blessings until she either falls asleep or wakes her husband to indulge in naked blessings.

I like both ideas a lot, and I’ve been thinking about them more as Thanksgiving approaches. It’s easy to be thankful for the things we wished for that turned out exactly the way we wanted.

But sometimes, the things I’m most grateful for are the ones that didn’t go my way – those instances where I hoped with all my might for life to unfold a certain way, and the great puppet-master of the universe shook her head and said, “bitch, you don’t have a clue.”

For instance:

• I’m so glad the first book I sold in 2005 wasn’t released after the line was canceled a month before my scheduled debut (go here if you don’t know the story). I couldn’t have known then, but the romantic comedies I wrote in the following years were much stronger books, and more true to my natural voice. As a result, Making Waves got to sit on the shelves in August as my real debut.
• I’m thankful that when faced with a choice between four amazing agents in 2006, I chose wrong. Had I not spent a year represented by an agent who wasn’t the right fit, I’m not sure I would have recognized how amazing Michelle Wolfson is, or how lucky I am to have spent the last four years as her client.
• I’m so grateful that my many months of pleading, cajoling, hoping, wishing, threatening, crying, and couples counseling didn’t save my 13-year marriage. How else could I have discovered this whole new realm of happiness and fulfillment?
• I’m thankful that in the weeks after my ex moved out, friends and family ignored my stoic declarations that I was fine on my own. Their constant hovering took many forms, from ladies’ nights to dinner invitations to impromptu phone calls to heartfelt emails and blog comments. The support I didn’t realize I craved turned out to be exactly what I needed to pull me through that dark time.
• I’m thankful that when I sent a “hi, remember me?” email to a long-ago coworker who’d gone through a similar divorce, he did remember. And he not only agreed to share the wisdom of his own divorce experience, but refrained from questioning my sanity when I proposed a businesslike friends-with-benefits arrangement. But most of all, I’m grateful we both discovered quickly there’s a whole lot more to our connection. If not for the unexpected detours in both of our lives, we would never have ended up right here, right now.

And right here, right now, is a place I’m damn glad to be.

Has your life taken any unexpected, unwanted turns that turned out to be exactly what you needed? Please share!

And please forgive the brief blog break I’m about to take. I’ll be traveling Thursday and Friday to be with family for Thanksgiving, but I promise to be back here bright and early Monday morning. Happy holidays, guys! I’m eternally thankful for YOU!

What do you choose?

You know how it is when you buy a new car and suddenly notice every other car on the road is the same make, model, and color as yours?

I have no idea why I used that analogy, since the last time I bought a new car was almost 14 years ago. It was just a few weeks after I got married.

Which is probably exactly why I used that analogy. Being a new author going through divorce makes me keenly aware of how many other authors are in my shoes. There was an article several months ago in Romance Writers Report magazine offering one author's tips on keeping the muse alive through divorce. At RWA Nationals last spring, several authors gave a panel discussion on the same topic.

But it was this recent blog post by author Jessica Corra that really touched me.

Not in the way I most enjoy being touched, but pretty close.

She does a beautiful job capturing the numb feeling of holding your first advance check and realizing how different your life was when the whole crazy ride began.

I posted a link to the blog on Twitter, and my amazing agent read it, retweeted it, and followed up with this:


It's one of the things I love best about my agent – the fact that she cares so deeply about her authors beyond how fast we can crank out manuscripts.

The morning my ex informed me he wanted a divorce, the first person I contacted wasn't my best friend or my mother.

It was my agent.

So you know I'm serious when I tell you she's been more than just a business partner through this ordeal. I'm not sure I could have endured some of the darkest days of the divorce process without her unwavering support and levelheaded "here's what we're going to do now" approach.

Still, our perception has been fascinatingly different. More than once, she's tried to comfort me for having my debut year tainted by such an awful life event.

While I appreciate the sympathy, that's not how I see things at all. By my way of thinking, the marriage was destined to crumble at some point. What a tremendous, amazing gift to have this three-book deal happen at a time I urgently needed all the joy, excitement, and reader support to buoy me through the worst of it.

Blame it on my perpetual glass-is-half-full attitude, but that's the way I see it. Never once have I lamented that my debut year was ruined by my ex's decision. Never once have I fumed that I'd be enjoying my book deal more if things had gone differently with the marriage.

For me, it's all about focusing on the positive aspects of life's changes. I can choose to be perpetually angry that the presence of my two twenty-something housemates means I can no longer stroll naked through my own living room.

Or I can choose to be grateful their presence keeps me laughing and keeps the mortgage paid.

I can choose to be hurt someone didn't want to be with me foreverandever, or I can choose to be grateful I was set free to find someone else who does.

It's always a choice.

In the end, that's what everything comes down to.

I know what I choose. How about you?

Like notches on a bedpost

One of the most common questions I get from newer writers is how many manuscripts I had to write before I landed my three-book deal.

There aren't many questions that make me cringe, but that one does. The answer has so much potential to discourage writers battling their way through their first manuscript, and I always want to point them to this blog post I wrote on the subject nearly 17 months ago.

Of course, recommending a link doesn't work so well in a public speaking engagement or a casual conversation over coffee, but it does work here. So that's what I'm doing now. Here you go:

Friday, June 11, 2010

The number you don't want to know

It sucks when they come in waves like this.

No, for once I’m not making a dirty joke. I’m talking about rejections, and the fact that two author pals just got hit with them. The sort of rejections that take the wind out of your sails and the gin out of the cupboard because you’re hoping a stiff one (nope, still not dirty) might take the sting out.

But the gin doesn’t help, because let’s face it – rejection sucks. Even the positive rejections, the ones cushioned by praise and flattery and “almost there” cheerleading.

I hate the idea of standing here with an amazing agent and a recent book deal trying to say something wise and comforting. Frankly, I might’ve thrown rocks at someone like that a year ago. Or four years ago. Or six years ago.

And that’s when I start thinking about the numbers. About the fact that somewhere in the great unknown is a list of every author and the number of books he or she must write before getting a big break. For some, it’s one. For others, it’s 20.

When I first started writing fiction in 2002, I heard the average is seven. Six books that don’t sell. I remember hearing that and laughing. That won’t be me. That could never be me.

I was wrong.

The counting gets tricky since my sixth and eighth full manuscripts sold as part of my three-book deal, but that doesn’t count partials, and then there’s the mess with my third manuscript selling and getting canceled (go here if you don’t know the story).

But my point is, this: I am eternally grateful I didn’t know my number beforehand. If someone had offered me a crystal ball and given me a peek, you can bet your sweet assignat I would have looked.

And that would have changed everything. Maybe I would have been discouraged by all the dead book corpses. Maybe those earlier stories would have been infused with the hopelessness of knowing they would never be published. Maybe I would’ve missed the important lessons I learned in writing them.

I honestly don’t know.

I know rejection is hard on everyone (nope, still not dirty). But the thing you have to cling to is the belief that THIS BOOK MIGHT BE THE ONE.

Maybe it won’t be, but that’s not the point. Hope should be the thing driving you every time you open a new Word document and type “once upon a time.”

Not knowing how many tries it will take allows you to get everything you possibly can from the experience of writing each book. It lets you savor that thrill, to truly keep your eye on the ball in front of you.

And for every writer, that is the only ball that matters.

(OK, I kinda meant the last one).

Make time for a paw in your butt crack

Every now and then, someone at a book event will ask about regrets in my writing career.

My off-the-cuff answer is that I don’t tend to regret much because every bonehead move has taught me something important.

While that’s totally true, something occurred to me yesterday when I was lying facedown on an air mattress with my dog’s paw wedged in my butt crack and the icy river turning my boobs to frostbitten bricks.

Once upon a time, I was represented by someone other than the amazing agent who currently reps me. This agent took me on for a project that didn’t end up selling, and as sometimes happens, seemed to lose interest after that.

I went through a long dry spell without much contact from my agent until I got an email from out of nowhere asking if I had any romantic comedy to pitch.

I didn’t, but since I write fast, I vowed to come up with something quickly. For two straight weeks, I brainstormed and noodled and drafted and polished and revised. I worked late into the night. I skipped road trips and family outings. I devoted everything I had to cranking out those manuscripts as fast as possible, determined to impress my agent and meet the arbitrary deadline I’d set for myself.

At the end of two weeks, I sent my agent the first three chapters and a synopsis for two proposed romantic comedies. Then I waited.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

A few months went by, and several “just wondering if you got it” emails went ignored. Finally, I caught my agent on the phone.

“Those romantic comedies,” I said breathlessly. “What did you think?”

“Oh,” said my agent. “I don’t know. Not really my thing, I guess.”

I wasn’t crushed by my agent’s words. Not really.

But what I did regret was missing those final weeks of my summer. I thought about the camping trips I could have taken, the hikes I missed, the outings with friends I gave up to focus every ounce of my time on those damn manuscripts and my self-imposed deadline.

I’m going to fast forward through the drawn-out saga that took place over the next few years, because that’s not the point of this story. Suffice it to say I left that agent, signed with the amazing Michelle Wolfson, and in February 2010, she landed me a three book deal for those same romantic comedies.

But did you notice those dates?

September 2007 – I was convinced that timing mattered. That I absolutely, positively, had to sacrifice every moment of those final weeks of summer to impress someone with my speed and efficiency.

But it wasn’t until February 2010 that anyone offered to buy those books. That urgency I felt way back then – all the stress and sacrifice and hurry-up-and-write-you-moron sentiment was completely in my head.

I thought of that yesterday when I tallied up my to-do list. Update website. Revise third contracted novel. Write a blog post. Clean my office. Write marketing copy for Sourcebooks. Comb the cat. Giggle about unintentional dirty euphemism.

Then I studied the list and considered which things absolutely, positively had to get done that day. I spent the morning doing them, then shucked my clothes, donned a bikini, blew up an air mattress, buckled the dog into her life jacket, and set out to float the river.

Because the thing is, summer will be gone in a few weeks. I can always find evenings and weekends to tackle that list, but spending time doing pleasurable things that can only occur during a small, precious window of time?

That has to happen now.

Besides, it’s all research for a humor writer. I have to appreciate the comedic value of the dog deciding thirty seconds into our float that paddling along beside me in her life jacket was an unsuitable means of transportation, and that she’d really rather hoist herself onto the air mattress, shake her soggy body, and spend the duration of the float standing on my back.

There’s also humor in the logistics of a solo float, which requires a half-mile walk lugging a limp air mattress, dragging a reluctant canine, and trying to pretend I’m not a 37-year-old woman walking through a busy shopping district in a bikini and ugly sandals.

That’s good stuff there. And that’s what I remind myself when I realize I’m loading myself with arbitrary deadlines and preparing to skip something fun in favor of tacking a to-do list.

Don’t sacrifice pleasure for tasks that can wait. Don’t miss moments you can’t make up later. Don’t forget that living is what gives writers the raw material we need to keep writing.

And don’t forget to clip your dog’s toenails before she uses your butt crack for balance.

You ARE a real author, dammit (still! always! yes!)

I've found myself at a lot of book signing events lately. The most perplexing thing about that is that I'm the one doing the signing.

I still can't wrap my brain around that, but if you happen to be in Oregon and you're craving a trip to the coast this weekend, I'd love to see you at the Northwest Author Fair on Saturday, where more than 60 authors from around the region will be hanging out hoping it doesn't rain on us.

The fact that I've been allowed out in public with my author hat on a lot lately has me thinking about a blog post I wrote 16 months ago – just a few months after my agent landed me this amazing three-book deal with Sourcebooks. I was responding to the way people began treating me differently once they learned I had a book deal.

Now that the book has been on the shelves a few weeks and seems to be getting a lot of very lovely buzz, I'm noticing it even more. For that reason, I want to resurrect the post.

I'm editing a couple words from the original to reflect a change in marital status because...um, well, it's my blog, and I can do stuff like that. And I suppose I should change my age from 35 to 37. Oh, and I guess I have to knock a few pounds off my weight because going through divorce means you eat a lot of cold cereal and frozen peas for dinner.

But otherwise, it's the same damn post that ran last April. I still believe every word of it.

So should you.

Friday, April 23, 2010

You ARE a real author, dammit

There’s a list of questions you aren’t supposed to ask a woman, and I’ve never minded answering any of them.

I’ll cheerfully tell you my age (37), my height and weight (5’4” and 113 pounds), or the reason I never had kids (I didn't particularly want them).

But until eight weeks ago, there was one question I truly dreaded:

How many books have you published?

Though the answer now is the same as it was eight weeks ago (none, yet), I can at least follow up by giving details of my upcoming releases.

But I still hate the question. Because let’s face it, the reason the person is asking is to determine if they’re talking to a “real author,” or…well, something less than that.

And that’s an implication that makes me uncomfortable even now that I have a three-book deal that apparently entitles me to carry the “real author” license.

It’s not just people unfamiliar with the publishing industry who seem hell-bent on distinguishing between “real authors” and whatever the opposite of that would be (unreal authors?) We do it ourselves as authors every time we sell ourselves short and allow people to make us feel inferior for the mere fact that we haven’t yet reached that next stage.

I guess this is why I find myself bristling now when someone suddenly treats me differently upon learning about my book deal. There’s a certain level of respect that comes along with that, and I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

I know I sound like an ungrateful bitch, but that’s not it at all. The thing is, I’m the same damn author I was eight weeks ago. Or eight years ago.

If you want to split hairs, two of the three books in my contract started with partial manuscripts I wrote nearly three years ago under a previous agent who just wasn't interested in them. These are the same damn books my current agent adores and my new editor recently gushed over, saying, “everyone here is just in love with your voice.”

So I haven’t changed, right?

But I have, at least in the eyes of writers and non-writers alike. In some ways, this makes my heart swell like a boner in a bad porn.

In other ways, it makes me angry. I’m angry on behalf of every author who’s ever felt sub-par because the magic wand of dumb luck hasn’t yet waved over her head and granted her an agent or a book deal or the level of respect she deserves just for trying to break into publishing.

Writing books is hard work. Everyone who’s ever attempted it deserves the “real author” label and all the respect that seems to come with it.

Whether you’re a brand new writer with distant dreams of publication or someone who’s lost count of the number of weeks spent on the New York Times Bestseller list, you’re still a “real author.”

You have to remember that. The world is primed to make the unpublished author feel inferior, and that can kill your self esteem even more than a bad critique or an outright rejection.

You are a “real author.”

Now go write some real books, dammit.

Are you expecting to lose?

On my last night at RWA Nationals in New York , I attended the award ceremony for the Golden Hearts and RITAs.

It’s pretty much like the Academy Awards for romance writers, though I was disappointed to discover attendees did not receive schwag bags stuffed with diamond tennis bracelets.

We did have the pleasure listening to 22 authors squeal and sob with excitement over winning the prestigious awards. It made me proud and joyful and a little sniffly to watch the whole thing unfold.

But it also made me oddly uncomfortable.

I’ll preface this by saying I’ve never stood in the shoes of an author accepting an award like that, and I’m well aware that the first words out of your mouth as you step up to the mike may not be what you mean to say. If I’m lucky enough to ever win a RITA, I'm certain my speech will begin with copious amounts of cursing and a declaration that I forgot to don underwear.

Nevertheless, I was disheartened that well over half the award recipients chose to begin their two-minute acceptance speeches with some variation of the following:

“Ohmygosh, I totally didn’t expect to win, so I didn’t prepare anything to say!”

Really?

Maybe it’s a form of modesty. Certainly it would be off-putting to have someone grab the mike and shriek, “you guys, I totally knew I'd kick everyone’s ass!”

But what I fear is that they really didn’t expect to win.

That makes me sad.

Believe me, I know the urge for self-preservation when it comes to rejection. I’ve been there many times, hoping for an offer from a agent, or eventually, a call from my agent to say the book deal was finally, FINALLY going to happen. I know the feeling of not wanting to believe the good thing might happen because it would make the letdown that much harder.

But no matter what, I always hoped it might happen. That hope was generally enough to drive me to imagine what I might say, do, and drink when presented with honors ranging from a book deal to a Nobel Prize.

That's not to say my imaginary speech would go off without a hitch. I'm certain the cursing and stupid comments would come spurting forth like man chowder from a pork sword.

But the one phrase I can never imagine myself uttering is “I didn’t expect this.”

Shouldn’t we always expect it, at least a little? If you don’t plan the details of your future success, aren’t you setting yourself up for failure?

Feel free to disagree with me on this. I certainly don’t mean to disparage any of the award winners, and lord knows I don't claim to always say the right thing. Just see the “man chowder” comment above for evidence of that.

So what do you think? Er, not about man chowder. Have you heard people accepting awards with the caveat that they expected to lose and therefore, didn't prepare anything to say? Have you done it yourself? What prompts this? Please share, I'd love to know.

And for the record, I am wearing underwear. At the moment, anyway.

3 myths about agents

I’ve had the divine pleasure of being represented by the amazing Michelle Wolfson for over three years now.

I spent a year before that represented by another agent, plus a stretch of time managing my own writing career without an agent (go here if you want the whole sordid story).

While that history doesn’t necessarily make me an expert on agents, a lack of expertise seldom deters me from getting on my soapbox. I’ve heard a few assertions about agent/client relationships lately that don’t match my experience, so I’m in the mood to argue. Feel free to disagree or feel free to squeal “ohmygod you’re so right!” (something I routinely pay strangers to do).

Here are my top three agent myths.

Agent myth #1: Bigger is better

Agencies can range from small one-person operations to groups with enough agents to round out a complete (and mildly terrifying) hockey team. There are advantages to each, and it’s important to remember that a high number of clients or major deals on an agent’s tally sheet isn’t a mark of quality any more than the number of notches on a guy’s bedpost is a reliable indicator of his ability to make your toes curl.

In December 2006, I was lucky to have four excellent agents offer to represent me. I mulled my decision long and hard (pausing only a few times to snicker over “long and hard”) and ultimately went with the one with the largest agency and the longest track record of sales in my genre. Seemed like a reasonably wise decision at the time, but I soon realized it wasn’t the right decision for me. While there are surely oodles of happy clients on that agent’s roster, there’s a disadvantage to being an oodle. At times, I felt like a number (and as a new author, not a very high one). Communication was infrequent and not particularly personal. While this might suit other authors’ preferences, it didn’t suit mine.

When I signed with Michelle Wolfson, things were much different. It was unusual to have a week pass without some form of communication. I was in the loop on everything, from where my projects were being sent to how editors were responding. When editors didn’t instantly throw open the doors, she looked for windows to smash. While plenty of agents might consider dropping an author who didn’t quickly earn her keep, Michelle never lost her passion for my writing or for finding me the right home.

Is that all because she’s a smaller, one-woman boutique agency? Not entirely – a lot of it is just Michelle’s general fabulousness. But I have come to believe that a single agent with an overwhelming enthusiasm for your work is the most powerful force on the planet. Size doesn’t matter.

Well, in this context, anyway.

Agent myth #2: The agent works for me

I’ve heard this philosophy tossed about most frequently by unagented authors. In their minds, the agent is there to serve as an author’s private doorman to publishing houses. Sure, the agent has the connections, but the author should decide where the work should be sent and how it should be edited. This is so laughably inaccurate that I had to stop twice to choke on my Chianti while typing that line.

The agent client relationship is a partnership – period. Each person brings an integral set of skills, connections, and knowledge to the table. The author isn’t the agent’s boss any more than the agent is the author’s boss (though I’ll admit it – I kinda like it when Michelle tells me what to do).

Agent myth #3: You should fall at the feet of any agent who offers to rep you

I recently spoke as part of a panel of authors addressing an RWA group about what we learned in our first year after the sale. Of those of us with agents, every single one of us had been through more than one relationship. Finding the right fit is crucial both for the client and the agent. If an agent is considering offering representation, you can be damn sure he/she is checking you out and weighing whether you’d be a pleasure to work with or the equivalent of a wolverine on LSD.

Do your homework, too. Ask questions of existing and former clients and check out what’s being said around the Absolute Write Water Cooler. I’ve heard it said over and over, and it bears repeating – having an agent who isn’t the right fit is worse than having no agent at all. You owe it to yourself to be choosy.

Those are my top three agent myths. Do you have any to add? Care to disagree on any of those points? I won’t even insist we take it out back to the bicycle racks. Discuss freely!

Victims aren't sexy

Though I realize the term “wall-banger” sounds decidedly filthy, it’s how avid readers describe a book that frustrates them to the point that they hurl it across the room.

Each reader has something different that might prompt them to chuck paperbacks at the wall. For me, what sets my throwing arm in motion is a character stuck in victim mode.

Everything happens to this character. The character doesn’t actually make anything happen.

I’m not just talking about a string of bad luck, either. Plenty of authors expertly throw all manner of atrocities at their characters, from famine and pestilence to a bad case of jock itch. But how the character responds to these things makes me decide – usually within the first chapter – whether I’m willing to stick with the character through 400 pages, or if I’d prefer to do something more pleasant like unclog the hairball from my sink.

The reason I’m thinking about this isn’t because I’ve had a recent wall-banging experience with a novel. It’s because I feel some obligation to remind authors at all stages in their careers that agents and editors don’t like victims, either. Not just in your manuscripts, but in authors.

Every time I see someone taking to the interwebs to lament a rejection or setback, I cringe. I totally understand the need to share experiences with other writers and to gather support. Believe me, I get it.

But it’s the tone that can be a red flag.

Pop quiz, let’s pretend you’re an agent. You aren’t dumb, so you know an author is querying widely. You know there have been some rejections along the way.

But if you see something like this on a writer’s blog, what are you going to think?

I got three more rejections this week. Obviously they don’t understand my vision. Whatever, I don’t want an agent who isn’t willing to take risks.

I’m not quoting anyone directly there, but I’ve certainly seen similar diatribes. The statement smacks of victimhood. Woe is me. I’ve been wronged.

How likely is it that an agent or editor will want to work with someone who has that attitude?

My amazing agent and I had a pretty bumpy path to this current three-book deal. But no matter how many roadblocks we hit, I made damn sure I never fell into victim mode. Oh, sure – I might have muttered quietly about my own crappy luck and even placed curses on several editors’ genital function. But I didn’t do it publicly, and I sure as hell didn’t mention it to my agent.

The fact that she had the same approach made me admire her all the more. Maybe she screamed at her computer or got out her editor voodoo doll in the privacy of her home. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. But the tone of her interactions with me was always this:

It sucks, but here’s what we’re going to do next.

That approach in the face of setbacks is the #1 thing that kept both of us committed to plodding forward together.

I guess what I’m suggesting is that you pay attention to the tone of your public declarations of rejection. If you do decide to share your setbacks, do it in a way that suggests you’re capable of getting back up and marching forward instead of wallowing in a pool of your own bodily secretions.

What do you guys think? Have you seen the sort of thing I’m describing? Have you done it yourself? Do you disagree about what’s OK to vent in public? Please share, I’m very interested in a discussion.

I’m also very interested in knowing how to repair a paperback-sized hole in my drywall. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Taillights, gladiators, & things that keep us moving

There’s a sizable mountain range separating my part of Oregon from the part where all the Romance Writers of America (RWA) meetings occur.

In the summertime, the mountains are merely scenic. In the wintertime, they’re downright treacherous. It’s not unusual to see cars buried in snow banks or flipped upside down, and I prefer to keep my eyes shut tight for most of the trip.

That doesn’t work if I’m driving alone without Pythagoras, which was the case this past weekend.

The drive over on Thursday afternoon wasn’t so bad, but Saturday evening’s return trip scared the holy living snot out of me. The roads were icy, the sky was dark, and the snow was flying from 859 directions.

I wanted to curl up on the floorboards and whimper. I settled for fixating on the taillights of the guy ahead of me. For two hours, I kept pace with his Jeep. I gauged his speed on slick curves, noticed when he tapped his brakes, and invented an imaginary identity for him that included a falcate sword and a gladiator costume.

By the time we made it over the mountains, I wanted to follow him home and hug him. I refrained, mostly because he’d think I was a stalker, but also because I would have been really disappointed if he didn’t have the sword.

The experience made me think about the post I wrote last Friday. In it, I talked about the downside of having bitter or jealous thoughts about other authors. The post sparked one of the coolest discussions we’ve had here, further cementing my belief that the people commenting on my blog often have smarter things to say than I do.

One of the most thought-provoking comments was this one from Mark Simpson:

When I was a hurdler in high school there was a kid in the next town (lets call it Colstrip because that's what everyone calls it) who was both amazingly talented and a complete asshole. (Lets call him Bobby Gregg, since that's his actual name. ha)

More than anything I wanted to beat him, to see his face lined in pain as I broke his will. So I drug railroad ties through the snow, trained and bled and sweated. I finally did beat him a couple times, although he won the ultimate contest. (probably because he was better than me.)

But even as the memory of my broken heart spilling its blood into the gutter of my soul still rings fresh, I know that loathing disdain for him still brought out my absolute best. I needed him like spring needs the rain. (And now we're FB friends. ha)

These days instead of running endless intervals to the Top Gun soundtrack on my Walkman, I read Tawna's blog. And although I am dazzled daily by her unattainable level of wit, humor and charm – there is a part of me that wants.. nay NEEDS... to see something that ISN'T clever, funny or charming. Every day I scour the text in vain yearning, all while honing my own writing skills – skills that even as they peak will always be deep in her shadow.

Tawna is my modern day Bobby Gregg– inspiration, nemesis, and femme fatale.

She is the rock I break myself against.

As a side-note, if you’ve ever wondered how many regular blog readers I know in real life, the answer is “almost none.” Mark is one of the few – an old pal from college I haven’t seen for years, but who recently found me on Facebook. I bring this up because seeing that comment from a total stranger might’ve creeped me out a little. Seeing it from him just made me giggle.

But I digress.

Aside from his facetious Tawna-worship, Mark makes a great point. While I don’t encourage petty jealousy and evil thoughts about others, a little friendly rivalry can push you to be better.

During my bumpy path to publication, one thing that kept me going was the steady stream of positive feedback and “almost there” comments from editors.

But on the flip-side of that, the comments that made me even more determined to succeed were the ones containing traces of the sentiment, “you can’t.”

Those were the comments that made me stand up straight, shake off my disappointment, and scream, “hell yes I can – watch me!”

So while I stand by what I said Friday about holding your venomous thoughts in check, there’s a benefit to having something that keeps you driving forward when you might otherwise be tempted to curl up and cry.

What pushes you to keep going? Is it a professional rivalry, an outright failure, or just a guy in a gladiator costume with a bright pair of taillights? Please share!

Tight ends make my blood boil, and not in the way you're thinking

I know almost nothing about football except that I believe all men should be required to wear those tight little pants.

But living in Oregon, I can’t help but notice there’s a big game occurring Monday.

I was going to just call it “big game,” but my father informed me it’s the BCS – the Bowl Championship Series. The University of Oregon will play Auburn to determine which team is the best in the nation and which team should be rounded up and executed in the parking lot.

People seem to care very much about this, but not in the ways I expected.

As in most states, Oregon has a longstanding college rivalry. Ours is between fans of the University of Oregon and Oregon State University. I won’t dwell on the hows and whys, but suffice it to say, they wish to set fire to each other’s schools.

Still, I assumed that with one of them playing for a national championship, we’d set aside the rivalries and just cheer for the Oregon team that happened to make it.

That’s not how it works for everyone. In recent weeks, I’ve heard a number of OSU fans declare themselves devout fans of Auburn. We don’t want University of Oregon to win a national championship, they say. We want anyone but them. Their fans are too cocky. They don’t deserve to win. Or my personal favorite, OSU probably won't ever have a shot at a national championship, so we don’t want U of O lording this over us forever.

And just as my blood started to boil over this silly, narrow-minded way of thinking, I stopped and realized I’ve done this.

Not over football. I couldn’t care less about the Ducks and the Beavers beyond the acknowledgment that those are two of the oddest school mascots in the country.

No, I’m ashamed to admit I’ve done this with writing.

Deep down in that place I don’t like to admit exists, I’ve had dirty little thoughts I’m not proud of (I’ve also had plenty I’m proud of, but that’s not what we’re talking about here).

I’m talking about those secret, mean-spirited, moments I think a lot of us have had. Yay! I support other writers wholeheartedly! Except THAT ONE.

Maybe it’s motivated by jealousy, or a firm belief THAT ONE is not a strong enough writer. Doesn’t have the right attitude. Didn’t work hard enough.

And while I might sincerely wish I could beat my head against the wall until thoughts like this vanish, I have to acknowledge they’re there. Not all the time – pretty rarely, really – but they do exist.

And acknowledging the thoughts is probably the first step toward taking myself by the ear, giving myself a shake, and reminding myself that someone else’s success does not diminish mine.

This is something you’ll have to deal with at every stage in your career. Someone else will always finish that first manuscript faster. Someone else will always get better feedback in a contest, a bigger advance, a prettier cover, a cooler agent.

OK, not if your agent is Michelle Wolfson – duh, there is no one cooler – but you get my point.

There will always be secret rivalries. There will always be green-eyed monsters. There will always be mean little demons that whisper in the back of your brain, anyone but THAT author.

All I’m suggesting is that you acknowledge it. That you admit it. And that you make a conscious effort to remind yourself we’re all on the same team – all writers, everyone who’s ever struggled to put words on a page with the hope they’ll eventually land on someone’s bookshelf.

Go Ducks.

On cheap wine and editor taste

What’s it like to get a bunch of wine snobs together with a bunch of cheapskates when it just so happens they’re the same people?

That’s what yesterday evening was like for me.

I love good wine, and I love a good bargain. Those two things sometimes coexist at the Grocery Outlet (a surplus retailer with 130 stores in 6 western states offering discounted prices on everything from toothbrushes to lobster tails).

The wine section at the Grocery Outlet is a bit like going to Vegas. Sometimes you toss in a few coins and come out with a lovely little gem of Italian Sangiovese with just the right notes of strawberry and oak.

Other times you check the label to see if you accidentally purchased oven cleaner.

The gamble is worth it, since most wines are under $10, with plenty of bargains to be found in the $2.99-$3.99 range.

A few times a year, they offer 20% off all their wines. Cheapskate wine snobs look forward to these events because if we can just figure out which wines are the real gems, we can buy entire cases for pennies on the dollar.

This was the thought behind a dinner party at a friend’s house last night. Seven of us gathered with nine bottles of recently purchased Grocery Outlet wine and a plan to find the best ones in the bunch.

We intended to determine the best bargains and race back at 7 a.m. the next morning to fight the other cheapskate wine snobs for the good stuff.

But here’s the funny thing – none of us agreed on which wine was “the good stuff.”

I was fond of the 2008 Unsung Heroes Petite Verdot from South Australia. My friend Larie fell hard for a quirky little white blend from California with a ghetto label. Pythagoras – who isn’t generally a wine fan – loved an Italian Pinot Grigio that didn’t have a word of English printed on the bottle.

And while the two Spanish reds I expected to adore fell flat in my opinion, they drew great praise from several members of the group.
It reminds me of an analogy someone shared when I first started submitting my writing to editors and agents.

“Don’t think of it as the editor rejecting you because it’s bad,” she urged. “Think of it more like you’re around a big dinner table with a bunch of editors, and the one next to you passes on your green bean casserole because she doesn’t particularly care for green beans, but the editor at the other end of the table happens to love them.”

It put things into perspective for me. Yes, there are always things we can do to grow and improve as writers, but rejection doesn’t always mean you suck. Sometimes, it just means you offered the editor a spicy Shiraz when she happened to want a citrusy Sauvignon Blanc.

We all have different tastes – even editors and agents. This is a subjective business. The trick is to keep that in mind, and remember that somewhere out there is the person who will love every last drop of whatever you’re pouring.

On that note, I must go practice my kung-fu moves. If the other cheapskate wine snobs think they’re getting their hands on that Petit Verdot, they’ve got another think coming.

The wrong way to rub writers

Last night, Pythagoras and I were invited to dinner at the home of a family he knows through work.

Because my mother drilled good manners into me under the threat of death I am fabulously well-mannered by nature, I went to the store to purchase flowers and a nice bottle of wine for the hostess.

As the cashier was ringing up my purchase, he smiled at me. "Shouldn't it be the guy buying flowers and wine for you?"

Um, thanks, dude.

OK, I wasn't really offended. I even laughed and mostly meant it. But how does he know I'm not a recent widow or a lonely woman planning to go home and guzzle the wine while composing a love note to myself to "discover" on the doorstep with the flowers in the morning?

I figure this inquiry belongs on the list of things you probably shouldn't say to most women. You know the list. It includes gems like "you're looking a little tired," and "when is the baby due?"

There's a similar list for writers. I've already shared my feelings on the "are you published?" question (go here if you missed it). Beyond that, there are several other comments I've learned to tune out, that nevertheless have the high potential to rub a writer wrong.

Any question that ends with yet. Have you finished the book yet? Have you gotten an agent yet? Have you heard from that editor yet? Has your book come out yet? Maybe it's just me, but there's something about the word yet that implies the person asking believes you will be selecting your nursing home before the task is accomplished.

I've thought about writing a book, but I just don't have time. Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we all have 24 hours in a day? I know we all have varying degrees of responsibility in our lives, from family to work to cataloging our belly button lint. But every successful writer I know becomes successful by making time – often late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. I takes a helluva lot more than free time to complete a manuscript. To imply that what separates those who've finished a book from those who haven't is the possession of two idle hands seems like an invitation to demonstrate the bitch-slap capabilities of said hands.

Will you read my...? I added this one to the list hesitantly, because I often do judge contests and offer critiques to newer writers. But the key word is offer. Authors get hit up over and over again to give feedback on other people's work. While it's flattering, there's just no way most of us can say yes and keep up with deadlines and commitments to existing critique partners. There are fabulous resources online for finding critique partners and beta readers. Go here if you want to hear about some of them.

Do you think you'll ever write a real book? Ah, this is a favorite among romance writers. Don't worry, I won't get on my romance soapbox again (go here if you want to see that). There's an assumption among people who don't read the romance genre that authors who write it are only doing so until they muster the skill to write a real work of literary fiction. Do other genres get this? I don't know, but I do know that according to Business of Consumer Book Publishing 2010, romance fiction generated $1.36 billion in sales in 2009 and was the largest share of the consumer market at 13.2%. It was the second top-performing category on the the New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly best-seller lists (outpaced only by the movie tie-in category). That sounds pretty "real" to me.

Whoops. Where did this box come from, and why am I standing on it?

So that wraps up my list of things that rub writers the wrong way. Did I miss any? Have you heard any gems that make you feel especially stabby? Please share.

And don't forget to visit The Debutante Ball today where I'm blogging about my fellow Debutante Kim's new release, All I Can Handle; I’m No Mother Teresa: A Life Raising Three Daughters With Autism. I had a surprising reaction to this book, so stop by and see what it was.