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How Not to Market Your Book

I appreciate the opportunity to share this article on Elaine Marie Carnegie – Padgett’s website, The Writer’s Journey Blog. I hope that my mistakes in marketing my first book will help others as they publish theirs. Please click on the link below to visit Elaine’s site and enjoy the wonderful contributions from many authors. Thanks!!

The Writer’s Journey Blog

How Not to Market a Novel
Publishing Without a Plan

I have always wanted to write a novel.

So, I wrote a novel, or two or three.

I never published—until now.

The one thing I missed along the way was marketing the book.

As an adult, I began writing my first novel when I convinced myself I had the time. I had stars in my eyes. I would write what I hoped was a good story, find an agent, and sign a book deal with a publishing house.

I was naive.

The realities of publishing and how independent publishing had changed the marketplace surprised me. The difficulty in acquiring an agent, much less a contract with a traditional publisher, drove many authors into the indie market, some successfully and some not. The independent author became writer, publisher, and marketing manager with the click of a mouse and, sometimes, an editor and cover designer too—a lot of responsibility for someone who only wants to write.

Editing and cover design can be contracted depending on the writer’s budget, as can book promotion. The question is, at what cost? With high competition for readers, it is difficult for many writers to recoup their investment and decide when they stop spending money to prepare a book for publication.

In today’s publishing world, the brutal truth is that traditional publishers provide only minimum marketing efforts unless you are a best-selling author. Fortunately, many resources provide information on how to market your book.

So, what do we do?

Although I followed my dream and wrote a few novels, life and other responsibilities always got in the way of taking the time to publish. I had done all the research, written articles about marketing, and had marketing responsibilities in former jobs, but when it came to my first novel, I did little. The intent was there, but the execution was lacking.

Faced with that fact, I decided to publish anyway. I haven’t embarked on a marketing campaign, but frankly, I am at a point where I want to publish. I am running out of excuses.

I am fortunate to have some graphics experience and have made book covers for anthology collections.

I am also lucky to have friends who are editors. My need to pay for these services is minimal, which leaves me some financial leeway to pay for advertising.

However, with this first novel, I will forgo paid advertising and promote only on the platforms where I have a presence. I was working diligently to improve my following on my blog and was quite satisfied with the numbers. Then my blog crashed, and due to an oversight on my part, I could not retrieve my account. (a word to the wise, update your phone number when it changes). In an instant, I lost all the hard work I had done and a considerable number of followers.

The thing is, how much do followers matter? In many instances, fellow authors follow their peers for mutual support. Not all will be fans of our novels’ genres and may not be potential readers. While our fellow authors give support, it might not always be by purchasing our books.

I could enter into a discussion of the many avenues available for marketing—newsletters, email campaigns, advertising on Facebook, Amazon, free giveaways of eBooks, the list is endless. However, that would be pointless since I am not doing any of the above for this first novel. While the efforts are essential, to what extent do they work?

One author I know, who writes in a niche market, began her marketing efforts a year before publishing her first book. Another author markets through newsletters and advertising, and both are successful. Yet, many marketing stories are unsuccessful despite engaging in the exact activities.

Building an email list can be daunting. While there are many ways to acquire email addresses, it is often a slow and tedious process, and statistics show that the return on any marketing effort is in the twenty percent range. The email list needs to be extensive to be effective, and that takes time and effort to build and money if choosing to purchase an email list.

Contacting influencers and potential reviewers feels a bit like selling your soul. While reviews are akin to gold for an author, seeking them always feels like pandering. Advertising can be effective, but to be so must be planned for the long-term, which can become expensive and often ineffective.

So, what works?

I wish I knew, and I imagine I am not alone in the struggle.

My tardiness in publishing is my fault. Being responsible for a large writing group and providing content to keep members interested and informed as well as the group publishing several member anthologies certainly stood in my way—but only because I let it. Life issues often interfere as well, but the fact is, I could have taken the time to publish, and I did not.

I had envisioned a roll-out with a book launch, press releases, advertising, and book signings. Despite marketing experience during my professional career, I did not anticipate the time and expense involved in marketing a book. Careful planning is possible, but it isn’t easy to manufacture time. At least, we tell ourselves that, but like money, we can budget time.

Regardless, I am about to publish my first novel and have done nothing. That’s a bit of a misnomer. I have done a few things. I have been promoting the upcoming release on my blog, author page, and Instagram, but my efforts are minimal.

What I do know is that I must start somewhere. So, I chose to publish now and not wait any longer. And with that begins my marketing plan for the next book.

I watched one of my favorite online writing coaches recently as she discussed writing a series or stand-alone novels. One thing she said that stuck out to me is that a published body of work was often an excellent marketing tool. If you have several books available for a reader to read, chances are if they like one of your books, they will read the others. Sounds like a good marketing plan to me!

In a few weeks, I will self-publish, and that novel will be part of my marketing strategy for the next book. D. A. Ratliff, author of “‘insert title,” has a ring of credibility and might help market my second book. In addition, I might start a tad earlier on that promotion effort.

I have no delusions of grandeur when it comes to success. While I am proud of the finished product, I am under no illusion that any novel or any author will become successful. I choose to take satisfaction in the process and hope someone will enjoy reading it.

The moral of this story is do not do what I have done and neglect the things you can do to improve your success. While we have no guarantees, planning for success is much better than having no plan.

Coming soon! Crescent City Lies, a Murder Mystery Thriller.

Her great-aunt was dead.

Murdered.

Now she had to prove it.

Photojournalist Emeline Drake returned to New Orleans to claim her inheritance, only to receive menacing phone calls and extortion threats. Convinced her great-aunt did not die of a heart attack but was murdered, threats against her life and those she loves mount as she stumbles across a fifty-year-old family secret. A secret that could get them all killed.

Summers Revisited

Images are free-use images and do not require attribution. Image by Ludovic Charlet from Pixabay.

Author’s Disclaimer: This story hints at the possible suicide of a child.

Summers Revisited

D. A. Ratliff

I was seven when Geoffrey fell. It was June, and summer promised warm weather to the sleepy village of Coffins Glen, near Oxford, that we called home. Summer never came that year, and we never spoke of it again.

Mum found him. He was lying in a pool of congealing blood. I can still hear the screams from that late Sunday afternoon. Watching Dad rush toward the Tower from the pub where we’d gone to have Sunday dinner. Geoffrey was supposed to meet us there, and when he didn’t show up, Mum went looking for him.

The next few days were a blur for my little sister Clara and me. Quiet people dressed in black came round with food and sad faces. We were sad too, but death was a foreign concept to us, so we decided to stay out of the house and play in the garden with our puppy, Pippers.

I had never been to a funeral before and decided, during my brother’s service, that I would never go to one again. I didn’t keep that promise, but I was always uneasy, fearing the dead would rise again. Irrational, but how I felt, nonetheless.

At home after the service, my father sat Clara and me down on the settee as he had something to say. The house smelled of carnations and roast beef. I remembered it as vividly now as I did that day—vividly as I remembered my dad’s words.

“Margaret, Clara, we have suffered a horrible loss, and while I feel that the two of you can move on from the tragic death of your brother, your Mum cannot. She is deeply disturbed by this and has asked that we never mention Geoffrey’s name or what happened to him again.”

I wanted to ask why as my mother had been pale and unemotional since finding Geoffrey. At times I heard her sobbing in my parents’ room, but she was composed when she joined us—pale, quiet, but composed.

None of this sat well with Clara, who was five and very bright. She kept telling me Geoffrey didn’t fall. Someone must have pushed him. I had sensed something wrong, and I believed that he jumped on purpose until I read the book.

Clara and I were attending Oxford, expected of us as Dad taught English literature there. It had been thirteen years since that which we cannot speak of happened. Well, “that which we cannot speak of” is how Clara referred to Geoffrey’s death. Mum died six years after the event, and our grief-stricken father had thrown himself into his work and become department chair.

I was in the library when the whirlwind known as Clara breezed into the study room. Annoyed glances from other students followed her as she breathlessly called to me from the far side of the room. Although, most of the males in the room looked because she was lovely.

She sat down and threw a book at me. “I insist you read this.”

“Could you keep your voice down? We’re in the library.”

“Oh, don’t be a fuddy-duddy, Maggie. This place is far too stuffy and impressed with itself. Now read this.”

I picked up the book. Its title was Summers Revisited, a memoir by Hadley James Parkinson. “Why do you want me to read this?”

“Do you not know who he is? Look on the back.”

A handsome blond man around thirty, sitting on a stone fence, was grinning broadly and holding a tiny Welsh Terrier. “I have no idea.”

“Honestly, are you from the 1800s? That is Lord Hadley James Parkinson, and he is a landscape designer, presenter, and actor. He has the most popular gardening show on the telly. I can’t believe you don’t know him.”

I almost laughed at the indignant look she gave me.

“Clara, I rarely watch the telly. I have no idea who he is. Is this part of your botany studies?”

“No, but he is coming to lecture next week, and you need to come.”

“Why would I need to come?”

Clara glanced at her phone. “Gotta go, lab in five minutes, and I am ten minutes away. Professor Jordan is going to kill me. Just read the book.”

She flew out of the library as quickly as she had entered. And I admit, left the place a bit gloomier than when she was present. I, too, had a class but mine was a two-minute walk. I gathered my things, stuck the book in my satchel, and hurried off to class.

It wasn’t until Friday that I managed to find time to look at the book. It was an unusually warm April day, and I decided to study in the garden. Thermos mug of tea in hand, Pippers, and puppy Janga trailing behind me, I headed for the gazebo and the comfy lounge chair awaiting me.

As I settled in, I looked around the garden. Almost everyone worldwide knows the English love their gardens, and my mother was no exception. The grounds around the old Tudor house were a testament to Mum’s green thumb. Clara had always been interested in plants, and she spent hours helping Mum and then, frankly, tending the garden after, well, that thing we don’t mention. Meanwhile, I was usually curled up in my dad’s study, reading or talking literature with him. Now grown, it is telling that Clara is studying botany and landscape architecture and I’m studying English and Literature.

Opening my satchel, I pulled out a book, thinking it was Joyce, but it was the pretty-boy Lord’s book. I admit my curiosity was piqued. What could be in this book that was so interesting that Clara insisted I read it.

I sipped my tea and opened the book. It began with a history of where Parkinson was born and his early years, spent much like Clara’s, helping his mother, the Duchess, tend her garden. He talked of his early love of helping her create new areas and of the walls, statues, and other artifacts they used.

While I might not admit it to Clara, the book was well written, but of course, my jaded English student thoughts went toward the possibility he had a ghostwriter. Hopefully, he did not.

When I got to the second chapter, I understood why Clara wanted me to read this. That chapter told of his spending his first summer with his grandparents as his parents traveled. He was eleven years old. His grandparents had moved from the family estate and into a manor house in Gilbert’s Crossing, a village about four miles from Coffins Glen.

He told of offering to help his grandmother redo the grounds. When he proved to her that he had a sound plan, she hired a gardener to help him, and that summer, he began creating the garden’s foundation at Hollyhock Manor.

I paused. I had been to Hollyhock Manor with Clara before entering Oxford. There was a fete in Gilbert’s Crossing, and the manor house gardens were open for a tour. I remembered the gardens were lovely but even more, I remembered the rapture on the face of my little sister. She was enthralled and smitten, and I had no doubts then that gardening was her calling.

The third chapter began with Parkinson and his grandparents attending a fete in Coffins Glen. He spoke about the beautiful town square and the Tower. The stone tower, built in the 1600s, was thought to have been constructed as a lookout tower for spotting marauders seeking to pillage the village. He wrote of the beautiful focal point it made for the town, echoing the stone steeple of the village church. He ended the chapter, which focused mainly on Hollyhock Manor, mentioning his desire to visit the Tower the following year.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as my thoughts leaped ahead. Parkinson was twenty-eight now, so he would have been fifteen when Geoffrey died. My fingers trembled as I scanned through the following chapters looking for the year he was fifteen. The chapter was shorter than the others, and my heart pounded with each word as I began to read.

“The summer of my fifteenth year was one I wanted to forget, but as this is a memoir and I vowed to be truthful, I must tell the horrid story of that summer. Once again, my parents were traveling and sent me to my grandparents for the summer, as they had no time for a teenage boy. I had no reason for being at my grandparents’. My late grandmother felt that the garden was complete, and my grandfather was wont not to spend any more money on such foolishness, to use his words. I had nothing to do.

Frankly, I would have preferred being in London with my uncle. London was where my girlfriend, now wife, was spending her summer. A healthy fifteen-year-old boy should not spend a summer on his grandparents’ estate. He should be partying with his friends.

That was the issue that led to my now regrettable behavior. I had already snuck out of the house to meet my friends on several occasions. One of my buddies was seventeen and had a car, so we would joy ride around at night to find a place to park and drink. Coming home drunk twice was grounds for a beating in my grandfather’s mind, but thankfully my grandmother had a much cooler head.

That Sunday started with church services and then back to the manor house for an insufferable garden party. It was the birthday of my grandfather’s oldest friend, a Duke and war hero, and he had spared no expense. I got tired of all the women, young and old, telling me how handsome I was. I never cared about any of that nonsense. All I wanted was a few hours away from the madness. I snuck out, rolled my bike out of the garage, and headed for Coffins Glen to see my beloved tower. I had no idea what awaited me.

I followed a walking trail from a nearby road leading to Coffins Glen. The trail went over a small ridge, and from there, I could see down into the deserted village square. That is when I saw him, a small boy sneaking over the hedges placed there to keep people out of the tower. The structure was old and not stable, and there were signs all around warning people not to climb the stairs. The boy ducked under the open area below the tower and disappeared.

I hurried down the hill and stepped through the hedges. I had done that many times, only to see the incredible curved staircase leading to the observation windows but never dared climb it. I looked upward and saw him almost halfway up.

I yelled at him. Please come down. You are going to fall, but he kept going. Despite my reservations, I climbed after him. When he realized I was following, he yelled for me to leave. I told him again. You could fall, and I will never forget his words. “I’m sick, my mom and dad told me. I don’t want to be sick.”

Hoping to stop him, I pleaded with him. “This is not the answer. I am sure the doctors can help.”

He kept climbing, and I kept climbing. Then it happened, he missed a step, and his small body flew past mine. I tried to catch him, but he was out of my grasp.

I backed down the stairs in fear, and when I reached the stone floor beneath the tower, I realized he was dead. I was petrified—petrified for myself. I am ashamed to admit it now, but I was only concerned about what would happen to me if my grandfather found out I had snuck out. I couldn’t afford that. He was paying for university.

Like a coward, I fled. There was nothing I could do for the boy. I managed to return to the manor before anyone missed me. I was debating whether to tell, the boys’ parents deserved to know, but my parents returned before I could. They undoubtedly cut their trip short because my grandfather told them of my ‘wild’ behavior. 

Once home, I tried to put this behind me, but it haunts me to this day. I wish I could tell the parents how sorry I was, what truly happened, and how deeply I regret my cowardice.

May they forgive me.“

I couldn’t control the trembling or the sobs. When I gained a bit of composure, I called Clara. “Come home now. We need to talk to Dad.”

~~~

The conversation with Dad went as we expected. There were many tears but some relief as well. I handed him the book, and he read Parkinson’s account of that Sunday. When finished, he raised his tearful eyes to us.

“Geoffrey had a brain tumor, and it was inoperable. We decided to tell him that he was very ill but that there was treatment and hope, even though we knew there wasn’t. He was a smart boy. He knew better.”

I grabbed my dad’s hand. “I remember, he was quick to anger and would rage and got horrible headaches.”

“Yes, your mother tried to keep that from you girls as much as she could. But it took its toll on her, and when he died, she shut down. I am surprised she lived as long as she did with the grief and blame she felt. She wanted him to live a normal life, as did I, and we allowed him to see his friends alone that day. I tried to convince your mother it was not her fault, but she couldn’t reconcile that in her mind.”

My sister was crying, her shoulders shaking. I slipped my arm around her. “I think the good thing we can take from this, Dad, is that he didn’t commit suicide but lost his footing. He may have just been trying to come to terms with what was happening to him.”

“Maggie, my dear, I pray you are correct.”

“Dad, Clara, there is something we have to do.”

“I know what you are thinking, and I agree. We need to talk to Hadley James Parkinson.

~~~

The reception for Parkinson was underway when we arrived. I grabbed Dad’s hand and Clara’s. “Let’s do this.”

We approached Parkinson, who turned and smiled. “Hello, glad you came to the reception.”

My voice trembled, but I managed to speak. “We would like to talk to you about chapter five.”

His eyes widened. “You, you knew him?”

My dad stepped forward. “He was my son.”

Tears filled Parkinson’s eyes. “Will you forgive me?”

Dad smiled. “Nothing to forgive you for, but we would like to tell you about Geoffrey.”

~~~

A year has passed since we learned the truth of Geoffrey’s death. Time heals all, but there will always be a void in our hearts and Hadley James Parkinson’s. At least, there is closure, and we have our summers back. 

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This story was written for the March 2022 Write the Story! prompt The Write the Story! project is a monthly prompt provided by Writers Unite! It is intended to give authors writing experience and outreach to grow followers to their Facebook pages, blogs, and websites.

Visit Writers Unite! on the Web at:
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and on WU! Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/145324212487752/

Thoughts on Writing

There are several quotes by authors that are inspirational to me. One of my favorites is this wonderful quote by Terry Pratchett, which puts writing in perspective. We first have to tell ourselves the story.

Sir Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett was born in 1948 and had his first story published when he was just thirteen. After leaving school at seventeen to become a journalist he continued writing, publishing his first novel, The Carpet People, in 1971 and going on to produce the phenomenally successful Discworld series. Terry proved early critics wrong and became one of the UK’s most successful authors, receiving a knighthood in 2009 and seeing many of his books adapted for the screen.

He died in March 2015 after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. 

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Image by Christine Engelhardt from Pixabay

The Day the Earth Stood Still (2.0)

The Day the Earth Stood Still (2.0)


How to deal with the loss of the internet.

You know that moment. The moment you press enter or tap the screen and nothing happens. You reboot, thinking your screen froze. Then the realization hits you… the internet is down.

At that moment, the earth stands still.

I live in a large city and have underground electrical and internet/cable lines. Outages are a rarity, and they usually last only a brief time when they happen. Then the big one comes along. The outage takes down a grid and, worst of all, takes out the modem. An electrical surge, bad signal, something caused it, but the modem is dead.

On top of that, with the increasing use of streaming services and the trend away from cable services, I have YouTube TV. Or in this case, I don’t have YouTube TV, which relies on Wi-Fi to operate.

Now, what to do? You place a phone call to the internet provider, have a few choice words, and are told, “It’s an outage, back up in twenty-four hours.” Then you find out that the internet tech gurus repaired the outage, but the modem is dead. Another twenty-four hours before the modem arrives by those once efficient delivery services.

(As an aside, I would like to mention that my phone malfunctioned in the midst of this and is not recognizing the servers for Facebook, Messenger, YouTube TV, etc. Such a serendipitous occurrence adds to the fun. I have phone and text, so that could be worse. However, I can’t get this solved until the modem comes in and I have Wi-Fi—but I digress,)

So, what to do as I wait? I remember the days before the internet, even before pagers and fax machines. We used a landline phone to call our family, friends, and whoever else we needed to speak with during the dark ages. Imagine, we were tethered to the wall and had to stay in one spot! We wrote letters and paid bills by mail using an envelope with a stamp, which often required a walk to the mailbox and raising that cute little red flag to get the mail carriers’ attention.

We have become accustomed to instantaneously chatting with the people we love, friends, and acquaintances on the internet. Who has time for a phone call when we can take thirty seconds to say what we need to say? We pay bills, check the news and weather, watch sports, watch space launches (okay—I’m a nerd), all at our fingertips, whether by desktop, laptop, pad, or phone. When that convenience goes away, we begin to realize how much the internet affects our lives.

The loss of internet access can interrupt manufacturing lines, shipping, infrastructure, schools, fire and police services, hospitals—and Uber. There is little that the internet doesn’t touch. While these businesses and services hopefully have backup plans to work manually, it is a considerable inconvenience and can have consequences.

Writers can continue with little interruption. We might not like to use pen and paper, but it works when needed. As long as there is electrical power and Microsoft 365, the writing continues. However, there are some issues.

Back in the olden days, we also did research at the library. We went there, looked up books in the card catalog, and followed the ‘yellow-brick” Dewey Decimal road to the shelf holding our desired tome. We could ask the librarians at the reference desk (the smartest people I knew as a child), use microfiche, or maybe we were fortunate to have a set of encyclopedias at home.

Today’s writer has the world’s knowledge at their fingertips. As a pantser style writer, I rarely do research before I write. I might research an area or a specific timeframe to begin the book. Most of the time, as I write a scene, I might need a drink that tastes bitter enough to hide the flavor of a bitter-tasting poison. Off to the search engine to find the perfect cocktail. There is one, by the way.

Immediate answers are not available to me now, and as I have taken this downtime to write quite a bit, it is frustrating not having that instantaneous information at hand. But I won’t let that stop me. I highlighted the area in a pretty color and will address that when the internet returns.

I talked to a friend about this predicament, and we discussed this was like an EM event. There is always talk of an electromagnetic attack on our infrastructure and the dire consequences that could befall us without the tools we are used to having.

The fact is, we fret about the occasional and often annoying short outages, be it electrical power or internet, but we should never forget that things could be worse. Should we be prepared? Yes. Will we be? I doubt it. The second the service returns, we forget the difficulties when unavailable.

We should remember.

—–

Addendum: If you are reading this, I have internet again.

What was I talking about?

Writers Unite! Anthologies: Dimensions of Fantasy

Coming Soon!

Dimensions of Fantasy

Volumes One and Two

Available on Amazon.com December 15, 2021
eBook Preorder available on December 01, 2021

Journey into a fantasy world with the talented authors of Writers Unite!  Fly with dragons and fairies, fight with trolls and elves, and battle with wizards and witches as they defend against evil forces. These stories will take you from ancient worlds to modern-day on a mystical ride.

Full Book Cover

Discordia: Stories of A World In Chaos 

Now Available on Amazon!

Discordia: Stories of A World In Chaos 

Including “The Casquette” by D. A. Ratliff


Join authors from around the world— and me—on a journey through fantasy, mysticism, and reality in the anthology Discordia: Stories of A World In Chaos. My story, “The Casquette,” tells of a centuries-old diary locked inside a casquette and the remarkable story of a young French orphan who immigrated to America in the 1700s and found a life within the path of history.

From the Anthology’s Amazon Page:

Let yourself be drawn into a world of wonder, fantasy, and mysticism as you enter Discordia! Stories, drabbles, and poems by authors from all over the world who have poured their souls out for your enjoyment. Whirl through an artist’s room, read of a promise cruelly twisted and a failed operation with sad consequences. Read about our perceptions of reality, the other side, peaceful response to riots, and sorrow and blame. What is your mantra for remembering left from right? Learn about a naughty little wind, a father’s regret for his lost son, a young boy’s actions to save his father. Experience an invasion of the Earth that causes sores, a childhood home demolished but for a precious brick of memories, and a grim reaper’s desire to be on time. See how backwoods mysticism saves two teens. Do you believe? Experience a little weasel become a beloved family member through tragedy, how one woman saves another from abuse, the discovery of life, the death of a cook, and an ancient casquette. Learn how a boy survives a predator. You’ve not read a story like this friend’s betrayal, nor a mysterious clockmaker’s yarn. See how some care not for the knowledge given and being lost in labyrinths. What consequences result when not heeding witches? Can you learn from another’s words of warning? Observe the rebirth of a beloved son, a man caught in a cyclone of time travel, and revenge of a fire goddess. Join a boy as he travels with his mind to forests and freedom, and why saying goodbye to a lifelong friend comes before eggs. How does a scientist get over love? You will love these stories that vary greatly but reach out to you in unexpected ways. Come. Enter if you want to know the whole story.

D. A. Ratliff: Passwords and the Two Step

Passwords and the Two-Step

D. A. Ratliff

Learning lessons is a vital part of life. However, some of those hard lessons are everyday occurrences. Some, unfortunately, are of our own doing, as my latest lesson was my fault!

Like everyone these days, I have too many accounts, Google Gmail, streaming video services, social media sites, writing programs, financial, shopping—the list is endless, and managing those passwords can become cumbersome and frustrating.

Google has a password managing program, and there are others available, but I have had more experience with hackers than I care to say. Leaving my passwords on a site where a hacker can get a whole list of them doesn’t seem prudent. Like a good little writer, I keep a notebook with me that occasionally has writing-related notes but mostly holds the grocery lists and my list of passwords.

Now, my plan of keeping my passwords in one place, with me the majority of the time, seemed to be smart. All I had to do was keep up with any changes I made and copy the list when I got a new notebook. Easy, right? Nothing could go wrong with that plan, could it?

I can tell you are far ahead of me. Let’s say getting in a hurry and never bothering to grab the notebook when you can’t remember the password doesn’t work. I’ll remember the new password. I’ll write it down later. Uh, no.

However, forgetting passwords is not the most egregious thing I have done to myself in the password world. And this is where the password recovery process becomes a nightmare.

It is one thing to forget a password. It is another to have your email program crash and throw you out of every email you have. The personal, the author, and the group emails I had to log back into were not an issue for the most part. Then there was my writing blog.

As we all know, with increasing security necessary, most social media, email programs, etc., require a two-step authentication—a password and the ability to receive a text or email with a code. However, if one of those is not available, then trouble looms.

When I set up my author blog on WordPress, I used a landline number as the emergency contact and the email address associated with the blog. At the time, my cell phone service was spotty due to tower issues, and the cell signal was weak, so I was in the habit of leaving the landline when necessary. Then I forgot.

I remembered when I could not access the text or email that was associated with my blog account. Nor could I recover my email as I had the other ones because I used a landline number no longer in service. Without those elements to prove who I was, WordPress denied access to my blog. All the hard work I had done over the years to build blog followers for my writing, gone.

In my defense, I had changed my Google account phone number, and for some reason, all the emails associated with the account had the new number associated with them. The blog email did not.

Let me warn you. These social media sites do not answer inquiries about this situation. Due to security, if they cannot prove the account belongs to you, the account is unrecoverable. There is no recourse. I tried.

I want to impart some unfortunate words of wisdom. Sad for me but hopefully a reminder for you.

  • Keep your passwords secure. If you trust a password management program, use it. If not, keep them written down and in a safe place. Please do not share them with anyone (okay, that’s a given).
  • If you are writing them down, do that. It takes a few seconds. Never be in such a hurry that you think you will record a new password later. You likely won’t.
  • Keep your phone number used for texts updated. Use a secure email that you always have access to as your emergency email.
  • If you have a personal blog, add a person you can trust to an admin position, so if you lose access, you will have someone who can invite you back in.
  • Remember: You cannot prevent all hacks, but if possible, use a VPN service and keep your passwords to yourself.

Lesson learned as I am in the process of redoing my blog. After several years, it is a daunting task, but starting over can be a good thing too. If you followed me in the past, then I would love to see you again.

More than anything else, don’t forget your passwords or correct phone number. It’s madness.