Point of View on Self-Publishing

As I have done lately, my own life being quite comfortably boring, I looked to the Sunday newspaper for this week’s blog inspiration. I opted to disregard the Sunday column that totes another banner for us Boomers who are turning 65 this year by the droves. Old hat news which only serves to make me feel really old. While 65 is a milestone that I’ll be delighted to reach, it’s not the pinnacle, or so I hope, of my life and what I still hope to achieve: becoming a published novelist.

But what I still hope to achieve is rapidly becoming passé and that saddens me as well as depresses me. I am referring to the article in today’s newspaper about e-books and well-known and respected novelists preferring to self-publish. This isn’t new news. I’ve read about it before (and chose to forget that I did) and I’ve had discussions with a friend or two who knew this was coming. I chose to disagree with them. Today the multi-columned article about authors abandoning publishing houses and self-publishing instead wormed its way into my reality which is now being challenged.

I’m of the age where self-publishing, vanity presses as we boomers know it, was the avenue a writer took when all other roads were too bumpy or too hard to navigate, i.e., those whose work didn’t cut the mustard so to speak. Call it what is was and still is for some of us—writer snobbery. I’m not ashamed of it. I received way too many rejections from publishers and editors because my work wasn’t what they wanted or wasn’t good enough for them. I’m proud of those rejections because of the euphoric high I got when I’d finally received those acceptances for that short story or a creative nonfiction piece. The rejections made me want to write better, made me determined to keep trying, and in turn, made me succeed. In other words, whenever I got an acceptance, I’d earned it. My writing had been better than good. You don’t get that validation when you self-publish.

For those novelists who’ve already proved their work’s worth, if they are writing purely for money and their egos are so secure that they don’t need to fear their work isn’t as good as it could be, maybe self-publishing is the right path for them to go. I also realize that there are those successful writers who choose the self-publishing route to make their books more affordable to their readers. That’s a good thing. But I’m not in that writers league, so if I ever get that novel or memoir published, I want to know it was because someone else besides me and my friends recognized that it was worthy of the publishing investment and that I earned that advancement check.

P.S. The Cardinal is back at my window this morning doing his best to get my attention. I learned from my dear niece that seeing a Cardinal in winter is a blessing. Since he only shows up for certain blogs, maybe this is a sign that I should finish this last novel that I’ve been working on.

Singleness

It is a rainy, cold, and dreary Texas winter day but I wasn’t too depressed until I read a column this morning about Hugh Hefner’s engagement to a 24-year old Playmate. Woe is me. I never was a Playmate and never will be. Never got to out with the likes of Hef when I was young and sure can’t now that Crystal has snagged him. Oh God, please let me count my blessings!

What depresses me, if I force the issue, is that I wouldn’t want an 84-year old geezer no matter how rich he was. Heck, I wouldn’t want a 70-year old. So where does that leave me? I’m not rich enough to be a cougar nor do I look the part. I’ve kept the nature look going except for the hair color, not because I don’t care anymore, but because I’m a wuss. Pain doesn’t interest me nor does injecting myself with poison. So that means that I’ve reached that age when any sex appeal I had went south with everything else. Don’t tell the old farts, but so has theirs!

I confess I’ve looked on the senior online dating services (for pure writing research only of course) and I ain’t seen nothing that I wanted to buy a subscription to the service for. I admit I’m shallow. Looks do mean something and a photo of some ogre who should have a number tag hanging under his double chin doesn’t peak my interest. Nor does the some of the profiles these senior charmers write. “Love to skinny-dip with that special one.” OMG! Hey, Crystal, have you and Hef gone skinny dip yet? Bet if ya did, you’d break off the engagement. Or about the one that writes “Am extremely affection and will smother that special someone with kisses.” Hum, I’ve got two adorable little dogs that do that.

Nope. Now that Hef is taken, I’m going to give up on the hunt and resign myself to my life of singleness. It’s a good life filled with family, friends, books, and puppy dogs to give me all those kisses. But hey, if you know of a handsome, well-built and fit senior between 62 and 66 who would be interested in someone who’s not beautiful, well-built and fit, but is funny, reasonably intelligent, love dogs, and hates to cook or clean house, well….. I guess you could give them my name and number. Or maybe not. I really am quite content with my singleness at this stage of my life.

2011 New Year's Resolution

I’m not an especially religious person but I do consider myself spiritual. I am also a superstitious person which, to me, is a direct conflict. (Maybe that explains some of my personality quirks.) Now I’m not the kind that throws salt over my shoulder or believes that if a black cat crosses your path, it will bring bad luck. I’ve had four black cats in my life and I’ve never blamed them for any of my bad choices: the cause of most of my bad luck. Yet for some reason, I avoid walking under a ladder, mostly for fear something or someone will fall on me, and as a child, I always was careful not to step on a crack so I wouldn’t hurt my mother’s back. Unless I was roller skating, playing hop scotch, or running away from the boggy man. But I do believe in omens—sometimes.

The reason I chose this theme is because there was a beautiful scarlet cardinal hurling himself again my window. I was afraid he would hurt himself so I went outside to chase him away. Several times. He'd fly a few feet then relay his message with loud chirps. I didn’t have a translator. I wondered if maybe a dear friend was in distress but I didn't call them. They might think I’m crazy. But they know me and love me so they already have accepted my eccentricities. My neighbors not so much so I can only imagine what they were thinking as I stood outside pleading with “Pretty Bird, please go away” or when I brought out wind chimes and a decorative wooden bird cage to distract or catch the manic cardinal, neither of which worked by the way.

The cardinal left yesterday afternoon when I did or so I assume since I did not find a corpse when I returned and I no longer hear or see him. But I can’t help thinking he was trying to tell me something and that I didn’t get the message. That has happened so many times in my life. I didn’t get the message or the invitation. When I told my friend, Lesly, yesterday about the cardinal, she said, “He’s trying to tell you to open the damn window!” So that is my 2011 New Year Resolution – Open that damn window! I just might be surprised at the friendships, joy, beauty and music that fly in. Now if I could figure out what that damn ugly possum sitting on my fence is trying to tell me…

Christmas Past, Present & Future

Christmas is probably the one holiday that can bring us the most joy and the most heartache. It’s a time of lost: the first Christmas without a loved one perhaps, the first Christmas away from home, the first Christmas alone. It’s a time of joy: being with family and loved ones, the sharing of memories, celebrating the birth of Christ. I was five in my Christmas past picture. (I’m the cute one with the big smile and Shirley Temple curls.) But I don’t recognize rest of the people in the picture. They were family and friends obviously. I moved away from California soon after that Christmas. I got a new family and friends in Iowa, then Mississippi, then Texas. I sometimes get depressed at Christmas. This Christmas I didn’t. Maybe it was because I realized that while families and friends may change over time, there’s always been love and that’s what Christmas is all about: love in the past, love now, and love to come. I hope you had a Merry Christmas, I did, and I wish you a Happy New Year.

Perfection - Not

As usual, I’m never quite sure what I’m going to blog about it. When I started my blog originally, I had visions of my spending hours selecting and preparing the perfect message that I wanted to send – sort of like that perfect Christmas gift we work so hard to find each year. Thankfully for me, maybe not so much for my readers, that didn’t last. I found myself instead going with the flow. Now that meant sometimes there were errors in my blog because I hadn’t given myself time to find and correct. Some of those errors added to my blog rather than detracted and some I won’t admit were errors to begin with. They were all planned, David. lol.

One of my favorite blogs is Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project. www.happiness-project.com. I just finished reading an interview she did a few days ago with Oliver Burkeman. I haven’t met this writer yet but plan to as soon his new book comes out in January titled, HELP! How to Become Slightly Happier and Get a Bit More Done. Below is an excerpt from her interview with him that was something I needed to be reminded of. Maybe you will too. Especially during the often stressful holiday seasons.

Question: What’s something you know now about happiness that you didn’t know when you were 18 years old?

Answer: Among many, many other things: I no longer think of perfectionism as one of those traits you should be secretly quite proud to possess ("Oh, I'm a perfectionist, yes, I'm just not happy unless I'm producing brilliant work!"). Perfectionism is 100% bad and evil. As Anne Lamott says, it's "the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people; it will keep you cramped and insane your whole life". Working as a newspaper journalist on deadline has drummed much of it out of me — there's nothing like a screaming editor to make you abandon all hope of a perfect opening sentence — but it's an ongoing challenge. I guess I shouldn't be perfectionistic about getting rid of perfectionism, though.

Question: Is there anything you find yourself doing repeatedly that gets in the way of your happiness?

Answer: Stressing out about potential problems that haven't actually happened yet. Eckhart Tolle recommends asking yourself "Do you have a problem now?" — as in, right this very moment? The answer is almost always no. I need to get this tattooed somewhere prominent on my body.

Question: Is there a happiness mantra or motto that you’ve found very helpful? (e.g., I remind myself to "Identify the problem.”)

Answer: I love the late Japanese psychotherapist Shoma Morita's advice to stop trying to fix yourself and start living instead: "Give up on yourself. Begin taking action now, while being neurotic or imperfect, or a procrastinator, or unhealthy, or lazy, or any other label by which you inaccurately describe yourself. Go ahead and be the best imperfect person you can be and get started on those things you want to accomplish before you die." To some people this sounds depressing, but to me it's the exact opposite: utterly freeing.

Android Techie

I bought myself a Christmas present this past week– an Android cell phone. Notice how I toss out “Android” like I’m trying to impress someone. Did it work? The only thing I know about an “Android” phone is that somehow it relates to Goggle and I like to goggle. In fact, I can goggle with the best of them. I haven’t figured out how to set up my Android to Goggle yet though. I sign on and it keeps rejecting me. But I’m sure once I figure it out, it will be an awesome experience.

Another reason I bought the new phone was so I can start texting. Now texting to me means “youth”. That I’m cool, hip, with it. (All terms that show how ancient I really am.) lol. The fact that I only have one friend who texts shouldn’t slow me down. Maybe I’ll make new friends texting? Or lose the one I have? Like a child with a new toy, I couldn’t wait to send Janet my first text from my new phone. A very profound message if I say so myself. “Hi. M”

I didn’t intend to hit send, only to try and erase the M but somehow I did. Now I had to send her an explanation text which turned out to be even more profound. “sry.cannot-”

Hopefully someone will show me where the space key is because it’s not by the send key that I accidently hit again. Thankfully Janet knows me well and understood what I was trying to do and say. But gee, did she have to be such a showoff with her texted response of “Good try. Keep practicing.”

I also wanted the high-quality camera my new Android offers. I’ve been reading a book on blogging and it seems that all the best bloggers are also talented photographers. Always wanting to improve myself and my blog, I got out my trusty Canon that was once a high-quality camera. It had had a technical breakdown the last time I tried to take pictures of the newest member of my pack. I pushed buttons, opened tiny doors, and finally got it working for a minute. But then I'd forget what combination of buttons I’d hit and I'd have to start all over again.

My new camera phone is wonderful. I’ve taken pictures of the dogs, the floor, the ceiling, my thumb, and my fireplace mantle that I decorated last night for Christmas. You just won’t see them on today’s blog. I need to go for a drive to try out the Android’s GPS, shop for a few apps, get it to goggle, and …. Say, can someone give me a quick call? I guess I ought to see if I can talk on the new phone as well.

Reading Buds

I’ve always been a voracious reader starting with Grimm’s’ Fairy Tales, the Hardy Boys series, Call of the Wild, and graduating to The Autobiography of a Yogi by the time I entered junior high school. Perhaps I read for escape from a not-perfect childhood or was just bored. Regardless of why, reading is the one addiction I have that I’m proud to claim. I also took pride in my selections, boasting about Ayn Rand’s Atlas Struggled and Fountainhead like I’d been the first to discover the literary prizes in the 60’s. I never considered myself a high-browed literary reader though. How could I when I stole my mother’s copy of Peyton Place, inhaled Gothic romance paperbacks until they started all reading the same and actually loved The Bridges of Madison County? Thankfully I advanced past the romance novels and most series genres a long time ago, except for the Harry Potter series, of course. Ya gotta love them.

My computer room has one full wall of book shelves. They are no longer crammed full for several reasons now: 1) one shelf has already cracked due to excessive weight and 2) I’m trying to downsize my life and belongings (with little progress unfortunately). What concerns me though about my reading addiction is that its favor has changed. This morning as I prepared to write today’s blog, I tried to remember my favorite fiction books that I read last year. The only one I could remember was The Help by Kathryn Stockett. The year before only The Historian stands out in my memory block. I’ve been struggling with Freedom for over three months now and that scares me. Am I losing my love of reading and writing? Or am I losing brain cells? Will I have to give up my addiction?

Or is it simply that as I have aged my reading buds have changed? While I really worked to recall my fiction favorites of this year, my non-fiction favorites roll off my recall as fast as I can type. Lit by Mary Karr, a memoir of sobriety, The Happiness Project, Let’s Take the Long Way Home by Gail Caldwell, Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog, Nora Ephron’s I Remember Nothing and Other Reflections and Pack of Two, The Intricate Bond between People and Dogs. These are only a few but they all say something to me, make my cry or make me laugh. Maybe I no longer want to escape real life but relish it and all its emotions with others that have been down my road.