Happy Christmas!

I wish you the best and brightest of the season and joy and love beyond measure through the coming year.

Love Always
Shel

Fear Monsters and The Christmas Carol

Aspects of Independent Publishing Part Six - Fear

Fear

I'd like to take a moment and discuss something that affects us all, and right now is affecting someone I hold dear to my heart.

A friend of mine is experiencing fear of what finishing and subsequently publishing her first novel might mean. 

• Where to next? 
• What if no one likes my book? 
• What if no one buys my book?

It breaks my heart when a fellow artist is struggling to pull words from the abyss of fear. Not to say I haven’t experienced it with The Trouble with Henry and Hagatha Kittridge Must Die,or that I'm not struggling with it while writing their sequels. Deep down, at the root of all this fear, is the voice of our self-doubt. The voice that tells us we are not worthy to write. That voice that tells us we are stupid for even trying. That same voice that screams at us in our sleep, giving us horrendous nightmares, giddy at the notion that we are helpless and lost in a sea of sharks.

Our own personal poltergeist, 

the Ghost of Novels Yet-To-Be.

This voice will defeat all of us at some point in our lives. It is the strongest voice that authors and other artists have in our internal arsenal. It’s the same voice that mothers have, the one telling us to wrap our children in bubble-wrap and lock them in the basement so that nothing ever happens to them. The fear that our children might come to harm, or experience heartbreak so profound that the innocence within them cracks, will cripple us. We want to protect our novels, our artwork, our children from the big, bad, scary, and ever-changing world.

But we also want them to have the best opportunities possible: to laugh like hearts can't be broken, to love without reservation, to reach and obtain each impossible thing they dream before breakfast.

We can’t allow them a care-free life and keep them wrapped up in the basement.

We know this. But still the fear that something will happen plagues our actions.

But Shel, what can we do really?
Where is the magic talisman
that will protect us from Fear?

Um, I'd like to say there was a talisman, and that I knew how to find it. I'd be seriously beyond-filthy-stinking-rich if I knew.

Instead, all I have is an allegory.

Story time?
 Oh dear Universe,
not again!

Oh suck it up. It's almost Christmas. You can sit through a little allegory.

Imagine, Mr. Scrooge, if you will, that three specters will visit you, one at the top of each hour beginning at midnight. The first, the Ghost of Novels Past. She is an aging, wisp of a thing, confident in her sorrow, and she looks at you with pity. Because you wrote a novel and you spent all that time tweaking the phrases and the words and the structure and the plot until there is nothing left of the original thought, and you let life pass you by in the meantime. Friends and loved-ones have moved on, publishing their own words with reckless abandon.

“It’s not even edited,” Scrooge says with a sneer. “Not by a professional, at any rate. And they need a lot of glue to patch up those unsightly plot holes. And the people that buy those books don’t know what they’re doing.”

“But the authors worked on the next books,” says the Ghost. “And they improved their skills.”

“Well, I’m doing it right the first time,” says Mr. Scrooge, even though he knows it's more excuse than truth. “My manuscript is going to be perfect before I allow the world to see it.”

“Perfection will never be achieved, and in the meantime, look what you lost,” she says and points to the book signing party of Scrooge's nephew.

And the hour strikes One, and a jolly, irreverent Ghost of Novels Present arrives. He is full of cheer and snark and drags you from the warmth of your bed through the snows of San Diego. “Your friend is struggling with a plot,” he says, pointing to a small boy with a crutch. “He has no one to support his dream.”

“But he has potential,” Scrooge says, puzzled. “Why does he still receive rejection letters from publishers? Why are vanity presses circling around him like vultures?”

“Are there no self-publishing outlets?” the ghost laughs. “Is there no room for his genre?”

“What becomes of him?”

“If he is not found, if he receives one more rejection, I see an abandoned crutch hanging by the hearthfire.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

And then the stroke of Two, and a terrifying poltergeist, the Ghost of Novels Yet-To-Be extends a bony finger and points Scrooge to a lonely grave. As Scrooge brushes away the ice, he reads the working title of his manuscript.

And Scrooge knows then what a life of fear and regret costs.

Shel, we've seen
The Christmas Carol
a million times.

Okay, so maybe I’ve been hitting the eggnog a little hard this year. But there’s something about ol’ Ebenezer that I find appealing. Despite the darkness he surrounded himself with, despite the angst and the worry and the hatred, and the holier-than-thou attitude, at the end he was a changed man. A redeemed man. And Scrooge became known for keeping the spirit of Christmas in his heart.

AND?

Okay, fine. To bring this back to relevancy, the message of this Christmas Carol is HOPE. Fear cannot tread where hope lives, but hope is still a fragile, fleeting thing. I’ve heard it said that the beast we feed will be the beast that grows. If we feed our doubt, if we nurture our fear, that will be the monster that survives. That is the voice in our heads that tells us we shouldn’t do a thing, that we should give up because we do not have the talent or the strength to persevere in the face of challenges.

But if we feed the voice of hope. If we allow her grace to fill our thoughts and our dreams, then fear will become diminished, and will have no control over us.

So what if I published The Trouble with Henry and Hagatha Kittridge Must Die, and I only sold a handful of ebooks. So what if this blog is only read by a handful of really supportive people and hackers from China and Russia. When fear of hitting the publish button reared its ugly head, I chose to feed the voice of hope instead. I chose a carefree life for my child instead of a basement prison. I hope I can help others choose the same.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks or says or does. My child is still beautiful, and talented, and full of promise. He doesn’t need to win a Hugo or an Agatha, or reach a million copies sold. It would be nice, but I'm proud of my work, my children, just the way they are.

I wish my friend could feed her hope right now. She’s got life fighting her every step of the way, and some extremely serious challenges than simply the fear of being finished, but fear feeds off of that type of stress. And she’s beautiful and talented and her book is worthy of bookshelves across the globe. She’s just losing her writing heart to her fears.

And if her fear monster wins, then the true tragedy is that no one will have had the chance to read her book. And I cannot bear a world in which a story failed to exist because hope died. 

Do not feed the fear monster, my fellow writers. Make it starve to death, nevermore to grace your computer screen. There are many, many things out there to be afraid of, but our own children need not be a part of them. If there's one thing I've learned about self-publishing, its that you can't break it. If you upload mistakes, you can fix them. If no one buys your book, it's okay, Really. Screw them all and write your next book. And publish it. And write the next book. And publish it. If you build it, they will eventually come. But first, you've got to nurture your faith. You've got to feed your Hope Monster. 

If you have other questions of a non-legal nature about publishing independently, or if you would like a cheer squad to help you walk through the process, feel free to ask me. I’m willing to help where I can. If it takes a village to raise a child, why not a community to publish a book?

Solstice Song (WoE week 50)

Write at the Merge seems particularly festive this week, challenging us with the word Sparkle and the song Sleigh Ride as performed by John Williams and the Boston Pops Orchestra.

I couldn't help but think of Sticky-Tagger and his pixie friends. I've been away from them too long, me thinks.


I offer the following in response: Solstice Song

“Sticky, it’s winter!” Glowing, Sellamina twirled beneath the falling snow. Her wings shimmered in the pale triumph of the waxing sun.

“It’s still too slushy,” Sticky held out a disappointing handful of wet, white sludge. “It’s close, but it’s not ready yet.”

Sellamina drifted towards his perch. “Can't you feel it?”

Sticky closed his eyes and listened to the hush of their woods, hoping to hear the hum. Gone were the familiar sounds of the woodland creatures as most of them hid in the warmth of their dens. Snow dampened the song of the world. Even the trees refused to break the morning calm with their chatter. He opened his eyes and sighed. “No. Not yet.”

She sat beside him on the branch and wrapped her golden wings about them, sharing their warmth. She stifled a yawn. “I know we stayed up all night waiting, but I’m still too excited to sleep.”

“Do you think it’ll come from the north this year?” He knew the answer, but the question came from habit.

“It always comes from the north,” his sister breathed, huddling closer.

Sleigh bells chimed several miles away, a mere whisper tickling Sticky’s ear from that distance. His mind wandered. He remembered those bells with laughter and the spiced, heady vapors of mulled cider and wine. Humans were predictable, arriving with the snows and collecting white berries in bunches. “Sella, why do you think humans collect mistly-toes?”

“Ug, you had to ruin it,” Sellamina growled beside him. “Can’t we just once not speak of humans and their stupid rituals?”

“Okay.” Sticky frowned, racking his thoughts. With his recent Fetcher training, he’d become quite adept at collecting roasted chestnuts from human kitcheries. It was his new favorite food. Well, favorite nut. Punkin pie crumbs and that wiggly food that was colored and transparent like gemstones but melted into soup in his mouth were his favorites. Oh, and the sweet and sticky corn…his tummy rumbled. “But you don’t think they eat the berries do you?”

“I don’t think so. Wouldn’t it be poisonous?”

“Well, someday, I’m gonna find out,” Sticky said. “You know what else humans do?”

“Sticky.”

“They bring trees into their homes and dress them up.”

“What, whole trees?” Sticky caught her sideways glance as she leaned forward. Her mouth crinkled to one side. “That makes no more sense than the mistly-toes.”

Goosiepimples climbed up Sticky’s arm as the breeze shifted. It came from the north and stirred the crystalline drifts of the woodland floor. The ground sparkled bright with energy.

“Ooh." Sellamina squeaked and jumped to her feet, fluttering her wings. “Sticky, it’s here!”

Sticky forgot his hunger, his lack of sleep, and the chill that seeped into his skin. As the first magic of winter kissed his face, he drank it in, feeling raw bliss swell around his heart. The drowsy woods sparked to life and hummed, sweet and low, and eternity was once again possible.

And with that, my dearest readers, I wish you a very magical season overflowing with wonder and merriment.

Week of Thanks and Giving (WoE #48)

Write at the Merge gives us 100 words to explore the word Gratitude.

I could not eloquently list everything I'm grateful for and keep it to 100 words.

Therefore, I will keep it simple, as if I received an award and had 30 seconds to give a speech.


Among other things, I am most grateful for the opportunity to participate in the stories each dawn brings.


Happy Thanksgiving!

The Best Laid Plans...

I apologize for radio silence.

I wish I could say it was because I've been so deep in NaNoWriMo, that I didn't know what day it was.

Unfortunately, I had a slight mishap.

Remember, remember the 5th of November

Gunpowder. Treason. And Plot

I see no reason the Gunpowder Treason

Ought ever be forgot

Well, for me it was the 8th of November, the day to remember when my husband was late to an appointment and rushed to leave. I was in another room and I heard a crash followed by a stream of my husband's obscenities. In his haste, he knocked my computer off of its perch and the action caused the prong of the power cord to bend. 

So, my laptop was fine, thank God, but I had no way of recharging spent power. 

My husband still looks at me with guilty eyes and showers me with apologies, even after a replacement cord was ordered and delivered today. 

But accidents are just as they seem. And if I had taken the extra few moments that 8th of November, to ensure that my laptop was put away before I stepped from its side for a bite to eat, it would not have been there for my husband to collide with.

So you see, owing blame where blame is due, I look upon him with guilt as well. For he feels guilty for something that is not his fault, and I feel guilty that he feels guilty...

And now it is ten days later and I am well behind in my word count for NaNoWriMo. 

Last year, however, I was even further behind and I still managed to cross the finish line, and I didn't have so fine an excuse as I have this year.

So, in my next NaNoWriMo Journal entry, I will hopefully have a more substantial update for you. 

Party in the SKDunning Household!

Today, I received the Certificate of Registration for The Trouble With Henry from the United States Office of Copyright.

I am now a public record. Woot!

I am breaking out the bottle of Anniversary Whiskey my husband and I purchased on our honeymoon in Ireland eight years ago to celebrate. 

To give you a timeline, I paid my filing fee and submitted the request on May 10, 2013. 

And it's here. And this is awesomesauce. Pardon an unprofessional "GO ME!" moment.

but.

GO ME!

NaNoWriMo: Day One

Yes, I'm participating in the craziness of National Novel Writing Month. The 30 days of November were created for just one thing: 50k words.

No tricks, no weapons. Skill against skill alone.

Sorry, I just channeled The Princess Bride there.

50k in 30 days equals about 1667 words a day. Today, I've logged in with 1627. So I'm 40 words behind. At this rate, I'll finish 50k on December 1st.

If you want to see what I'm up to, check out www.nanowrimo.org.

This year, I'm tackling the sequel to The Trouble With Henry. Tentatively titled The Cold Side of Trouble, this installment will hopefully be packed full of suspense and snarky humor.

If nothing else, I'm going on a roller coaster ride this month, and my intent is to cross the finish line with a workable 1st draft. Now, November is also a busy month for me, and I'm already starting with a bit behind the eight ball. I'm working the Renaissance Faire in Escondido, California this weekend, and I'm staying at my in-laws, so I'll have to squeeze the next 3370 words between faire, travel, and visiting with family.

Nothing like burning the candle at both ends. Please forgive me if I'm radio silent for the next few days. I'm going to try to keep you updated with my progress, not to pester you or brag or anything. If I make a commitment to keeping you in the loop, then I'm more apt to keep typing words until I cross the finish line.

So cheers! I'm off to bed now. It'll probably be the last sleep I get for the month, so I plan on making the most of it.

Shel