I always thought the hardest part of getting a book published would be writing the book. Silly me. How naïve could I be? That’s the easy part. Any wannabe author can put a pen to paper and write a book. All it takes is an over-active imagination, a healthy ego, and a super-sized streak of stubbornness. The problem is the world of publishers and agents can wear down even the most pigheaded, self-centered, daydreamer among us.
We can get an instant feeling of where a phrase ranks on the scale of 1 to 10 in do-ability. Take out the garbage—easily doable, I’ll give it a ten. Climb Mount Everest—not easily doable for most, I will rank it at a two. Walking on the moon—don’t hold your breath, this is not something you will be doing anytime soon. I’ll give it a generous .000000001. Getting your book published ranks somewhere between Everest and the moon; I’d give it a 1.3. Not impossible as evidenced by the contents of the neighborhood bookstore and the library, but not as easy as it sounds.
Before we continue let me clarify a couple of points. First-if you have written a non-fiction book and had it published, stop risking permanent injury to your arm patting yourself feverishly on the back, because it is much easier to get a non-fiction book published. Why? It’s beyond me. I avoid reading non-fiction whenever possible. It reminds me too much of all those years in school when I was forced to read books because of their content and not their entertainment value. Books that are valued for their content are usually about “real life”. If I want “real life”, I’ll watch the news. “Real life” is not as much fun as “unreal life”. “Unreal life” is the realm of imagination, improbability, and wishful thinking. “Unreal life” is why I’m a Trekkie at heart. It’s a lifestyle.
Second-if you self-published you opted out of the publishing struggle. You just proved you had enough money to thumb your nose at the establishment. I say—Bully for you! I should be so lucky. I thumb my nose at the powerful publishers, but I have yet to have anybody notice. All I achieved until now is a dent in my proboscis my thumb fits into, and a jammed finger when I stood too close to the wall while griping.
I have many, many rejection letters. I have learned a valuable lesson from these missives. I can say no to anyone in the most polite language around. Whoever writes these letters is a master of the feather-light let-down. I wish I had known this technique when I was dating. “Dear (insert name here), This date was wonderful and very promising; however it did not strike the proper chord to fulfill what I am looking for at the moment. Please, feel free to call me in the future if you change yourself completely. Thank you for attempting to entertain me and good luck in your future dating efforts.”
I comfort myself, whenever a new rejection letter shows up, with the knowledge that the likes of Margaret Mitchell (Gone With the Wind) who submitted that book getting rejection after rejection for eighteen years, and most notably lately J. K. Rowling (Harry Potter), whose books have made her richer than the Queen of England were rejected numerous times. I spend time picturing the editors that rejected them explaining the logic behind the refusals to their (soon-to-be-former) higher ups. I sincerely hope I am the subject of just such a job-justification some day.
It seems the shortest way to success in the literary field these days is to get read and then endorsed by our neighbor-over-the-hill, Oprah Winfrey. I have even investigated this road to princess-of-pulp and found a catch-22 that stopped me as effectively as the proverbial brick wall. Oprah cannot help writers get published because the book must be published before she will read it. Bummer. Completely understandable, but bummer nonetheless.
I know, through membership in the valley’s premier writing group (if I do say so myself), that there are numerous wannabe-authors in this valley. I want to encourage all of you in your writing endeavors, unless my book is rejected because the publishing company fulfilled its quota of unsolicited-manuscript-development with your book. In such case, I suggest you take up gardening and leave the writing to those of us delusional, ego-centric, obsessive-compulsives that truly need the validation.
I promise to continue my support in your new vocation. My, what beautiful Petunias!
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I'm Blogging Now!
I have been flummoxed and boggled by Google. I freely admit I am no computer genius. More to the point, I freely admit to being barely computer literate. I am happy that I can turn my machines on (both the Apple laptop and the PC desktop, she bragged) and have learned to use the Word Program enough that my computer truly is more convenient than a typewriter for writing.
After four years of doodling, I find myself with a copious backlog of essays, articles, compilations, or columns (pick the appellation of your choice, I prefer scribbles) that I had no idea what to do with now. Most of them were published at one time under the heading of Appel Slices in a local paper; I guess that makes them qualify as used. Since I’ve never heard of anyone in the market for second-hand, small-town, observationally inspired copy of dubious merit, I had almost reconciled myself to nothing but permanent storage for my efforts when a friend (and I use the word loosely at this point) suggested blogging.
I respect this so-called friend and let that respect blind me to the fact that this was an easy toss-off suggestion for him because the man is a computer wizard. In this state of blind faith—faith that I could handle it if he suggested it to me—I blithely sallied forth into the first website I found that offered free blogs. Hey, at least I got the right price. I mean if you are entering the land of trials and frustrations, at least the cost shouldn’t add to the pain.
After four hours I had the bones of a blog set up I felt I could live with. I had a title that made me happy; just a tweak off from the name of my newspaper column—respelled Appel Slyces. I was happy with the template, the color I had chosen for the background, the font and color of the text of the body, the text font and color on the header, the borders, and a dozen other so-ons and so-forths. So, I ventured on to the next step—posting.
I scanned through my old columns and decided to start the blog with the two columns that I had started my short newspaper career with. After all, they had been lucky for me then, maybe their mojo hadn’t been exhausted and they would come through for me again. It was worth a try and I didn’t have a reason that sounded any better to me for choosing any of the others. When I am faced with a decision, superstition usually trumps logic.
After a last minute check and a satisfied sigh, I sent the address of my blog out to a select group of friends whose critiquing abilities I trust and asked for any suggestions they may have to improve my presentation. The proposals poured in, all two of them. They were both really good, thoughtful suggestions that I leapt to enact. Double-space between paragraphs, Bob said, the program seldom accepts indents and the extra space will make the pieces easier to read. Well, that explains the thirty-minutes of my life I’ll never get back spent grappling with expectations vs Google settings. I did discover a very important thing about myself though, I must repeat the same actions three times sequentially before I will accept what I’m doing will not work.
The second suggestion I received was an improvement for my banner. Wouldn’t it look better with a picture of an apple, possibly with a few slices lying next to it? Super, I thought. So I immediately began searching the web for the perfect apple picture. Do you have any idea how many pictures of apples have been uploaded to the web? Is it just me, or do they really all look alike after the first 45 seconds? Barring the complexities of my chosen fruit I did find what I felt was the perfect apple picture, after about three hours, that had its jpg designation attached and looked as though I may be able to transfer it.
My fingers flew as I powered back to my blog to add the picture to the header. I found the “edit the header” page and followed the directions to the letter, and then checked the blog to see the update. No picture. I did it all again. No picture. Okay, third time’s the charm. No picture. Fourth time . . . tried downloading the picture to My Documents and call it from there, no picture. Fifth time . . . moved the picture to My Pictures and tried again, no picture. Sixth time, seventh time . . . eleventeenth time and never, no, not ever, a picture. Totally bummed and frustrated unto screaming I typed my woes into Google Search. Aha, an answer, but they have to be kidding. They give instructions for changing the code to the blog website that controls the header.
Change the code? Who do they think I am? Bill Gates?! Tell you what, check out my blog . . . the one without the picture.
After four years of doodling, I find myself with a copious backlog of essays, articles, compilations, or columns (pick the appellation of your choice, I prefer scribbles) that I had no idea what to do with now. Most of them were published at one time under the heading of Appel Slices in a local paper; I guess that makes them qualify as used. Since I’ve never heard of anyone in the market for second-hand, small-town, observationally inspired copy of dubious merit, I had almost reconciled myself to nothing but permanent storage for my efforts when a friend (and I use the word loosely at this point) suggested blogging.
I respect this so-called friend and let that respect blind me to the fact that this was an easy toss-off suggestion for him because the man is a computer wizard. In this state of blind faith—faith that I could handle it if he suggested it to me—I blithely sallied forth into the first website I found that offered free blogs. Hey, at least I got the right price. I mean if you are entering the land of trials and frustrations, at least the cost shouldn’t add to the pain.
After four hours I had the bones of a blog set up I felt I could live with. I had a title that made me happy; just a tweak off from the name of my newspaper column—respelled Appel Slyces. I was happy with the template, the color I had chosen for the background, the font and color of the text of the body, the text font and color on the header, the borders, and a dozen other so-ons and so-forths. So, I ventured on to the next step—posting.
I scanned through my old columns and decided to start the blog with the two columns that I had started my short newspaper career with. After all, they had been lucky for me then, maybe their mojo hadn’t been exhausted and they would come through for me again. It was worth a try and I didn’t have a reason that sounded any better to me for choosing any of the others. When I am faced with a decision, superstition usually trumps logic.
After a last minute check and a satisfied sigh, I sent the address of my blog out to a select group of friends whose critiquing abilities I trust and asked for any suggestions they may have to improve my presentation. The proposals poured in, all two of them. They were both really good, thoughtful suggestions that I leapt to enact. Double-space between paragraphs, Bob said, the program seldom accepts indents and the extra space will make the pieces easier to read. Well, that explains the thirty-minutes of my life I’ll never get back spent grappling with expectations vs Google settings. I did discover a very important thing about myself though, I must repeat the same actions three times sequentially before I will accept what I’m doing will not work.
The second suggestion I received was an improvement for my banner. Wouldn’t it look better with a picture of an apple, possibly with a few slices lying next to it? Super, I thought. So I immediately began searching the web for the perfect apple picture. Do you have any idea how many pictures of apples have been uploaded to the web? Is it just me, or do they really all look alike after the first 45 seconds? Barring the complexities of my chosen fruit I did find what I felt was the perfect apple picture, after about three hours, that had its jpg designation attached and looked as though I may be able to transfer it.
My fingers flew as I powered back to my blog to add the picture to the header. I found the “edit the header” page and followed the directions to the letter, and then checked the blog to see the update. No picture. I did it all again. No picture. Okay, third time’s the charm. No picture. Fourth time . . . tried downloading the picture to My Documents and call it from there, no picture. Fifth time . . . moved the picture to My Pictures and tried again, no picture. Sixth time, seventh time . . . eleventeenth time and never, no, not ever, a picture. Totally bummed and frustrated unto screaming I typed my woes into Google Search. Aha, an answer, but they have to be kidding. They give instructions for changing the code to the blog website that controls the header.
Change the code? Who do they think I am? Bill Gates?! Tell you what, check out my blog . . . the one without the picture.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
A New Me
Dear Extreme Makeover Show,
I want a makeover and I do not want to have to pay for it. It amazes me that as the supply of nearly everything else in life seems to be dwindling; the amount of skin humans possess seems to increase. Now that I am entering the Charpei-time-of-life, I have noticed a decline in the number of eligible men and the energy to get gussied up and venture out to hunt them down. I want to look twenty years younger so the pool of men I have to choose from is not only bigger, but they will do the legwork.
I am not talking about the kind of makeover where my friends think I look “refreshed”. I want the kind of change where folks mistake me for my own daughter. Nobody will ask me if I’ve had some work done because barring a rejuvenation miracle on par with turning water into wine, there will be no mistaking I’ve been partaking of modern medicine.
Okay, here is the laundry list: I want a brow lift, my upper and lower eyelids done, face lift, chin implant, neck rejuvenation, lasik for near sightedness, teeth whitening, and liposuction here and there. Nothing seventy or eighty grand wouldn’t take care of if I had that kind of throw away cash.
Oh, and I also want workout sessions with that miracle worker, Michael Thurmond. Makeover candidates seem to lose inches and tone up where they should while only doing a few targeted exercises. If it were really hard work there should be way more griping. Either your editors are bordering on deceptive advertising or that man should be canonized. By the way, I’m foregoing any breast enhancement because if Michael tones and lifts the girls back into position, I’ll be happy.
I don’t want to hurt anybodies’ feelings’ but I think I will bypass the hairdresser. The hairdos may be all the rage, but after the dollars, time, and discomfort that will have gone into my perfect youthful face no way will I cover it up with wispy hair. I don’t care how Meg Ryan it is.
I think I will pick out my own “Reveal” dress, too. I don’t want to see my nipped and tucked visage on “What Not to Wear” on one of your rival networks. The dresses aren’t terrible, but to this point I haven’t seen a visually stunning setting fit for my future jewelness.
Now, about the reveal portion of the show-where the makeoveree gathers friends and family and steps out from behind curtain # 1 to wow them all with the fantastic transformation she has undergone. I figure if we have done this right not that many people are going to recognize me. If I put all the people I know in a room and identify myself it will kind of defeat my purpose.
I live in a small town and I have lived long enough where I have burned some bridges and maybe just crossed some I should have burned. Suffice to say, I don’t necessarily want the whole town to know what I have done right away. I might be able to use two of three weeks of fence-mending anonymity to further ensure a rosy future.
I realize this isn’t the type of plea you usually receive. I did not go through life with a beak that would put a condor to shame so my situation may not seem very compelling, but the dilapidation time brings is no small matter. I am not number-phobic about age, but I am sag-phobic. We are all going to hit this wall. Please help me so it doesn’t look like I did it face first.
Gratefully,
Cyn
I want a makeover and I do not want to have to pay for it. It amazes me that as the supply of nearly everything else in life seems to be dwindling; the amount of skin humans possess seems to increase. Now that I am entering the Charpei-time-of-life, I have noticed a decline in the number of eligible men and the energy to get gussied up and venture out to hunt them down. I want to look twenty years younger so the pool of men I have to choose from is not only bigger, but they will do the legwork.
I am not talking about the kind of makeover where my friends think I look “refreshed”. I want the kind of change where folks mistake me for my own daughter. Nobody will ask me if I’ve had some work done because barring a rejuvenation miracle on par with turning water into wine, there will be no mistaking I’ve been partaking of modern medicine.
Okay, here is the laundry list: I want a brow lift, my upper and lower eyelids done, face lift, chin implant, neck rejuvenation, lasik for near sightedness, teeth whitening, and liposuction here and there. Nothing seventy or eighty grand wouldn’t take care of if I had that kind of throw away cash.
Oh, and I also want workout sessions with that miracle worker, Michael Thurmond. Makeover candidates seem to lose inches and tone up where they should while only doing a few targeted exercises. If it were really hard work there should be way more griping. Either your editors are bordering on deceptive advertising or that man should be canonized. By the way, I’m foregoing any breast enhancement because if Michael tones and lifts the girls back into position, I’ll be happy.
I don’t want to hurt anybodies’ feelings’ but I think I will bypass the hairdresser. The hairdos may be all the rage, but after the dollars, time, and discomfort that will have gone into my perfect youthful face no way will I cover it up with wispy hair. I don’t care how Meg Ryan it is.
I think I will pick out my own “Reveal” dress, too. I don’t want to see my nipped and tucked visage on “What Not to Wear” on one of your rival networks. The dresses aren’t terrible, but to this point I haven’t seen a visually stunning setting fit for my future jewelness.
Now, about the reveal portion of the show-where the makeoveree gathers friends and family and steps out from behind curtain # 1 to wow them all with the fantastic transformation she has undergone. I figure if we have done this right not that many people are going to recognize me. If I put all the people I know in a room and identify myself it will kind of defeat my purpose.
I live in a small town and I have lived long enough where I have burned some bridges and maybe just crossed some I should have burned. Suffice to say, I don’t necessarily want the whole town to know what I have done right away. I might be able to use two of three weeks of fence-mending anonymity to further ensure a rosy future.
I realize this isn’t the type of plea you usually receive. I did not go through life with a beak that would put a condor to shame so my situation may not seem very compelling, but the dilapidation time brings is no small matter. I am not number-phobic about age, but I am sag-phobic. We are all going to hit this wall. Please help me so it doesn’t look like I did it face first.
Gratefully,
Cyn
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