News Flash

Nowadays, everyone says a writer needs a newsletter. I’m beginning to lose count of the number of things I’m supposed to produce that isn’t my stories. But what about all those goodies that don’t make it into the stories?

  • That chapter I deleted. The one that’s now just a couple of sentences buried in a conversation. Well, more like, how that works, how you decide to kill off 3000 words in exchange for 50, for the sake of the story.
  • The interview between me and my MC, you know, the one that went over so well at that open mic.
  • My research on the folk sayings that spark each of the chapters in Wind and Smoke. The ones that prove that Ireland and South Korea are pretty much the same.
  • The things I want to tell agents. Not mean things. Just advice. Would you sign with an agency if their website takes 20 seconds to load a page?
  • I could blurt out some of the things I wanted to say at book club, because other people sure have a lot to say. Or is it not OK to reveal that writers are readers, too?

Dangit.

I have all that stuff.

So now I have a new work-in-progress.

I won’t be sending a newsletter more often than monthly, because that’s what I like in a newsletter. Maybe the occasional special edition, like when I sign with an agent or get that next book deal.

Target date for first issue: Let’s make it Valentine’s Day.

Penny Cards–last century’s newsletter
(Public Domain, from Newberry Library via Wikimedia Commons)

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Success as an author?Success as an author?

Depends what you mean by “success”

One of my writing groups (the one that isn’t a critique circle) has set a blog-post prompt of “How do you measure success as an author?”
We’re supposed to introspect, come up with wise words to inspire and console others. I don’t know about y’all, but the past two years have been a low-rising roller coaster, beginning with a brief burst of elation that my first book (my “debut” if you want to get precious about it) was coming out.

WIte, red, and blue award ribbons from a fair

Only then we had a little bit of a pandemic to deal with.

And now it’s two years later.

All That Was Asked has never had a book-launch party (it slightly predates online launch parties), a signing session, a reading at a convention—none of those things. Not uncoincidentally, it hasn’t made much dough for me or for my publisher. At least the print copies are mostly print-on-demand, so no one’s staring at a warehouse full of unsold copies and calling a shredding company.

But is selling a ton of books a success? To stay sane in this business, I think you have to measure success more on the basis of what you are doing than what you have done. If you’re making oodles of money in the publishing industry, that’s mostly a matter of luck, so is that success? I’d call it good fortune. It’s very much a lottery. I’ve read absolutely stunning work in critique circles, listened to mind-blowing readings by little-known writers, and I’ve even had people tell me after a reading “wow, that was awesome!”

What makes sense is to measure how this work—writing—impacts your life. Is this what you live for? Not in a rosy-eyed, dreamy way, not “I luv writing <3” but “writing is what drags me out of everything else” and “writing is my food, drink, and sleep” and “writing is how I exist in this universe.”

What I’m doing right now is working on projects that I’ve wanted to tackle for years—no, decades—but never could due to the vicissitudes of child-rearing, day-job workload, personal upheavals, and disability.  I’m not whining. These are just facts. I chose to raise kids, and it was satisfying work (and, yes, frustrating, too, but in all the right ways). However, doing the best job possible involved more than dropping them off at our barely-adequate schools. It meant advocating for them, fighting an uncaring administrative system, volunteering, fundraising, and, as a last-resort, homeschooling. At least in the pandemic age, there are more parents out there who understand that homeschooling—at least not ideally—isn’t a romp in the garden, it’s serious work. And, like most of us, for me that was work that had to take place in parallel with earning a living.

So right now, I’m successful. Every morning (afternoon?) I wake up, and there’s writing to do.

  • This kind of writing, which is off-the-cuff, barely edited, and hurled into the interweb’s event horizon, never to be seen by human eyes.
  • Critical writing, where I’m critiquing work by fellow writers, trying to help them make their stories the best they can be. 
  • Social-media writing—mostly Twitter—where I practice being concise, kind, and thoughtful.
  • And, finally, yes, writing my own stories, the ones I’ve been wanting to read.

What I’ve been looking for—and yes, I’ve found some, but far too few—are stories led by characters who have trouble communicating, who don’t fit in, who think differently than others but find a way through life anyhow. I’m tired of hero’s-journey stories and chosen-one tales that take themselves too seriously. I don’t mind playing with the tropes. For instance, one of my WIPs has a seeming “chosen one” in it, but the whole thing is a crock, a scheme worked up by a person who’s trying to change society and is using an old myth to get buy-in. Not that the “chosen” person isn’t worthy, but there’s no magic in the process—they’re carefully selected for capability and then trained for the job.

I’m not writing to market. I admit that. So I can’t complain about sales, not too much. It may take time for people like me to find the stories I’m writing for them. That’s OK. I waited a long time. A little longer—I can deal.

Well, I’m trying to, anyhow.

In the meantime, I’m keeping on. For me, that writers learned to use remote meetings to connect for critiques, discuss craft, conduct conventions, and more has been a compensatory gain during the pandemic. It’s not a benefit of this horrible time; it’s a thing we could should have been doing all along, and only just now learned to value. When the pandemic’s over, we’ll keep connected this way. That’s a good thing, but we don’t get to pretend it’s all right that millions of people died while those of us privileged to live were fumbling our way to this belated discovery.

I’ve leveraged that new learning, because I’m an engineer and tech things come naturally to me. I’ve let myself get roped into volunteering to help others less comfortable with the technology—and that’s OK, because participating with other writers helps me connect more deeply with my writing community.  I value the friendships I’ve formed with people I’ve only met in Zoom rooms. This is not a trivial feeling—I dedicated my Monday afternoons for half this past year to help a Zoom friend whose critique circle had lost their only zoom-capable member. That meant stepping aside from one of my other critique circles, one that needed me less. I’m returning to my prior group as of this month, because my friend’s old zoom-host has returned. I’ll miss the new friends I made in her circle, even though we only ever saw each other in little boxes on our computer screens.

Am I a failure because I had to defer my writing career? Looking back through my drawer of shelved and partly-done stories, one thing is strikingly clear—I was so young, so ignorant, so clueless. Much of what I’m writing now, I couldn’t have done when I was younger. In technique, I’m much better than my younger self; some of that gain I can attribute to years of writing science and engineering reports and papers, working collaboratively with colleagues on phrasing, structure, and word choice … plus coping with deadlines. Beyond the technique, older me is able to imagine more-complex characters, see worlds with more-different people in them. Through personal experience, I know most lives—most real stories—don’t have a “call to adventure” or a “supreme ordeal.” There’s no wise mentor waiting to guide us. We have to muddle through, try to survive in an irrational universe, and deal with the fact we’ll never quite make sense of it all.

Sure, I’m still learning. You have to keep learning. It’s the key to growth in every respect. Even there, though, I’m doing better, working actively to learn more of what I need to continue improving.

In my next posting, I’ll demonstrate my success by sharing a list of what I consider to be my 2021 accomplishments not only as a writer but also as a member of the writing community.

I’ll warn you right now: it’s a longer post.

An Update: Time-Travel to 2012An Update: Time-Travel to 2012

So I’m watching the fake Late Late Show (forever fake, now that Craig has left) & suddenly Replacement Guest Host is doing make-your-own-comet with a Guest Astronomer.  I’m wondering if I could charge them with stealing my work, but, well Derrick Pitts probably doesn’t need to be getting ideas from the Invisible Blog of Doom.  On checking back to my own posting from late 2012, I find the following:

1) Mine has decent classroom-management tips and includes explanations of why each substance is being added in, and theirs does not.  Plus, they use Coca-Cola, which isn’t a such good idea for a school science demo. (Wayne Brady does demonstrate exactly what students will do with a can of soda.)

2) Mine is totally missing its visuals.  I took photos the last couple of times I did this demo.  Where are they? Aaaaagh!

Four days later, I’ve found the missing files, carefully stored on a clearly-labeled DVD backup disk in a plastic box in my office.  Under another box.  With a scattering of old DVD’s, mending, receipts, and old concert tickets on top of that. Plus dust.

 

A comet-building group at a Lyceum of Silicon Valley workshop

A comet-building group at a Lyceum of Silicon Valley workshop

And, ta-da! My comet project update is complete.  I’ve even learned how to embed a link to the Late Late Show’s YouTube channel on the appropriate blog post.  Time-travel to here and have your own cometary fun.  Remember to keep things safe but still keep the fun in science.

Day Zero: Get Thee To FlagstaffDay Zero: Get Thee To Flagstaff

There is no simple way to orchestrate the travel here.  Yes, planes fly to Flagstaff, not the same airlines as fly to the big airports but their small-scale partners.  There’s a shuttle bus from Phoenix, and if you were facing a long layover the van could even be faster.

A view of the Grand Canyon we did not see on our flights (courtesy of Google Earth)

But we arrive in Phoenix with plane tickets in hand and actually welcome a half-hour flight delay, because it allows us a chance to buy lunch.  I even have time for a stroll through the overpriced-souvenir shop, where I hand over $2 for a pair of elastic bands someone in the shop has put out to support a fundraiser for improving water supplies in Haiti.  Seems appropriate. And the chance to put up our feet for a half-hour is welcome, as we’re already tired.  We actually began yesterday, on Day “-1”, with a five-hour drive to rendezvous with Clark’s friend, who lives near Reno, so we could all travel together the whole way.  Our Day Zero expedition consisted of a drive from the pine forests of Plumas County to the desert flats of Reno’s outskirts, a freeway jaunt to the airport (chauffered by another friend), a big plane to Phoenix, a little plane to Flagstaff, then a search for the airport shuttle.  We will have a powerful case of deja vu on Day Fourteen.   You’ll see.

Flagstaff’s airport is a fabulous, small airport.  My favorite kind.  One baggage claim zone.  No trouble meeting a shuttle bus right outside.  As it happens, the other folks sharing the van are another couple going on our trip.  And they have obtained an intelligence report from the rafting company, OARS, that we five will be the only “guests” staying on the raft trip for the full fourteen days.   The rest of the group will leave halfway (and hike out), to be replaced by a new batch of folks for the second week.  So we will actually get to spend a full fifteen days with Todd and Eliza.  Oh, yeah, and until such time as the members of our trip group authorize me to use their names, I will be using fake names, just in case I goof up and say something upsetting or someone turns out to be in Witness Protection.  I won’t do the same for the crew, since I want to actually give them the props they deserve.  In fact, I’d hope this whole piece could be considered a humungous letter of reference for each and every person on the crew.  I’d initially given myself permission to use my own and my husband’s names, but he protested, so here goes.  He is herewith dubbed “Clark”.  And what to call Childhood Friend?  How about Lana?  And surely that makes me “Lois”.  The only funny thing about this, is that I actually have a friend called Lois–so, hey, Lois, you can tell people this is you.  (Fair warning, though, I’m not the heroine of this story!)

The key element of Day Zero is the evening briefing from the Trip Leader.  We gather in one of the Radisson Hotel’s conference rooms.   (The Midway guests also will have a briefing, but not by the Trip Leader , as she will be a mile downhill at the time.)  So we meet our first authentic River Guide.  This is Billie Prosser, who’s been whitewater rafting since she was a teenager, over fifteen years now, much of that time in the Grand Canyon.  These days, she chooses to do only a few of these Grand Canyon trips a year, giving herself the chance to work on other rivers and also to have time for a private trip, as time permits, to enjoy the Canyon without having to take care of people like us.

At the meeting, we also get our first glimpse of our fellow travelers all together.  We are heavily loaded with Californians and Canadians.   There are three women from Canada—their menfolk didn’t want to come.  There’s two father-son duos: one a dad and his athletic teenager, the other a Bechtel project technician taking a voluntary layoff to make the trip with his dad, a (putatively) retired actor and writer.  The Fab Five (Todd & Eliza and the three of us–Lois, Clark, and Lana) are all from California.   The actor, who takes care during the meeting to firmly establish that he’s the most-senior member of the troupe, has also brought along a childhood friend—a woman he hadn’t seen since high school.  While he keeps us entertained, I get the vague feeling he sort of expects someone to recognize him.  Then there’s another triad…a husband and wife and one of their friends.  Is that sixteen?

We get a quick summary of what to expect in the morning.  The crucial item is to have our gear packed and in the lobby by quarter to seven and be ready to leave by seven.  There’s a little last-minute advice on what to be sure to bring.  In case something’s been forgotten, there’s a WalMart in walking distance.  We’re advised to bring lots and lots of moisturizer.  I ask for a definition of “lots”, which it seems is a 16 oz bottle per person per week.  Oh, my goodness, I didn’t bring that much, so we have a trip to WalMart in the plans already.  We’re issued our “drybags”, each labeled with our own personal real names.  (Amazingly, they don’t know to use the fake names I will make up in the future for this blog.)  And Billie gives us a five-minute seminar on how to seal the drybags.  This is important, as all of our clothing and personal items go in this bag, which will then be tied onto a raft and frequently doused with water.  We’re each also issued a small drybag.  The big bag is inaccessible except in camp.  The day bag serves to keep dry what we need to keep dry but have access to during the day.  And we’re allowed to bring whatever we like in our daypacks as well, provided we understand that these will get drenched in larger rapids or if it rains.  The drybags don’t have our personal names on them.  Instead, they each have an identifying name written in Sharpie,  to individualize them.  We just each have to remember our bag’s name.  Mine is “Turpentine Broom”.  Lana’s is “Grease Bush”.  And Clark selects the distinctly memorable “#73”.  Mine is the best.  Here is all about Turpentine Broom  and Grease Bush.  I expect we’ll encounter these plants on our journey.  In the meantime, the names help, as the bags come in only a few colors.

I’m relieved to hear there will be a bag for boots, as this will make room in my kit for all that moisturizer.  Others are relieved to hear that their beer and wine orders have been filled.  Some are anxious to double-check on that after the meeting.  Billie has the checklist.  Evidently, this is a common anxiety.

Then we are off to WalMart.  Yes, our first act upon crossing the moment into our trip environment is to walk down a suburban city street, past a dark and quiet Home Depot, an active supermarket, and a Bank of America with lights glowing invitingly above its ATM, to shop in the megabehemoth of a store that was launched just a few miles from Clark and Lana’s home town.   But oh, they do indeed have It All.  More sunblock.  I must have more sunblock.  Moisturizer, per Billie’s recommendations.  Handy dry facewash cloths to get all that sunblock off.  And a tripod.  What was I thinking, leaving home without a tripod?  And a little mini flex-tripod for Clark.  Sweet.  Now all we have to do is haul this all back to the hotel and get everything crammed into our bags.

And, well, the bag-cramming takes a little while.  Maybe more than a little while.   Part of it is deciding which things are OK in the backpack (maybe in a Ziploc bag, maybe not), which need to go in the daybag, and which can be done without and stuffed in the main drybag.  I have the extra variant that I really have 2 daypacks. One is a one-shoulder sling pack that keeps my cameras and other hiking essentials from bearing down on my healing shoulder and when not in use tucks into the main pocket of my large daypack.  The main daypack takes my raingear, a dry set of fleece sealed in ziplocs, my tripod, and other handy items.  It’s big, it’s bulky, I will make Clark carry it as much as possible.  But it all fits.  And while I fancy myself adept at this sort of thing, it is Clark who is already proving to be better at sealing the big drybag.  He says it is just that he can squish it down better, being a bit heavier, but I think there is more to it than that.  I will keep insisting on doing my bag myself for about four more days.  Then I will give up and let him do it for me.

One last shower and a thorough hair washing.  It will be 2 weeks without a shampooing, at least for me.  I do not want to look at the setting on the alarm clock.  It is just too awful to contemplate.

 

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