Amanda Frederickson's Blog: Musings - Posts Tagged "publishing"

Here's what's happening. I've been participating in National Novel Writing Month for nine years now and since it's a non-profit organization I try to donate toward their operating costs when I can (they also run awesome things like the Young Writers' Program for kids and teens). Circumstances being what they are this year, I'm even poorer than usual and I'm not going to be able to make my usual donation.

So I'm going to see if I can kill several birds with one month.

Smashwords.com is going to be running a promotion for NaNoWriMo. Anyone who signs up will be able to "publish" their book as a work in progress as they write. Ordinarily I'd be running from this idea, screaming. Especially when it comes to self publishing, everything put out for the public consumption needs to be the best that it can be.

On the other hand, a freshly published author's worst enemy is obscurity. Marketing and book pitches aren't exactly my strong suit either; it's part of why I chose to self publish Keystone.

So, I decided to go for it and "publish" this year's Nano project as a sort of open beta read. It's going to be a "reader sets the price" option so if someone wants to contribute toward my Nano donation goal of $25 they can, otherwise they can read it for free. As a bonus for enduring the book's rough state, everyone who opts in for this experimental project will get the final, published work for the absolute bargain price of whatever they chose to pay for it.

However, being a work in progress, the Nano project may or may not contain things like this: [King Needsaname] [Dang, it's hard to type while eating][Why did I think this was a good idea?] [He needs to DIE]. Consider them bloopers. Behind the scenes commentary. The product of too much caffeine and sugar without adequate sleep. It happens a lot during NaNoWriMo.

I'd love for this to be an interactive experience, so readers can tell me what they'd like to see (or not see) as the book progresses, so to that end I'm going to be starting a Facebook author page, which I think is a little more easily accessible than Goodreads. Also I can post when there's a fresh updates without cluttering up this blog. I also have some cool bonus materials planned (Thanks Katrina Shelley for some great ideas!).

I'm really getting excited about this one, but I'm getting crazy nervous too. I've been getting perfectionistic in my old age, so the prospect of exposing my work before it's finished is very daunting. That's another bird I'm hoping to kill: the stark terror of showing my work to those outside my familiar circles.

Let's go bird hunting.

Coming next: project details and why this might be my best NaNoWriMo ever!

As the Saga of the Weekend of Doom has decided to continue, I decided to go ahead and post about it. I consider the weekend of August 8-10, 2014 to be one of the most terrifying of my life. And devastating. And exhausting. And awesome.

Every summer, anime fans converge on the Baltimore Convention Center for Otakon. I’m a longtime veteran of the convention, but this year Everything Went Wrong. And right.

I’ve never before experienced such an absolute perfect storm of personal disaster. I experienced abject terror that left me shaking. I waged war with my longest and strongest personal demon in an unexpected arena.

I won.

This year I read my writing out loud to a room of perfect strangers, and this year I cosplayed.

Allow me to elaborate.

When I was a kid I was absolutely fearless. I adored amusement parks – the faster the ride, the better. I made friends wherever I went, be it park, neighborhood, or the line at the grocery store. When I was four years old I trooped all the way from my house on the hill along the highway to the Roy Rodgers down the street – where I promptly learned the disadvantage of having no money.

Over the course of elementary school, all of that changed. I did poorly in school. I realized my teachers didn’t like me (dumping out my desk in front of all my classmates was a large clue) and I simply didn’t understand why. Uncertainty made me more guarded. I didn’t connect as well with others – kids or adults – anymore. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.

I was put in remedial math because I didn’t finish my worksheets as quickly as my classmates. I was lost in class because it was more interesting to read my chapter mysteries under the cover of my desk than the picture books we were supposed to have. I was absent minded – simply not caring about anything that wasn’t inside the cover of a book.

I was nearsighted.

No one figured it out until I was in third grade, which meant huge, pink-rimmed glasses at the same time that my mouth started determinedly shedding teeth. I also managed to hit about 5’ 3” before middle school. To put that in perspective, consider this: I developed a habit of watching my feet so I wouldn’t trip over my classmates.

A hammer and chisel were put to my confidence. Fear snacked its roots into the cracks with every hammer blow that said I wasn’t smart. Wasn’t liked. Wasn’t pretty. Wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t right.

I feared what others saw in me. It seemed that all I could ever do was wrong. I feared provoking wrath. Provoking ridicule.

Through middle school and high school I became a selective mute (which I only learned there was actually a term for about two years ago) because I was so afraid of saying something wrong. I only spoke to my family, a very select few friends, and my teachers. Even having several truly awesome teachers couldn’t undo the damage already done.

I hated leaving the house. The mere thought of talking to a stranger was paralyzing. Phones were my mortal enemies. What if I dialed the Wrong Number? What if the Wrong Person picked up? What if I said the Wrong Thing?

The mere thought of having to order for myself at a fast food restaurant was enough to trigger a panic attack.

Even after I started fighting it my senior year of high school, it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I was able to get my voice back (thanks to my absolutely amazing college crew, but that’s a story in itself).

Learning that battles can be won does not mean that the war is over. My fears still cling to my shadow. They sneak into unexpected chinks in my armor, whispering fresh insecurities. Speaking is still difficult for me, especially in areas outside my comfort zone.

This year’s Otakon went well beyond my comfort zones.

I missed last year’s Otakon because of factors outside my control, so this year I was determined not only to make it, but make it a good one.

Life had other plans.

Nee-chan and I found out at the reception desk of the hotel we wanted that not only did the booking website register us for the wrong dates, but the hotel was full. So was every other hotel in the area.

Not only were we effectively homeless, but so was the clunker that got us to Baltimore. Otakon and an Orioles game conspired together to fill all of the parking garages. It took most of the day to find parking off the beaten path and take the city train back to the convention center.

Then it was a mess trying to meet up with my youngest brother and his friend and trying to get our passes (though I have to say here that it turned out we didn’t have nearly as much hassle as many others this year).

Without a hotel, it looked like our already foreshortened day would be the only one we could stay for. The thought of having to turn tail and go home when Otakon had barely started was so dispiriting that both Nee-chan and I broke down in tears.

Worse, I hadn’t worn my costume.

I’ve wanted to cosplay since my first convention. I’m an old hand at Renaissance Fair garb, but to dress as an actual identifiable character always felt out of reach. I didn’t have the resources or skills to make a costume. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the money to buy one pre-made. Always an excuse.

Here’s the truth.

I’m the wrong shape.

Probably everyone has seen the amazing costumes that fans have put together for conventions. People have created incredibly detailed and time intensive re-creations of their favorite characters that are simply stunning. It’s amazing. It’s also deathly intimidating.

I really don’t have the skills to make a stunningly detailed re-creation, and even if I did, I could never actually look like the figure on the screen. For years I’ve let that stop me. Even when I lost 50 pounds it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t Right.

Because of missing last year’s convention, I had decided not to let another year slip by. With the help of a sharpie marker and some half-decent sewing, I managed to put a costume together on a shoestring budget. To my shock I even managed to find a mini skirt that fit me (my first ever) and leggings to go with it. I finally had a real cosplay costume.

Which I had planned to wear on Saturday.

I hadn’t worn the costume. The thought weighed on me more heavily than the question of where we would sleep – if we didn’t end up having to go home. Had I yet again given in to the fear of being “wrong” instead of doing what I dreamed?

Thanks to the very kind loan of a tablet and some internet searching, we managed to find another hotel. It was nearly 45 minutes out of town, but simply having a place to sleep was a relief. Finally we could just enjoy the convention.

While waiting in one of the universal lines, I scoured the pamphlet of scheduled events. These words jumped out of the lineup: Getting Real About Fantasy Writing. A writing workshop. Not a fanfic workshop, which Otakon has hosted before. A fantasy writing workshop. I go to just about every writing event I can get my hands on, so of course it was a given that I’d jump at the chance to attend this one, right?

The last sentence of the description invited attendees to bring a sample of their work to read aloud.

Read Aloud.

Instantly I choked. I’m perfectly happy to share my work on paper, but this was Reading Out Loud. In front of a room full of strangers. Not only fellow convention-goers, but the panelists as well. Professional Editors.

I didn’t have any of my Big Projects with me either. I only had a little fairy tale retelling that I’d been scribbling.

What if it was Wrong?

I wanted to go. I really wanted to go. Really really wanted to go. But if I went, I didn’t want to wimp out.

I wanted to present my work.

I needed to confront my demons.

It felt like everything that day had gone Wrong, and the idea of going in and volunteering for a potential train wreck seemed absolutely insane. The writing workshop was one of the last scheduled events of the evening. There would be nothing but waiting in between, and every opportunity to wimp out and run to the hotel to hide. I wouldn’t have to face the prospect of my little scribble being Not Good Enough.

I went to the workshop.

Fear wouldn’t take away yet another thing that I loved: my writing.

I submitted my name to the stack of volunteers.

That tiny hour was incredibly and unexpectedly useful. It was more useful, in fact, than any other writing workshop I’ve been to besides my very first (which had its own unique impacts because it was my first, and I was twelve years old).

Then the critiques started.

My name was called second. Second out of everyone.

I heard it and froze. My face went numb. They called it again and I felt my hand slipping up, like it belonged to someone else. I stood up and moved into the aisle, notebook in hand, and accepted the microphone.

What if my throat closed up? Would I be able to say a word?

My hand shook so badly that the pages of the notebook rattled.

The first sentence came out. Could they hear me? Was I holding the microphone right? Second sentence.

Then disaster. I stumbled over the third sentence.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The faery king’s daughter smirked in the face of her enemy. There was nothing left but the words on the page. Everything else became a blur until I turned the page and one of the panelists interrupted me to say I’d read enough. It felt like stumbling and falling flat on my face. I was supposed to only read a paragraph or two. I’d read half a page.

I held my breath. All I could feel was the soul deep shaking. Too scared to feel scared. Here it came.

Make it better.

The panelists commented on the pacing and some of the word choices. I knew I had to write down what they said or I would forget it the moment I got back to my seat. I barely managed to grip the pen, scratching out nearly incomprehensible notes.

They even had positive remarks, which I think still hasn’t sunk in.

Somehow I gave back the microphone and made it back to my seat without fainting on the spot. One of my fellow attendees held out a hand for a fist bump and I managed to scrape together enough brain power to meet it.

I’m sure the entire room could tell how drop-dead scared I was.

But I’d done it. I’d really done it. I survived.

I survived, and it would make my piece better.

Much better, actually.

Happily ever after? Not quite.

That weekend was made for battles.

I wore the costume on Saturday. I dyed my hair red (which I do often) and carved out bangs across my forehead with Nee-chan’s help (which I haven’t done since fourth grade). When I saw myself in the mirror I screamed because I had no idea who that person was. (Maybe one of my aunts?)

What had I done? I cut my hair! I was planning to wear a mini skirt in public. I wasn’t Asian. I had pink fingertips from the marker on my sleeves and pink ears from the hair dye. Wouldn’t people think I looked ridiculous? Would anyone be able to see the character behind pale, pudgy me?

Would it really matter to anyone but me?

I did it. I went out in the full getup, complete with mini skirt, leggings, and boots. I swung between being thrilled and wanting to scream because obviously I was absolutely nuts to even try it. I have absolutely no idea if anyone actually realized what character I was dressed as. But I did it. I thought that was the triumphal finish to the war.

Saturday evening I was ambushed from my blind side with no quarter given.

After a very satisfying convention day, Nee-chan and I went to the Build Your Own Raygun workshop (which was every bit as cool as it sounds). After some basic instructions we were all set loose to create, using components provided by the panelists. The piece I chose for my raygun barrel fought all of my (and my table-mates’) efforts to affix it to my grip. I ended up needing advice from one of the wandering assistants and some heavy-duty wirework to get it to stay put.

I happen to love doing wirework, but it takes time to do well. The next thing I knew there was only 30 minutes left of the two hour workshop, and I only had half a gun. Panic hit me like a jolt of lightning. I’d already been dropping things left and right and I was pretty sure that I’d slapped my poor neighbor with the end of a wire more than once, while so many others around me had not only finished their creations, but made them look awesome.

I freaked out.

“I’m stupid. I’m so stupid.”

I caught myself muttering it out loud. I sat there calling myself stupid over a project that was supposed to be fun. I’d woven wire around the uncooperative barrel, reinforced it with a copper tube, and essentially created a screw out of wire to ensure that not only was it stable, it was pretty. I’d carved out part of the plastic handle to fit the pieces together more securely. That sucker was going nowhere.

Yet instead of being proud of what I accomplished, I insulted my own intelligence because I couldn’t fit it into the workshop’s time limit.

I brought my raygun home to finish at my own pace, with my own tools.

I read my work out loud. I wore the cosplay costume. I managed to make a friend while waiting in line. And I am absolutely never allowed to call myself stupid ever again.

Maybe roller coasters are next.

The continuing part of the Saga? That’s unfolding this weekend. I’ll let you know if I manage to survive.

There’s a lot, a lot of “follow your dreams” encouragement, which is great, but not actually practical. Hope is an essential flame to keep alive, but feeding it shouldn’t be the full time focus.

A lot of the writing career advice dished up wouldn’t hold up if it were applied to any other career, so why are writers expected to eat it? You wouldn’t feel very safe if a nursing school’s approach to patient care was to throw the students at the patients without any training. Yet in writing there seems to be a general attitude of “just submit to publications in your genre and eventually you’ll get in,” rather than teaching how to tell a story. In my own college experience, I learned more from one screenwriting class than all of my other creative writing classes together.

If someone is trying to learn a second language, they aren’t told, “just speak it.” They’re taught vocabulary and grammar. They’re given basics. They certainly aren’t fluent yet, and they shouldn’t be treated as such. There’s a lot of complexity in learning a new language, just as there are worlds of complexity in learning to write well in your own.

There is any number of articles on how to approach editors and agents and the traditional path to getting your work in print, but to find solid advice on honing your actual craftsmanship feels like searching for a white elephant. Worse, a lot of the advice selling itself as “craft improvement” is more about a personal pet peeve.

More and more, lately, I’ve been thinking there simply isn’t enough solid guidance for writers who want to build a career, not a rainbow.

(/rant)