Jennifer Probst's Blog, page 11

Change…

 

What are the only things we can count on?

Death. Taxes. Change.

I still hate all of them.

I remember in my old day job, they were constantly updating computer systems, or policy, and every time I took a breath and got used to something, it was gone.

Same thing with the book world. The moment you feel like you’ve figured out Facebook ads, what the best books to write is, how to navigate the waters of constant deadlines and being a successful CEO of your own business—bang. It changes. Then I scramble back to square one and start all over again.

The good news? It’s something I tell my children and everyone else I meet who are going through difficult times. One day, it will be better. Because things change. When I was poor, and struggling, and depressed and felt like giving up, I reminded myself I could wake up the next day and find everything was different. This helped push me forward.

Another reminder there is no black and white sometimes—no good or bad. Just a bunch of colors that merge together depending on the day.

I just finished my 35th book this week called The Start of Something Good. It will be released early 2018. Yes, it’s the first draft, but I love the way the story turned and ended up surprising me. It’s amazing how after so many books this job is still exciting and dynamic, always challenging me to be better, dive deeper, reach higher. But I still worry if the book will sell well. If readers will enjoy it. If readers will read it. If I’ve done enough.

 

Now, I’m working on a webinar for Writer’s Digest books on dialogue. I feel like I’m over my head. I feel like I’m not really a teacher, but I’m pushing my way through, learning, scrambling, and hoping it will turn out well.

My son graduates from sixth grade today. On the first day of kindergarten, he wore a Superman t-shirt, a Mickey Mouse jacket, and light up sneakers. He had a bus card he needed to wear around his neck. As he got on the bus, I collapsed onto the driveway in a fit of tears. It was so bad the bus driver actually stopped and yelled out her window if I was okay and needed medical attention.

I got myself together, jumped in my car, and followed the bus to the school. In a mad flurry of panic, I worried he’d get lost going from the bus into the classroom, so I raced inside to watch him. When I peeked into his classroom, he was sitting at his desk, with a big smile on his face. I waved to him. He waved back. And I went home happy he was okay, but sad he didn’t need me in the same way anymore.

He was growing up.

Today, he got on the bus with a Pokemon shirt and backpack. He wears glasses now. He’s really tall. He was voted the most friendly in the yearbook. He was also voted the most likely to be an author.

He never looks back at me when he gets on the bus, and he’s excited about middle school and all the adventures that lay before him.

But he still tells me to have a great day. He still says he loves me—very quietly—in a whisper—right before he leaves.

Another chapter begins. But first, I have the long lazy days of summer to enjoy before I need to release him once again to the world.

During this emotional time of graduations; of letting go; of holding on for one more precious summer; let’s all do the best we can to savor the moments—in both personal and work life. To honor exactly where we are, right now, the good or the bad.

Because one thing is for certain.

Everything will change.

 

A Big Sale and My Tips on How To Write Italian…

I’m so excited to re-visit one of my favorite books called, All the Way. It has all the elements I love in a good romance, and for a limited time, it’s only .99! I truly hope you take the time to grab it at such a good price and take a little trip with me to a little Italian restaurant in Manhattan and meet some very colorful characters.

Plus a to-die for hero and badass heroine food critic.

Plus music by the one and only Frank Sinatra.

I thought it would be fun to reprint a blog I particularly loved called, Why I Love To Write Italian, to celebrate the sale. Enjoy!

I remember when I was an English Literature student and read a wonderful short story by Helen Barolini, “How I Learned to Speak Italian.” We discussed it at length, spoke about the way it was written, the prose, and the way the narrator vividly portrayed the desire and love of the language, and how Italian connected his way to the ones he loved.

I come from an Italian family-my grandmother was from Naples, and she used to live with us for a short period. We’d sit at the small kitchen table, sipping coffee and nibbling on sweets, chatting about our day. I was excited about learning her culture and the language, and we’d have sessions where I’d ask about certain words, and she’d write down the translation. Every word was magical when spoken in Italian.  She asked me to do two things for her when I grew up: learn to speak Italian and visit Italy one day. I promised her I would.

I’d watch her cook fresh escarole and beans, delicious hearty soups like pasta fagioli, simmering pots of fresh gravy with hefty neckbones and homemade meatballs simmering over the flames. She wore a well used, freshly laundered apron with pockets, and wielded wooden spoons like a pro, while she danced around the kitchen in a well rehearsed waltz of grace and beauty.

I grew up to be a lot NOT like her. I’m not a great cook, and prefer the easy way rather than the homemade way. I took five years of Italian in college and hardly learned a thing. I travelled to Italy on a whirlwind tour, and my feet stood on the humbled ground of Napoli, and I looked at the sprawling landscape and thought of my grandmother. But in many ways, I feel like I failed. I’m not adept at the language, and only spent a brief hour in her homeland, not enough to stroll the streets and eat the food and steep myself in the culture.

But I write Italian. I love creating an old fashioned Italian family, and bringing in aspects of my childhood, twisting fiction with reality in a way that becomes seamless and real. In my novel, All the Way, I crafted an Italian restaurant in Manhattan as my center, revolving around good food, great drama, music, language, and the core of it all: love. My Italian papa speaks in Sinatra-isms, my cook bends to his emotional landscape when it comes to seasoning his food, and my hero needs to reign it all in and somehow save the family business on the verge of bankruptcy. It is a rich world, full of flavor and texture and emotion, and I am more comfortable here, as if I’ve always lived this life.

And I have. Through my grandmother, through stories of Italy and family. Through my heritage.

I hope my readers get a hint of this flavor in all my books. A good laugh. A longing for hearty food. A fluttering of the heart from pure emotion.

That’s why I love to write Italian.

Happy Reading!

BUY LINKS:

Amazon:  http://bit.ly/AllTheWayAMZ

Kobo: http://bit.ly/AllTheWayKOBO

iBooks: http://bit.ly/AllTheWayIBOOKS

B&N: http://bit.ly/1NJwzN0

 

 

Writing Wednesday: Let’s Talk About Author Swag…

 

As we approach the conference season for authors, with RT and RWA close by, the question about SWAG always pops up.

Authors want to be able to share our work with readers and give away products that readers will like, and also remember us. With the thousands of books and authors available, marketing products are important to keep our name visible or snag the occasional new reader. Name recognition is a great way to build impressions and close the sale.

When I first started out, my budget was a lot tighter for items such as swag, so I stuck to an item that I always loved and was useful: pens. I am a keeper and lover of all pens, and I decided this was a good way to get my name out there in a cost effective way.

I also used paper products such as romance trading cards, postcards I could sign with my book, or excerpt chapters to hook a reader. Bookmarks are also still popular, but I’d advise to find a way to make it pop to stand out among the mass of other paper products stuffed on tables. I found the paper swag was better given out with a book directly to a reader, and not distributed on a goody table, dwarfed by the more expensive swag.

Magnets, water bottles, notepads, nail files, and other useful products are nice to invest in because most of it is usable. I remembered staring down at one of my notepads I used daily and seeing a certain author’s website over and over. Now, that’s good marketing lol!

I also love jewelry. I work with a designer who custom makes all my jewelry from necklaces, rings, and bracelets. I like to give them out to my street team and for special swag to bloggers. Having a few pieces of quality swag on hand is always a good idea, especially if hosting a contest or giveaway.

Recently, I partnered with USB Memory Direct to create custom flash drives to advertise my HGTV inspired series, the Billionaire Builders. I chose the ones in the shape of a wooden book, which went well with my theme, and found them quite popular with readers. This is an item I would definitely order more of. Here’s the link if anyone is interested:  www.usbmemorydirect.com

I also love keychains. I think they’re fun, easy to customize, and usable. For my Billionaire Builder series, the keychains have the covers and fun little charms. For instance, in Everywhere and Every Way, my hero is a builder, so there’s a hammer with colorful beads attached. For Any Time, Any Place, there’s a saw because he’s a wood worker. Fans have loved it so I’ll continue with them.

Chapsticks are fun because your logo goes on, it’s well received, and comes in fun flavors for every type.

My personal favorites are tote bags and t-shirts. There’s something wonderful about readers promoting you and your books in a fashionable way. I usually brainstorm logos and fun sayings to help promote each of my series.

For instance, with my Marriage to a Billionaire, I did tote bags and tank tops that said: Do It With…A Billionaire.

For my Searching for series, I did t-shirts that said, What Are You Searching for in Your Romance?

For my HGTV series, my logo states: How Do YOU Love? Everywhere and Everyway; Any Time, Any Place; All or Nothing At All – Find what you love to read at www.jenniferprobst.com

I’ve now created a custom Write Naked t-shirt for readers to buy, and ordered a bunch for myself to give away.

Swag helps readers feel special and gets the message out.

 Readers, what’s your favorite type of SWAG to get? Writers, what’s your favorite type of SWAG to give out?

 

“Your Baby Is Ugly!” – Let’s Talk About Horrible Reader Reviews on Your Book…

 

Ever since I penned my book, Write Naked, I’ve felt…naked. I’ve shared elements of my life as a writer I’d normally shy away from, but it was important I do what I advised because it made the difference between a good book and a bad book.

Well, I think it was a good book. Other’s won’t.

Which leads me to my big subject today.

Bad reviews.

You’ve heard writers compare their books as their babies, terrorized once revealed, their precious child will be picked on, bullied, laughed at, and mocked. You’ve heard me also advise that when you are writing your book, it is truly your child. This child has not gone to school yet, or left the house, but only been dropped at your sibling’s or mother’s house for a few precious hours, and who then comes home with advice lovingly given, to perhaps socialize the child more, or give him or her a haircut, or other general instructions that are not truly threatening.

When your book is released to the world, you have no more control. You have to stand tall while your child is reviewed, analyzed, given a certain amount of stars, and been loved, or slapped across the face, or completely ignored.

Writers are known to struggle with bad reviews especially early on in their career. This makes sense, because the foundation is not as strong at this point. The writer doesn’t yet realize if her books will make up an entire career, or if she can charm enough readers and reviewers to like her enough to read her next book. I am always extra gentle with new writers because they do need encouragement in a brutal world. Think of a parent who is kind but has a firm hand. You have to tell the truth, but there are many different ways to do it.

Like in reviews.

I have written over thirty books. I have hit all the bestseller lists. I have been nominated as a RITA finalist. I have received beautiful reviews from authors I revere and still am humbled that they actually read something I’ve written. I’ve written a nonfiction book about writing. I’ve taught workshops and spoken at conferences.

But I still get bad reviews—some worse than others—and some when I’m not even looking.

Let me tell you what happened today.

I was going through my email when I stumbled upon a Google alert. It was linked to my name, and I saw that my book, Searching for Disaster, had been reviewed at Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. That’s a pretty well known blog, and well respected. Though I always pause, wondering if I’m strong enough to read a review I know nothing about, I clicked on the link.

Oh boy, it was bad.

I mean B-A-D.  I was called out on using the “magical peen” and the “magical hoo ha”  in romance where the heroine basically cannot get the hero’s magical penis out of her brain and vice versa which translates to a cheap maneuver to create emotional connection. The reviewer hated the way other characters were introduced from the series and the way I sickeningly remind the reader that all my couples live in a happy ever after kingdom. The reviewer didn’t like the way my hero talked about the puppies, or thought of himself as a “pussy” for being emotional, and despised one of my favorite lines in the book that made my hero seem like a chauvinistic, abusive asshole.  The reviewer then said she was relieved it was over and that basically her time was wasted, and how on God’s earth could it be nominated for an award. Then there were a bunch of comments cheering her on, praising her review, and trashing my book, saying thank God they didn’t have to read it because she took the hit for everyone.

OUCH.

Not gonna lie. I read that with my heart shredded in my chest, wondering how it had gone so horribly, terribly wrong.

I receive consistent email regarding the emotional quality in that book. I poured a lot of myself in the struggle with drug addiction, and watching a character not really liked in the beginning of my series, grow and change. I never believed I set up my hero to be abusive, or my heroine lived half of a life because she was always seeking a “magical peen.” I get emails on how much they love the puppy scenes. This book was edited by a master in her field, who told me the book was one of her favorites she’d edited.

But this reviewer HATED it and told in very clear detail how, and why she hated it.

And I read it. Twice.

Then I felt bad for a while. I’m human. I questioned myself and my talent and the power of my story I thought was good.

And then?

I let it go.

Earlier in my career, I could not have let it go. I would spend evenings crying over a review like this. There are reviews that say they don’t like the book and why, and then there are reviews that gleefully tell in vivid detail how much they hated your book, and invite people to jump on board with the hate. But it doesn’t matter, because a review is a review, and readers have a right to their opinions. And free speech. In any way they want to express it.

That’s the beauty of the book world. There’s good and there’s bad. There are people who will never read your book and tell others to stay away. And there are people who will recommend your book like a loving friend to make someone happy. Many of the issues she had with my book is valid because that is her personal opinion. Writers cannot argue with opinion. It is the beauty of what we do –there are many. I’m not there with the reader to point out or explain certain intentions. She hated my book for a dozen reasons and pointed each and every one out.

Fair enough.

Is this blog post a subtle way to get revenge on a reviewer who tore me apart and make people feel bad for me?

No.

This is a blog post to let authors know this happens to EVERYONE. And some will hurt more than others. And you must remember that after you feel bad, you must shake it off and go back to your story, because your job is to write the best damn book you can write – not judge what will happen once the book is out in the world.

Do not let someone else’s opinion affect how you feel about your work. Now, I must admit there are some reviews that have helped me a lot. They’ve pointed out weak spots in the book that I never saw, and I try to bring that constructive part into my new work, so I don’t make the same type of mistakes. Nothing wrong with learning.

But other reviews will just be a difference in opinion. Where one reader swooned, another one got pissed off. To one reader, a hero is alpha and sexy. To another, he is abusive.

And that’s okay.

If you are feeling a bit low, or particularly vulnerable, don’t go read reviews. Don’t click on the link. Don’t go into the review muck of Goodreads (though I do like the site for many reasons and think the reviews are important there).

Just take a deep breath and go back to the writing.

Some days, we just feel stronger. You may want to see what’s being said, and remind yourself to take it all in stride.

Five star reviews are forgotten.

One star reviews are forgotten.

If you do your job, your story will not be forgotten. You will make many readers happy and that is the magic that drives us forward, to get naked and put ourselves out there, for good. Or for bad.

 

 

 

 

The Easter Bunny, Dreams, and Writing Naked…

 

Yeah, you can tell by the blog post heading I’m a bit hungover on Easter mimosas, chocolate bunnies, family fun, and my current deadline staring me dead in the face.

I’m hoping I haven’t lost you yet so here we go.

As my boys grow older, I’m reaching the time when they will officially say good-bye to all the imaginary, enchanted things in childhood such as the Easter Bunny, Santa, and the Tooth Fairy. I’m already grieving as a mother, but I’ve been thinking of this loss of magic in other ways.

What happens when we begin to lose our sense of childhood mysticism?

It’s a sad passing. Part of life, yes, but I’ve been mulling over how we are able to still keep a bit of this exciting, larger-than-life appreciation for things we cannot actually SEE but believe. I’m not talking about religion, either.

I’m talking about finding the divine in the everyday muck.

Writing does that for me. It allows me to take situations that normally would either depress me, or restrict my imagination, and transform them into a story. A story where I get to direct the ending. I can blow things up, watch my characters suffer, or give them a happy ever after. I can take each tragic, heartbreaking loss and examine it in minute detail for the sole purpose of understanding a character’s motivation or actions. I can write a better ending than I may find right here, in my own life.

This is a power that’s often overlooked. I also think it’s a way I cling to that beautiful childhood magic that slowly disintegrates in the midst of junior high, fitting in, finding yourself, and trying to hold on till you get to the next better place, whether that be college, or even later. Hell, some people are still hoping they find it in their sixties. And that is sheer fortitude and stubbornness I admire. Never giving up.

Sometimes, writing every day becomes a job that’s hard and boring and uninspiring. It’s good to step back sometimes and re-discover some magic, whether it’s in nature, or childhood memories, or a captivating book. Sometimes, when I read my old journals and remember how far I’ve come, or even a time in my life when I was completely inspired, it gives me motivation to try something new, or look at things differently. Check out an old art project you once thought was damn good. Read one of your old diaries. Peruse through a yearbook, or read an older story you once wrote in a fit of mad passion.

We discover things in our writing, but sometimes we need to get out of our mundane routines to find new things. To re-connect with the person we once were—the one who believed in magical Easter bunnies who hide eggs and give you chocolate, or even the person who trusted justice would always be served like Atticus Finch proved, or that good will always overcome bad because there really are superheroes and the Justice League out there.

Let music or words or the view out your window seep into your soul a bit, and try to remember what it was like being that person. I think it’s important for the writing, and remembering who you once were and believed in.

I’ve been getting a lot of mail on my book, Write Naked. I wanted to thank all the readers and writers out there who took the time to tell me how the book has helped them -it really means so much to me. I wrote that book so writers out there wouldn’t feel so alone, or so crazy, or so scared. Each tweet or Facebook post or email is read and appreciated. And I pretty much fall to my knees in gratitude for any reviews – good or bad.

The fun news? I created the official Write Naked t-shirt for all the readers who asked and it’s now available for order right here:

https://teespring.com/write-naked-by-jennifer-probst#pid=391&cid=6602&sid=front

Cool, huh?

So, go out and believe in magical bunnies and beautiful words that make a difference.

Get naked and get writing.

Thoughts on Author Signings and Write Naked…

 

I just returned from Apollycon – a big author signing held in Orlando, Florida. I was lucky to not only meet many author friends I never get to see, but also beloved readers who remind me of why it’s so damn cool to be a writer.

When a reader approached with fifteen of my books packed in a suitcase, profusely apologizing for “inconveniencing” me, I wanted to cry. How in the world did such a dream finally come true? When I was young, I prayed for one reader other than my Mom. Now, I have women thrusting piles of my books for me to sign, thanking me for my stories, and telling me how much they meant to them.

I promptly told them they are the ones that are rock stars and I’d sign a hundred books with pleasure.

I was able to build new relationships and network with authors I’d been dying to meet. I partied with readers until late in the night, driven to TGIF Fridays at 1am to feast on “hangover” food like nachos and cheese sticks.

Signings and conferences are opportunities to step out of the office and be with real people. We need this as writers. Now, back at my desk, once again solitary, I smile at the pictures and tags on Facebook, and my pile of business cards, and filter through email and new friend messages that are now truly real.

I’d love to tag everyone in this post who I was honored to meet, but there just wouldn’t be enough room to hold all the names. A big shout out to Jennifer L Armentrout for hosting, and 1001 Dark Nights for sponsoring the after party and other amazing things.

This week, I’m thrilled to see my first nonfiction release, Write Naked, go out into the wild. Many have received their print copies already and I’m overwhelmed by the positive reviews and feedback. It’s an extremely personal book on my part, and a true passion project so I’ definitely nervous. I remind myself it’s no longer my book and doesn’t belong to me anymore, but writers are sensitive creatures underneath all that rhino skin so sometimes I need to breathe through the anxiety.

I’ll be doing a LIVE Facebook video tomorrow, WEDNESDAY, 3/28 at 7:30pm EST. Tune in and I’ll do a reading, answer questions, and give away a signed book. Please make sure you come by and join me for some fun.

For now, here’s a few teasers to tempt you to hit those buy links!

Amazon

B&N

 

 

Working The Writing Muscle…

Why does it take so long to lose ten pounds and so quick to put it back on?

Ah, did you think we were chatting about writing today?

Nope. Not yet. Right now, I’m in the deep puzzlement stage of how it took endless, hard work to shed those stubborn winter pounds last June, and how I felt like a rock star when I finally succeeded. I was determined to never gain more than two pounds again. Ever.

Then the winter hit. And my husband went away for a short while. I was left with children, and housework, and writing work, and laundry, and cooking, and the dog, and food shopping, and a lot of other things that bashed at me from all directions. It became so easy to just let myself indulge a bit. Especially during the frozen months where lasagna, and bread, and potato chips, and warm chocolate chip cookies soothed my nerves.

Soon, my habits began to change, and I ventured farther into the temple of temptation. I stuffed my face at night watching the Bachelor with brownies, had extra glasses of wine to warm me up, and rationalized why I needed to eat three slices of pizza instead of one.

Why was I so surprised when I stepped on the scale last week? Why was my horror so true and real? The facts were there. I had been overeating. I had gotten sloppy. My only exercise was going back and forth to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup, or getting the mail. What had I expected?

Now, let’s morph this back into writing.

Sometimes, you need to step away from the page. That’s for another blog post. But most of the time, you need to be writing on a daily basis to keep your creative Muse lean, mean, and a writing machine.

Why is it I avoid writing with every force of my being, yet when I finally settle in, I feel complete?

There is nothing quite like the satisfaction of good words committed to the page. Hell, even bad words are satisfying. Habitual writing serves an important purpose. It builds the muscle. Like good food, the writing Muse is healthy and productive. Feed it junk food, too much television, limited reading, and endless social media/Internet fun, and you have a very cranky, rusty Muse.

This doesn’t necessarily mean you have to work on your book. Today, I spent hours editing, and my writing consists of this blog post. But even one blog posts means I’m keeping my fingers and thoughts limber. I’m keeping the creative juices flowing. But most importantly, I am battling the almighty monster of Resistance – which Steven Pressfield details beautifully in his book, The War of Art.

Some days are harder than others. When you struggle to get any words on the page, celebrate your successes with the small things that keep you in the game. The blog post, or long, thoughtful email, or a journal entry.

Stuck in the dark trenches of your book and wondering if you’ll ever find your way out?

Write one damn scene and stick it in the back. Anything. Sometimes, you just need to write something that interests you again to get unstuck. Who cares if it’s a shred of dialogue, some good sex, or a funny scene?

Any writing is a step forward.

Writing is a habit. A calling. A passion. A pain. It’s also like a muscle that needs to be used.

Write Naked comes out in three weeks. Here’s an excerpt to enjoy. Remember it’s up for preorder AND I’m giving away TEN free copies over on Goodreads, so click on over to my HOME page and enter to win!

I’m also over the moon at the amazing support and sheer love from other authors regarding this book. I’ll be featuring their special quotes week to week. Here’s one from the gorgeous, talented Katy Evans!

 

Writing is an art. But it is also a job. The longer you stay away from the work, the harder it is to begin again. It’s a battle warring inside our own minds, from the moment we think about sitting down to write. As Steven Pressfield says in The War of Art, it is “resistance rearing up with the sole purpose of distracting you from your goal.” How do you fight resistance and transform the act of writing into something that becomes a part of your daily life? Treat it like a muscle. Work it hard. Rest when needed. Stretch to stay flexible. Repeat. It’s a beautiful cycle of creativity, yet our minds fight us every single day. Physical exercise keeps our bodies healthy and strong. Writing keeps our souls balanced and fulfilled. Each day, I put my kids on the bus, take care of the dogs, click on Good Morning America, and make my coffee. As it brews, I go through my day, preparing myself to meet the upcoming challenges. This always

includes writing, though if I’m knee-deep in edits at the time, I keep my focus on revisions. I walk into my office, place my cup on my coffee warmer, and open e-mail. As I click through to see what I missed from the night before, and quickly check Facebook and Twitter, I try to keep in mind that this is just my warm-up. These are my stretches for the day. This is my routine; I cannot question myself. I ignore the internal pleas to do laundry and the phone call from an old friend who begs for a lunch date. I turn a blind eye to my too-long hair that desperately needs a trim, and the lack of Cheerios in the cupboard. These things can come later; life is waiting for me in all its messy, chaotic forms, but right now, right here, my only job is to write. By 9 a.m., I realize I’ve reached my social media limit, and I open my new pages. I reread the last few paragraphs, tinker, and get my mind back into my characters. I sip my coffee. I slip on my Bose headphones and turn on my iPod I always have a specific playlist for every book to help immerse myself in the story. It is eclectic, filled with old classics like Sinatra and Bennett, to my favorites such as Rob Thomas, Maroon 5, Lifehouse, Imagine Dragons, and Daughtry, all the way to soul-pumping top hits by Pitbull, Flo Rida, Chainsmokers, and yes, even the Bieb. Then, I write.

Amazon

B&N:

Writers and Worry…A Complicated Relationship

I worry.

A lot.

I’ve been a worrier since I was a kid. My brother was the cool type. Able to let go, be impulsive, take things as they come. I know he has his own challenges but damn, I was always envious about NOT worrying how things would work out, and how I looked to people, and if everyone liked me or thought I was smart and a good writer. When I finally got published years later, I still worried if my sales would tank, or if I was a one or two hit wonder, or if readers would like my books or if other authors would like me and think I was a good writer.

Basically, it was the same exact stuff I worried about when I was younger, except I lose more sleep now and I’m not as skinny.  Plus, I now have kids and that takes up at least 90 percent of my worries, leaving only ten percent for the other stuff.

Same shit, different day.

The good news about getting older is I learned coping skills, and with enough time and experience under my belt, I figured out life wasn’t about to blow up on me if I made a mistake or if, God forbid, a person didn’t like me. Or my book.

I’ve learned to live more amicably with my worry, my doubts, and my demons. Especially with the inner voice that slyly whispers every time I start a new book, or release a new book, that this time will be the point in my life everyone finds out I’m a big imposter.

This is called Imposter Syndrome. I know a lot about it and talk in depth about this in my book, Write Naked.

Speaking about Write Naked, I’m excited to say my first foray into nonfiction releases in a few weeks on March 31st. I thought it would be fun to share some excerpts and topics from the book to interest you in pre-ordering or even just coming back to my blog to learn more. I intend to post every Wednesday since it fits with Writing Wednesday so please keep checking in or sign up for my blog posts on the link to your right.

Sales pitch over.

So, I’m currently in an interesting part of my career and at a crossroads. I can embrace the unknown and possibilities of great creativity and change.

Or I can crawl up in a ball, go to bed, and watch endless hours of BRAVO and HGTV until my husband makes me do something.

I just finished my 32rd book which I thought was a bunch of crap and somehow, it transformed into a story I fell madly in love with. Not sure when that happened – maybe around 25K?—but I’m just grateful it actually happened. I plan to write two brand new series, a novella, and a standalone in the next year, but I’m not sure what to start on next. My brain is tired and buzzing at the same time.

So, because I’m the poster child of procrastination, I’m writing some blogs for the next few weeks to try and figure it out. I’m going to take a few days to outline, brainstorm, and PLAY. Of course, with all those lovely deadlines, I better figure it out quickly.

Here’s an excerpt from Write Naked talking a bit about imposter syndrome and worry.

If you like it, here are the preorder links! Enjoy!

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

 

As you know, I’m a big advocate of sitting in the chair and forcing out words, but I also know a good writing day can mean one decent page, and another day can mean two thousand words. When I hit the last quarter of a book, I clock in four- to five-thousand words every day. Yet, each time I hit a new stage in the process, I still worry. I wonder if this is the last book I’ll ever write. I worry my Muse permanently packs up for vacation in Vegas and decides to stay for good. I torture myself with comparisons to previous books, other author’s books, and the horrific middle where I fall apart each and every time like clockwork. If I’ve written over twenty-five books, why do I still worry? Why don’t I ever confidently strut my stuff and act like a rock star? Every time I open up a Word document, I start at square one. I sit and stare at the screen, gripped in terror that I have to do this all over again. Will it all fall apart this time? Will I finally reveal my big secret? That I’m just a big, fat fraud? That’s depressing. And sometimes, exhausting. Oh, and it’s also imposter syndrome, which most successful women suffer from. I diagnosed myself with it at an early age. I was taking a psychology class in college and my professor wrote the term on the board. He explained that imposter syndrome occurs when no matter how successful a person is, whether she’s winning trophies, getting As on tests, or writing and publishing books, she feels like a fraud. A person suffering from imposter syndrome convinces herself the teacher was easy on her, or that she finished too close to her opponent in the race to really deserve the trophy, or that her book succeeded because it had the right cover or blurb or that it really wasn’t her talent, it was just … luck. I remember blinking at the board, and the fog around me suddenly shriveled up, revealing the clear road ahead. Yes! I shouted to myself. That’s me! I finally found out what I have!

The problem was how to fix it. There’s no real cure. Just a lot of practice trying to believe in yourself, and repeating helpful tasks. Mine were journaling, meditating at an ashram, and seeking spiritual peace to transition my fears away from my work. Today, it’s spending time with my boys, my dogs, and my family. Family time reminds me I have other important aspects of my life and helps me balance my vision of my work. But there’s always going to be fear and that’s part of the package. We need to learn to live with it, and to coexist peacefully with it, and to accept with grace that it will always be our companion. F ear can be a very valuable tool that helps push your career forward. I have learned one lesson that I share with all of my workshop students and writer friends: If something scares you, you should do it. You’re scared for a reason. Fear is the slithering snake whispering vile things in your ear, making you think this new venture will be a total disaster. Usually, it won’t be. If it is, it’s still worth the risk, because you’ll learn something. Mistakes are good. You cannot do everything perfectly in this life, and I promise you, even after reading this book, listening to workshops, and taking advice from your mentors, you are going to make mistakes. You’ll probably make a lot of them. Good for you. At least you’re living, and if you’re living, you have something great to write about. Our lives become textures mingled into our writing, and the richer, the better. The page is a safe place to dive deep, to release the demons, and to unleash them on the world. It will be uncomfortable and sometimes painful. You will want to quit. But if you follow through, you may be surprised you’ve reached levels in your writing you’ve never achieved before. Stake your claim in this world and show us what no one has before. There will be many people who won’t understand or agree with your viewpoint. There will be many people who do, and who read your book and feel something. Every good book I read changes me in some small way. It could be a simple scene, character, or the chemistry between hero and heroine. It could be the richness of setting, the title, or the cover. It could be that the book drew me in, and I forgot about real life for a little while. Those moments are precious. We are the people who deliver those moments. Doesn’t that make us a little bit immortal? Don’t writers exhibit naked vulnerability and massive courage to put their work out there into the public hands? Don’t writers risk everything, with the possibility of having their work literally and figuratively ripped apart, analyzed, and mocked, all in the quest for just one reader to fall in love?

 

On Birth…

My son turns 12 years old today.

He enters middle school this year. He has changed so much, grown up, and sometimes my heart aches when I see how far he’s come. How far we’ve come together as a family.

The below post has nothing to do with writing, but on being a mother. It is my own personal indulgence on this special day. I wrote this essay when my son turned nine weeks old; a spoof on dealing with motherhood along with intense revelations I felt so long ago. I thought it would be nice to revisit the past and the woman I was when I held my first baby in my arms.

Happy birthday, Jake.

I hope you enjoy!

Jen

 

I am a new mother.

This statement has been met in a variety of different ways.  From the single person who has never experienced children or birth, I usually receive a halfhearted smile, a nod of congratulations, and soon disinterest.  From a woman who already has children, the smile is sympathetic, the good wishes are sincere, and the advice is a whole barrage of entwined quotes from baby books and personal experience that usually leaves me more confused than I have ever been.  And when I announce this statement to another new mother, her face lights up with excitement and worry as we stumble over one another in an attempt to try and make light of what has just happened to us and if we will ever be able to maneuver this rocky path with no marked signs alone.

I have never wanted any children, and when I was little, would proudly state to my own mother that I intended to be an independent career woman.  I longed to be a writer and a top notch executive, jetting off to exotic business locales while meeting fabulous men across the country.  She shook her head and hoped I would grow out of it.  I never did.

I forged through until my mid-thirties, alone but feeling satisfied with my life until I met a man who turned my world upside down.  He was not particularly fabulous in any clear cut sort of way, but he had a wonderful laugh and sparkling brown eyes and a kindness that radiated from him.  I became hooked and left the single life behind without regret.  He always wanted children, and I remained undecided, but with a new support system and a man I truly loved, I began to carefully consider the alternatives and a battle plan if we did decide to have a child.  I toyed with the options in a half-hearted sort of manner until one day fate stepped in and gave me no other choices.

The doctor confirmed.  I was pregnant.

Millions of women go through pregnancy on a daily basis, but I believed I was the exception to every rule.  Panic ensued in all manners of my life.  My pregnancy would be difficult; my labor would be horrifying; I did not know how to change a diaper or pick up a baby properly; I would hurt this little creature that came into the world, dependent only on me.  As my belly grew, I lay night after night and imagined the different scenarios that would enfold in this new life of mine, listening as my husband peacefully snored beside me.  Then it hit me.  Books.  There were plenty of baby books out in the world, all written by experts who had done this before and knew the right path.  My heartbeat slowed as I nodded to myself in the dark and grew calm.  Yes, I would buy all the books and gather all the information needed to deal with this new human being who was setting my life awry.  I composed a battle plan of issues I needed to research, questions I needed answered, and the exact time tables I needed to follow.

I haunted the library, the internet, and the bookstore.  Soon, piles of pregnancy and baby books lined the tables, counters, bookshelves.  My husband eagerly dived into help me and praised my brainstorming.  We would not be uneducated, confused parents.  We would rise to the occasion from our literary backgrounds and conquer this new world with ease and grace and a smile on our faces.

Our son arrived.

Looking back, I realize the actual birth experience should have been a warning to the reality of book knowledge.  My husband and I were like the ultimate tag team during labor.  He read the contraction intensities on the monitor and coached me appropriately through the proper breathing techniques.  We had our focal point and our visualizations mapped out.  We knew every machine in the room, what dilation and effacement of the cervix meant, and exactly the proper time to request an epidural for the pain.  Then the pushing began.  My body bore down with all the strength left in me, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down my brow, I let out one long wail and my son’s head emerged.  The sweet sound of his cries filled the room.  As I gasped for breath, my husband cut the umbilical cord and laid my baby’s naked body on my chest.  We had talked many times about the importance of the bonding process, so I was prepared to feel a sense of pride, accomplishment, and a tidy sort of love for my first child.  Overwhelmed by fatigue and a rush of strong, messy emotions, my gaze found his.  The crying ceased, and silence rushed over the room as we looked at one another for the first time.  Time stopped.  Recognition dawned on both of our faces, almost as if we were both relieved to finally meet face to face.  Then we both promptly burst into tears.

The hospital stay was a whirlwind of guests, and late night feeding, recovery, and mad scrambles to the bathroom to apply makeup in order to hide my battered face.  I greeted a sea of faces with smiles and held my baby up like a war medal I attained, nodding at the appropriate oooghs and aaghs of the crowd.  I shared my labor story with girlfriends in dramatic fashion, talking in detail of long needles and searing pain while propped up on pillows in my new sunny yellow pajamas.  I handed my beautiful newborn over to the nurses at night, and finally slept now that I no longer had a large pregnant belly.

We took him home on a cold winter morning in February.  I realized then that I had not practiced feeding him on my own, dressing, or changing him and hurriedly went to the stack of information neatly laid out with clearly marked pages in pink highlight.

Diapering: frequent changing is the best way to avoid irritation and diaper rash on baby’s sensitive bottom.  To ensure a change for the better whenever you change your baby’s diaper do the following:  Have all equipment on hand including clean diaper, rash ointment, change of clothes.  Wash hands.  Have baby entertainment available for ease.  Spread a protective changing cloth on the table.  Never leave baby unattended.  Follow diaper manufacturer directions.  Dispose of dirty diaper in a sanitary fashion. ((Eisenberg, Murkoff & Hathaway, 79).

My husband and I followed the directions with smugness, already anticipating the ease of our first task.  As soon as I removed my son’s diaper, a spray of urine hit me directly in the face, bounced off the nursery wall, and soaked his outfit.  Then he opened his mouth and wailed so loud we were sure we had damaged him permanently by the experience.  Knowledge drained away as we scrambled to clean up the mess, rip off his clothes, clean each other up, and struggle to gain back our footing.  When we had quieted him, my husband and I grouchily agreed we should write a letter to the editor, because nowhere in the reading material did the author warn that a newborn penis is a dangerous weapon.

Sleep deprivation was the most important factor to consider with a baby.  “The typical infant has both the natural ability and the capacity to sleep through the night sometime within the first nine weeks of life.  It is an acquired skill which is enhanced by routine. (Ezzo & Bucknam, 55).  Sleep props must be avoided.  Rocking a baby to sleep, nursing, or sleeping with the baby are three items to be avoided.  This way, a baby will learn to fall asleep on his own without the dependence of an outside factor. (Ezzo & Bucknam , 56).

It seemed after reading all the details regarding sleep props, sleeping with your newborn was definitely the most negative.  “Sharing sleep with children puts them at risk both physically and emotionally.  According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, bed sharing may actually increase the risk of SIDS.” (Ezzo & Bucknam, 57).  I heard of many women who told me it was not against the rules to occasionally bring a baby into bed for naptime.  I nodded my head in agreement but silently criticized such a decision.  I would never put my baby at risk for anything.  By following the experts, I would race ahead of all the other mothers.

Until the night I was up with my son for hours while my husband snored beside me.  By the time that afternoon crawled in, I felt drunk and woozy from lack of sleep and the crying that rang in my head.  Desperate, I snuck into my own bed under the covers and brought my son in with me.  I told myself I would just rock him in my arms for a while so I could lay my head upon the pillow and try to rest.  Within minutes he was asleep.  I looked at the bassinet that seemed so far away, and knew in my heart if I tried to move he would awaken.  I closed my eyes and inched my way down into bed until my son was cradled comfortably in the crook of my arms.  Just a few minutes, I thought.  Just enough to get me through the rest of the day.

My husband came home from work to find us sleeping together in the king size bed.  We had napped for four hours.

I dealt with his vocal criticism of the situation and how we had talked about “sticking to the plan.”  I grumbled under my breath that the plan was not working very well, and nowhere in the books did it say a mother could become dangerous to her child from lack of sleep and general crankiness.

Still, I agreed with my husband and we were intent on establishing a proper routine from the first day home, including structured naps, feeding time, and playtime.  Of course, we realized the books did not include knowledge that was essential to the new parent.  Nowhere did the print state that guests, family and friends stop by for visits unannounced and call all day long.  I expected to be sore and a bit tired, but never expected the crushing weariness, pain, and general feeling of being overwhelmed to intrude on every waking hour.  I experienced bouts of weepiness and depression as I grieved my old life.  I used to be an independent career woman.  Now, I watched as my husband trotted off to work and days passed by without leaving the house.  I became imbedded in a cocoon of babyland – winter storms raged against the windows and people continued their routine, but my life revolved around diapers and bottles and crying jags and baby talk.

When my husband came home one day to find me in the rocking chair, staring vacantly at the wall, he raced to the stack of books.  Baby blues: “Roughly one half of all new mothers complain of weepiness, unhappiness, anxiety, and mood swings during the first week or so after delivery.  This bout of “baby blues” is probably related to the precipitous drop in estrogen and progesterone after childbirth, and usually clears up within a few days, though some women find it comes and goes over the first six weeks.” (Eisenberg, Murkoff & Hathaway, 545).

Immediately, my husband was relieved, and came to tell me the good news.  I nodded my head and noted I did feel better knowing I was a statistic and not going insane, though I began to get my first indication that I was starting to hate that pile of books and their neat black type.

We agreed pacifier use was another prop we wanted to avoid.  “The more accustomed they become to a particular source of comfort, the more difficult it becomes for them to do without it.  If you don’t want to run into the problems that may later be associated with pacifier use, now is an ideal time to make a break. (Eisenberg, Murkoff & Hathaway, 177).

One evening, my son would not stop crying.  After changing, burping, walking, talking and feeding him, a strange thing began to happen.  We literally began to go insane.  My vision blurred into a fog – my ears rang with the shrill, high pitched screams that emitted from my son’s perfect, sweet mouth.  My nerves sharpened and cut like razors and I came to the conclusion that the books never said a baby’s cry is so painful to the ears, one may jump out a window and run away screaming after three hours of nonstop cries.

Desperate and out of options, I tore through my drawers packed with medicine and miscellaneous equipment I received from my baby shower.  My gaze fell upon the pacifier and I ran to the crib.  I shoved it into his mouth and held my breath.

Silence.

I wept with relief and when my husband opened his mouth to protest, I shot him such a glare he immediately shut it. I hurriedly brought out all the pacifiers I had collected, sterilized them, and lined them up on the nursery vanity.  That night, I fell asleep and said a prayer to God for creating such a wonderful object.

The second month a baby should be able to smile in response to your smile.  If a baby has not reached such a milestone yet, the pediatrician may be called because in rare instances there may be a problem.  Other times, it could be perfectly normal. (Eisenberg, Murkoff & Hathaway, 140).

Each week, my husband and I would read up on the facts, highlight a chart, and make sure our son was meeting his goals in an acceptable manner.  We began to look for his smile and worked hard at emitting his response.  We cooed, we clapped, we spoke in high tones, we smiled and laughed, we tickled his belly.

Nothing.

Our son would stare into our faces with a serious look on his face that made me believe he thought we were crazy.  Upset with his lack of response, I struggled about whether to call the doctor but stopped at the last minute just in case she would begin to refuse our calls and we would be in trouble if it was really something serious.  We talked about the issue and decided to wait it out.  If by the time we brought him to the doctor he hadn’t smiled, we would bring it up with our pediatrician.

Weeks passed.

I was nursing my son the other day.  The early morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating his face.  I hummed to him as we rocked together in the stillness, enjoying the sound of birds outside the window and the peaceful silence that gathered around us like a warm fuzzy blanket.  I studied his features, memorizing the pout of his mouth as he sucked, the curve of his chipmunk cheeks, the high forehead that sloped into baldness now that he lost his hair.  He concentrated on his breakfast with a fierceness that brought a smile to my lips.  When he finished, I burped him and laughed as a loud manly burp emitted from his mouth.  I laid him back down in my arms and cooed to him as I reveled in those minutes where mother and son were so closely bonded and there were no words needed.

Then he smiled.

His face lit up like a thousand rays of light shimmered on a perfect diamond.  His eyes filled with happiness and joy as he gazed into my face, and a tiny giggle emerged into the silence of the room.  The sound rose to my ears like the flapping of birds wings in the early morning dawn.

My heart filled and broke in my chest.  It hurt to breathe – the love I had for this precious little boy pumped through my body and exploded around me, and I realized I would never be the same.  Nor would I want to.  My life was a new chapter filled with fear, uncertainty, and an array of messy emotions that made me all too human.  And suddenly, the lesson was finally learned.

There are no books to describe the sheer love and devotion for a child.  I had thought to simplify such emotions by making calendars and plans and gathering cold, hard facts to make life less messy.  But as he smiled up at me with pure adoration in those wide blue eyes, I knew I needed no more books, no more expert advice to raise my son.

I had forgotten the most important fact of all.  Time.  Every day is precious with a newborn.  I made the mistake of racing ahead, plotting his milestones, worrying about  infractions instead of enjoying every moment he gave me.  There would be many mistakes made along the way, but they would be my mistakes, out of love for him, and good intentions.  There would be fear, but it was my fear, from my own personal growth, and I would share that terror with my husband, and my son, because it was real.

He turned nine weeks old last night.  I remember holding him in my arms as he looked around at the world with eyes that registered surprise at each new object he viewed.  I held him close to my breast and thanked God with my very last breath for allowing me to guide this child into the world.  He would never be nine weeks old again.  He would never have his first smile, or laugh, or cry ever again.  But there was so much more ahead every day – his first step, his first taste of solid food, his first word.  I did not want to miss one moment by studying books or making my own judgments.  I decided to enjoy and revel in every milestone, and every mistake we made along the way, because this was a one shot deal and I did not want my eyes or mind or heart closed for a minute.  My son had broken me and made me anew.  I thanked him for that in those moments.

I gathered all the books and neatly stacked them in the bookcase, tucked away .  I told my husband we would raise him on our own terms, in our own way, and by claiming him as ours we would have more joy than we ever thought possible.

The world teaches everyone to focus on the future, and goals, in order to be successful.  What the world does not remind us that our lives are made up of moments, millions of them, and we should seize each one with greediness, like a starving dog pouncing on his first meal, and relish whatever that particular moment holds.  This is what are lives are about.

This is what my son has finally taught me.

I was reading a book this morning by a writer who had a newborn son and wrote her journal for him the first year.  It was not a book recommended by doctors or the American Pediatric Society, but as I read these words, I nodded in recognition, from mother to mother.

“One thing about Sam, one thing about having a baby, is that each step of the way you simply cannot imagine loving him any more than you already do, because you are bursting with love, loving as much as you are humanly capable of—and then you do, you love him even more.” (Lamott, 187).

   

BIBLIOGRAPHY

 

Eisenberg, Arlene, Murkoff, Heidi, E. & Hathaway, Sandee, E. What to Expect the First Year. Workman Publishing: New York, 1996.

Ezzo, Gary & Bucknam, Robert.  On Becoming Baby Wise.  Multnomah Publishers Sisters: Oregon: 1998.

Lamott, Anne. Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year.  First Anchor Books: New York, 1993

The Official Playlist for Any Time, Any Place (Writing and Music)

 

Release Day is here!

I’m really excited about this book, ANY TIME, ANY PLACE – the 2nd in the Billionaire Builders series, and featuring the youngest brother, Dalton Pierce. He’s a master wood worker, a dreamer, a poet, a seductor, a charmer, and a Mama’s boy. He’s also so sexy he steamed up my computer!

I hope you all join me for the Event party Tuesday night to celebrate. I’ll be giving away some of my fave author’s books, gift cards, and chatting with you about the series and the book. You can join right here:

Any Time, Any Place FB Event

There’s a lot of work that goes into making a great book, and one of my non-negotiables in order to write is music. I have my Bose headphones which are one of my most prized possessions. I am a true music lover, and with each book I write, there is a particular list of songs I listen to over and over. These songs weave a thread throughout the book and the story. When I need to go back for edits, or a final read through, I switch on my playlist and I am immediately transported back into the story and characters.

Pretty powerful stuff.

Here’s my new playlist for Any Time, Any Place, for you to enjoy. You can also pop on over to SPOTIFY where you will also find all my playlists for any book you read of mine!

I hope you enjoy the music and the book, my lovelies!

https://www.spotify.com/us/

 

Theme song: Lost Stars by Adam Levine

 Adventure of a Lifetime – Coldplay

A Sky Full of Stars – Coldplay

All I Ask – Adele

Song for Someone – U2

Heaven Help Me – Rob Thomas

Pieces – Rob Thomas

No One Else Like You – Adam Levine

Fade Into You – Nashville Soundtrack

In Your Eyes – Peter Gabriel

Can’t Keep My Hands to Myself – Selena Gomez

Salted Wounds – Sia

Sugar – Maroon 5

I Lived – New Republic

Can’t Feel My Face – The Weekend

Losers – The Weekend (Labrynth)

Jealous – Labrynth

Piano Man – Billy Joel

Style – Taylor Swift

You Are In Love – Taylor Swift

Raise Your Glass – Pink

Broken – Lifehouse

Happy Reading, everyone!