Radine Trees Nehring's Blog, page 5
January 12, 2013
A scary tale of two libraries —
Which library will you admire? I can guess, even if I don’t know your name.
This post is a tribute to my brother, Robert Denny Trees, who died in 1988. It’s a just uncovered poem he wrote when he was nineteen and in college.
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BOOKS
The shelves on the wall are filled neatly, end to end:/ The books are all of even height, and bindings smoothly blend;/ I know not what’s in all of them, but my sense is keen to know/ When each is in its place and ordered row on row./ But then again on this side — gaps without a doubt,/ And that is what you’re here for; let’s have your samples out!/ Put them on the table there, where light is bright to see; / Takes taste to fit a bookshelf out, to deck it to a tee. / Ah, only the fine materials with which to cover books, /These shelves to fill quite properly for guest’s and critic’s looks.
I’ll have the black and gold, a pair, and one, I think, in blue / And later find a book to fit them; ’tis the texture and the hue/ That now I must decide upon; but only books most erudite / In classic tongue or form will fit these covers snug and tight;/ I’ll make the choice with care — an original Voltaire!/ I cannot read a word in French but find the forms most fair./ And, Salesman, look at that shelf, dressed in somber black,/ Works of all great masters, every foreign speech – / minds me of another tack./
A college friend lives down the street; he’s poorer much than I,/ And has no taste in choosing books, for a living bare gets by./ As I said, we schooled together, but I left quite before he;/ I found a better life; he stayed, nose in books, and finished his degree./ How can one appreciate books with his eyes buried inside?/ Who can compare a yellow page to a cover of gilded hide?/ If you could see his bookshelf! Do you know what he fills it with?/ Paperbacks! Just paperbacks, nothing but pulp and pith./ They’re worn and torn and scribbled in with notes on every page./ If I should find a smudge in mine . . . how could I curb my rage!
Look here how clean; the maid twice dusts them every week,/ But his paperbacks seldom seem to gather dust; I cannot explain the freak./ Paperbacks! In filling shelves it’s evenness that one most naturally seeks;/ But paperbacks! No rhythm, rhyme, or order, saving gaudy rows of streaks,/ Writes? Yes, he writes; some say he’s quite widely read./ No, I’ve not read him; he’s usually out in paperbacks – enough said./ Languages? Not so many as have I; oh, the ones that he can speak?/ Well, other than English, there’s French, Latin, . . . and probably Greek./ It’s enough for me to feel them here — the noble thought and weighty fact;/ So let’s return to these noble shelves and forget the paperbacked./ Now I have said the covers –books I want; can you bring them right away?/
I’m having a party soon — Oh, you must leave? Well, send them with no delay.
by Bob Trees
(We still miss you, Bubba), Deani
January 5, 2013
MORE ABOUT BABIES AND BOOKS
At last! Your publisher has released your board book, “BOUNCEY BALL,” and it’s in time to provide a baby gift for a college friend’s first child. What a surprise the finished book will be for Suzanne and baby Corey. You put a copy, wrapped in bunny paper, in the mail.
Suzanne, who lives over a thousand miles from you now, has been with you (via e-mail) during the laborious process of creating the book. She has provided sympathy and a virtual shoulder to cry on while you learned that writing a children’s book can be more challenging than writing for adults, no matter how few words children’s authors work with. But now your “baby,”–and hers–are here to be loved and enjoyed!
Life goes on, and Corey grows, while you work on your next project, a book for slightly older children. In a few months there’s finally an opportunity for a visit to Suzanne and Corey as a tack-on to a business trip.
After a hug-full airport reunion and a car trip full of chatter and memories , Suzanne opens the door to her home and you see Corey and his daddy sitting on the family room floor. Corey is — Corey is chewing on YOUR BOOK and, from the looks of the poor thing, it isn’t the first time BOUNCEY BALL has been gnawed on.
What will you do? Probably depends on what Suzanne does. If she ignores it, you should, too. (But, all you parents and grandparents out there, if a baby in your care begins to chew on his or her book, best to have a chewey-safe item nearby and exchange the book for that while saying, “Books are not for chewing. Books are for reading.”)
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The next children’s book you write has regular pages, and brilliantly colored pictures of a child’s visit to an animal park. Lovely! The artist your publisher found has already been honored for her illustrations and the result is — well, magic fits your feelings well. Proudly you take a copy of this book to present to your young niece, who has just mastered walking.
Package open, paper ripped off, niece Jennifer pulls out the book, opens it, and, while you wait for the magic to delight this adorable child, she begins giggling, and tearing the first page. Without thought you shriek and grab the book. Jennifer cries. Sister-in-law calmly takes the book from your shaking hands, gives Jennifer a nearby magazine, and says in dulcet tones, while pointing to an open book page, “Jenny, books are not for tearing. See the pretty pictures inside? I can’t read the book to you if the pages are torn.”
Ah, the life of a children’s author! Live and learn?
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Here’s how every one of us can be a children’s author. When a baby you are eager to love comes into your life, be prepared to start his or her book. Take your camera along for every visit or, if the child is yours, take pictures of events in the child’s life. Be sure and include pictures of faces–those of the child and its family, or pictures of faces from magazines. Buy a scrapbook or make a book from paper and cardboard. Print the photographs, add scrapbooking illustrations and/or magazine pictures, and make a book, including an event in the child’s life on every page, plus a simple printed caption.
Another idea for the younger child’s special book is to use clear freezer bags without printing on them, put your pages inside the bags, and sew the resulting plastic-covered pages together with yarn.
Captions can be something like, “Sarah eats,” Sarah pets Bow-Wow,” Sarah reads with Daddy,” Sarah goes potty.” (Well, maybe not that last one. However, given the learning interests of the young child . . . . )
Voila, you, too, are a children’s author!
December 29, 2012
SO IMPORTANT! BOOKS FOR CHILDREN
A newsletter I used to get years ago once had an issue about the importance of reading to children. The mother who contributed an article described several cozy scenes: A child cuddled in Dad’s lap while he reads to her from Goodnight Moon. A toddler stopping his running to speed read (!) Pat the Bunny with Grandpa, turning pages faster than Grandpa can read them. A big sister holding the baby in her lap while she turns the pages of a board book, pointing out images like puppy, kitten, ball.
I hope these scenes make you feel as good as they do me, especially those of you here who have either written for children or have or are now reading books to a baby or toddler.
The ideal action, from my point of view, would be to head to a bookstore during the shopping time for an expected baby. What fun to select books, maybe even ones you enjoyed as a child, to read to the newcomer. Some expectant mothers (I have heard) read to their babies before they are born, understanding–as we are told–that the unborn infant can become acquainted with mom’s voice during the last few weeks before birth.
In her list of reasons to read to baby, the article’s author, Christine M. Telthorst, lists several that seem especially important to me.
She says, in her list of “becauses:”
Because children’s books today are so good that they are fun even for adults.
(Because) illustrations in children’s books often rank with the best, giving children a feeling for good art.
Because reading to children will encourage them to become readers and—
Because, when you hold your children and give them your attention, they know you love them.
Ahhhh!
The authors of beautiful children’s books are stars among all authors!
God bless them.
December 21, 2012
“WHICH OF YOUR BOOKS IS THE FAVORITE?”
Have other authors with several books in print been asked this? I imagine so, because I am frequently asked the question. I used to toss off an answer, giving the name of whatever book might be featured at the time, or:
“Oh, my latest book is always my favorite.”
“None of them, really. I find favorite passages or events I especially enjoy in each one.”
“I don’t have an answer. It’s kind of like being asked which–of your children–is the favorite.”
And so on.
Truth be told, for much of the time I really hadn’t sat down to decide if I had a favorite, and if so, which one.
Now I know. It’s “DEAR EARTH: A Love Letter from Spring Hollow,” my only non-fiction book thus far.
Why? Because this story is really a love letter, not only to a real place, but to my husband. It’s the story of our life over many years, beginning as we escaped to the northern USA and Canadian parks, seacoasts, and wild places during our yearly August vacation. A yearning for wild places developed in our hearts, and experiences during vacation stayed in our thoughts throughout 49 weeks of the year while we worked at formal jobs in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Then we bought land in Arkansas. It was to be for retirement, but the first weekend after we became land holders, we got in our old van and headed for our Ozarks hills and hollows. Our land had a year-around spring and a tiny losing creek. We named the place–you guessed it–”Spring Hollow” and we continued visiting Spring Hollow–a hundred and twenty-five miles from our home in Tulsa–on most Saturdays.
Working on weekends over a couple of years, we built a two-room cabin on our land and began staying over night. It was more home to us than our brick house in the city. We saw so many new things — learned so much about the natural world around us at Spring Hollow. Our hearts were at Spring Hollow 24/7 as they say.
Eventually we simply quit our jobs in the city, sold our city home, and moved to Spring Hollow. Didn’t know what work we’d find, or what was coming but, for once, we followed our hearts and not our heads. We have now lived at Spring Hollow for twenty-five years.
In all ways, DEAR EARTH is truly a love letter. Response from many, many readers tells me others have understood this, and it has meant almost as much to them as it does to John and me, though they have never seen the place, and only know it through my writing. Some have become repeat book buyers, with the record being held by one woman who ended up buying seventeen copies to give away.
Nice to know so many people share a love that has long been such a big part of our lives. I remain grateful that John and I had the strength to move forward to this place and create our home.
Spring Hollow will always be a part of us, no matter what the future holds.
December 13, 2012
Where DO you get your story ideas?
Dear Friends,
I am told that the question most often asked writers is some version of “Where do your ideas come from?” Interestingly, I am rarely asked that question when meeting the public anywhere in Arkansas or the surrounding area of the Ozarks in Missouri or Oklahoma. I think that’s because, to Arkansans at least, the fact each of my novels is set in a specific real place in Arkansas that many people, from here and away, visit annually answers the question. I get my ideas from my chosen special locations and the history there that has an impact on the present day.
But there is more to it than that, and the “more” is how my experience probably parallels that of most authors.
Ideas for my mystery novels come from my imagination, from my life experience, and from what I read in the news. (Most others would say from television news, but we don’t have cable and don’t get network stations out here in the forest, though we do watch the News Hour on Public Television.) However, I listen to public radio, and read four newspapers, including our small-town weekly, the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette (state-wide, with sections included covering our area of NW AR), The Christian Science Monitor (international and USA news), and The New York Times (national and international). And yes, ideas do sometimes come from that reading. (For example, what type of crime has NOT been covered in those newspapers?)
How about intuition and a long knowledge of the human experience? Yes.
How about other people — are your friends or general family in that writing? No, not to my conscious knowledge, except as they fit into the human condition.
How about Radine? Is she in your story? Umm, well, yes, and, I think, beyond the fact the story is coming from my imagination. Am I found in my major female character, Carrie McCrite? The two of us are not alike any more than two friends would normally be, but, understanding her, I can put myself in her shoes while writing of her experiences. If she is terrorized, I feel chills. If she is sad, I cry. That’s how it goes for most writers, I suspect. I was once at a talk given by Janet Dailey, well-known romance writer, and, when a woman in the audience dared ask her if, when writing erotic scenes, she felt aroused, she admitted, after some hesitation, that she did. Here is how she put it. “My husband says he can always tell when I am writing a love scene.”
So, use your imagination.
How about my own husband, is he Henry? Not in any physical similarity, but, perhaps–more than any character including Carrie– Henry King copies a real person. You might say Henry’s life honors that of John Nehring.
People have sometimes asked me if authors writing violent or terrifying scenes have violent or terrifying thoughts. Would I be afraid to be alone with Stephen King, for example. Nope. Truth be told, I did write one violent, terrifying scene in A RIVER TO DIE FOR, and, though I felt FOR Catherine, who was experiencing this, I wasn’t frightened. Not a bit.
How about you? Readers — have you asked an author, “Where to you get your ideas?” What was the answer?
Writers, Where DO you get your story ideas?
Sincerely, Radine, at http://www.RadinesBooks.com
November 29, 2012
BOOK SIGNING HORRORS — OR NOT?
How many of you have attended a book signing? Most authors have, of course — their own at least. And others? It depends on your interest in the author and book on display. Right?
What did you enjoy about the signings you have either attended or participated in? If you are an author, what went well and what went terribly wrong? Have you had signings like many of us where few or (shudder) NO books sold and you just sat there grinning and grinning through the deadly allotted time.
Well now, let’s see if we can brighten things up.
Of course the first problem for an author is booking a signing. These days many bookstores are reluctant to hold them. Why? Takes too much time to plan, and publicity can be costly. Then, at the scheduled time, nobody comes.
Is there any way around this number one problem? I do have some ideas after years of experience, and a couple of those deadly nobody came events.
How do I make myself appealing as a special event for any bookstore, Barnes & Noble or Indie? Here’s one way I got into a B&N for a very successful book event only a few months after I’d been featured in the same store. June was coming up. One of my novels is A WEDDING TO DIE FOR. I approached the store manager about a wedding special, suggesting we feature my novel and a display of all the bridal magazines and wedding planning books the store stocks. He bought the idea and ordered my books. I got out some lace yardage left from a niece’s wedding reception table covers, and made a cover to fit one of the bookstore tables. Day of event I dressed in my frilliest suit, fancy white blouse, and a big white straw hat floating with net and lace for the occasion. I did not sit (never do at signings), but stood, book in hand, welcoming all who came in the store, pointing out books available, and showcasing my own novel. (Can a shooting, a bombing, and the murder of a florist stop a wedding?) And I sold a lot of books, mostly my own novel.
You get the picture. Don’t offer a signing, offer an event! At other events I have talked, taught, and explained. For my newest novel, A FAIR TO DIE FOR, a bookstore held a mini-craft fair to accompany sales of my book. At a library several staff members brought in their own craft projects to display, and I took the “Fold ‘n Go” dollhouse I have been creating furnishings for. (Did you know that, in some Cheerios packages, there are a few smaller, browner, Cheerios? Those became donuts on my dollhouse breakfast table. Used dryer sheets were sewn into curtains hung on popsicle sticks –and so on. The dollhouse was, by the way, given to me by a bookstore owner after she’d used it in her Christmas window.)
During a city-wide festival I have mugged at passing crowds from a huge bookstore window while surrounded by posters for my books and the books themselves.
In gift shops and bookstores I try to learn as much about the stock as I can before time to sign, so I can answer questions beyond “Where are the restrooms?” My work background is in retail sales, so I know how to wait on customers when staff is short. I also know how to straighten stock when that fits the venue.
In essence, I am ready for whatever it takes. And all my signings are fun–especially for me.
Tomorrow I begin a series of sales and signings (books for Christmas gifts) in several stores that are part of a grocery chain in my area. These last all day, and, I admit, are hard work since again, I rarely sit. I talk to a lot of people, many of them obviously lonely and eager for someone to chat with. And, y’know, after I have heard about grandchildren, upcoming plans, current problems, my new friends frequently think of someone they’d like to give a book to!
I have appeared in all the places I mentioned here more than once — some of them several times, often by invitation. So, as you can see, the “How can I help you?” approach works well for everyone.
Readers, what kind of events are authors in your area planning?
November 9, 2012
I’m a crime writer, so . . .
Recently an interviewer asked me, “Do you ever get revenge on those who have wronged you by killing them off in a novel?”
I said, “No,” immediately, which, I suspect, makes people wonder if I’m either lying or missing a lot of good opportunities for vicarious revenge.
I suspect it also makes me different from quite a few other female crime writers, many of whom do say they accomplish revenge in just that way. I’ve read or heard how mystery writers cast former husbands, boy friends, and bosses as murder victims. I recall that one “snotty” grocery store manager was shot behind his store . . . in fiction. ( I suppose the victims are disguised well enough that no one can threaten retaliation or a law suit.) In truth, I simply can’t think of anyone I’d want to “do in” like that. Oh, I admit there have been a few who . . . well, there was that home ec teacher who held up my horrible sewing project as a bad example for the class. OOO, I would have loved revenge. But my mother took care of that. Though she was deeply introverted and rarely left our house, we lived only three blocks from the school. Mama grabbed her coat and marched down the blocks to attack the teacher with words. I wasn’t there, so have never known what was said. But, Miss ———— was v e r y polite to me after that.
I can’t recall a single male writer who has said he gets revenge in his fiction. I wonder — do we often less powerful females find satisfaction by killing annoying and even dangerous or harmful men in fiction, when the male of our species finds other ways to get even or (quite probably) isn’t a victim of a similar type of harassment?
Something to think about. But it still hasn’t occurred to me yet to kill–in my novels–anyone remotely like a person I’ve met in real life.
Another thing female crime writers say at times is that, since beginning their careers, they are more alert to the possibility of crime around them, and very often become wary of the actions and possible motivation of people they see when out in public. Again, that hasn’t happened to me yet. I admit to a long-going tendency to take precautions against theft and some other crimes. For example, I leave all the good jewelry I’m not wearing in my safe deposit box–which is a nuisance, since I often, when getting dressed in a hurry, wish I had a certain piece of jewelry in hand. But that precaution and a few others began long before I started writing my mystery series. (And saved my jewelry to be passed down in my family during a recent home burglary.)
Maybe I can’t figure me out. But, I do know I look at the world around me differently than many others. What makes sense and works well for others isn’t part of my writing or my life. And, I’m okay with that.
November 3, 2012
NON FICTION (VS) FICTION?
“Non-fiction writing offers information and enlightenment. It contains the results of sometimes lengthy research and contemplation and presents it in organized fashion to the reading public. Whether biography, memoir, or scientific treatise, non-fiction writing shares real value. College textbooks are an example of non-fiction.”
Wait a minute! Memoir? One person’s undoubtedly flawed memory of life events? Is that open to discussion?
On the other hand:
“Fiction writing is a product of the imagination. It presents escape from reality, and entertainment. Romance novels and western adventure stories are examples of fiction.”
Do you agree with these definitions?
Might you think, as I do, that they are at best very limited definitions, and, in the bare presentation above, narrow to the point of being open to attack as . . . well, fiction?
Dare I say here that a lot of non-fiction is not, (in the strictest sense of the term), true? A result of research or not, it can be opinion. And, even if true at the time it’s written, continuing research and revelation might reverse that truth. Furthermore, prejudice, even if based on supposedly true information supporting one point of view, will blur lines between fact and fiction. (It’s true if you agree, false if you don’t. Right?) What’s more, since it is often presented as fact to be trusted, some non-fiction writing it can be downright dangerous to the public good.
How about fiction? I agree with the general dictionary definition of fiction as “something invented by the imagination.” But how about this, further on in the same definition: “an assumption of a possibility as a fact irrespective of the question of its truth.”
Stretches thinking, doesn’t it? And, speaking for myself only, it’s how I think of fiction. I’ve never discussed this with any group of fiction readers or writers, but I sure would like to. As it is, I can only speak for myself and for what I observe in the fiction I write and in what I read–which is mostly in the mystery genre of one type or another.
Oh, I have written “fact” and had it published in articles and one book. I have been a broadcast journalist. I have written essays and had them published individually and in a book. I have written and sold poetry. So–is an essay fact or fiction? I consider it at least a blending, perhaps bare fact painted over with a colored brush in and in musical words. The same is true for poetry, which can be fact so wound with color, emotion, and introspection that it dances on a border called “faction.”
Which brings up a question–can fact make us feel anything? Should it? One could talk about that all day.
And how about fiction? Who says it can’t teach? Open up understanding? We know it makes us feel. A popular writing teacher in Tulsa, Oklahoma, frequently quotes a fiction editor’s remark, “Make me cry and I’ll buy.” I can speak only for myself, but I trust my fiction characters to teach me, and my readers, something new, something expanding about life, as well as ideas about interaction with fellow humans, and, of course, about problem-solving and fortitude in the face of adversity.
My writing also teaches about actual places and helps readers see and feel what they’re like, but that’s secondary in my mission. I want to teach about living.
Entertainment, yes. Escape from reality? Maybe, though I see my own mystery fiction as research into the depths of real humanity rather than escape from anything. Is that too broad a definition for you? I doubt it. It isn’t for me.
I wish we could sit down together and talk about TRUTH AND FICTION.
October 26, 2012
THE MONDAY VISITOR
WHY IS MY OFFICE LIGHT ON?
Last Monday at 1:00 I came in from the garage before my husband, and had barely registered the fact that, for some ridiculous reason, I had left my office light on when, right behind me, John said, “The office light is on.”
I put an armload of grocery bags on the floor and headed for my office, feeling really stupid and a bit bewildered. I never go off leaving office lights on, and as for the ceiling light–with its expensive and hard-to-find bulbs? Make that double never. But, it seemed (impossibly), I done it anyway.
I walked past the bedroom hall, noticing the floor there only briefly, went in the office, turned off the light. Only then did the hall floor register. A single winter glove lay on blue carpet.
“John, someone has been here,” I said, surprised at how calm, cool, and collected I felt.
At first glance, there were few signs we had had “The Visitor.” But, as we began to search, signs of the intrusion were everywhere. Most drawers had been tumbled and then closed, but three were such a mess they wouldn’t close. My jewelry chest was emptied on top of my dresser. Two windows were partly open. Two doors had been unlocked, one was pulled slightly open. (Deputies said the windows had probably been open so The Visitor could hear our car coming down the unpaved lane.) Drawers in my closet/dressing room, including those holding costume jewelry, were disturbed–you could see the mess through the clear plastic fronts. I still haven’t found anything missing there.
After I called the sheriff’s office for our county, we began a cautious and more careful walk-through survey while we waited for deputies. John and I didn’t talk much, just called out a list of missing items or disturbances as we found them.
John: (From his office upstairs.) “My Nook Tablet is gone, and my bag of cash for book sales. It had $100 in it. The laptop is here, though.”
Radine: “Glassware is tumbled out of the cabinet in the kitchen. Nothing broken.
John: “The gold ring with my initials that you gave me.”
Radine: “They didn’t take the gold charm bracelet I left on the bathroom counter. Thank God for that. Every charm means a lot. “
John: “I was wearing my gold chain necklace.”
Radine: “The bottom drawer of the small jewelry chest in the guest room is entirely empty, and I can’t remember what was in it.”
And so it went. I’m sure we’ll still be finding something missing even a year or more from now.
This was not the first time. Many years ago our home in Tulsa was broken into and robbed while we were at work. A window was broken to give access. Inside, the intruder used a kitchen knife to break a larger hole in my treasured pink china piggy bank where the coin slot was. Coins were, it was obvious, removed through the hole. The pig’s snout, an easily removable cork with a ring in it, was undisturbed. Funny. I recall watches were stolen, some money, but that’s about all I still remember about the “take.”
We had wrought iron bars put on accessible windows, I mended the pig, and life went on. But I felt as if our home had been raped, and I had somehow been violated myself. That memory is still clear.
What’s even more interesting is that I felt none of that this time. I didn’t even feel anger at the intruder. There was no vandalism and, other than the almost-hidden search everywhere (there were those spilled glasses, the three drawers that wouldn’t shut, and the tell-tale glove on the floor), no other visible sign of The Visitor except for unlocked windows and doors.) The window used to gain access wasn’t even harmed. The Visitor used a garden tool to force the window open, but it gave without breaking. My pink pig was set out of its niche, but it held its original quarters, and the cork was still in place.
The deputies asked if we wanted them to check for fingerprints. I said I was sure every grade school child would know enough to wear gloves for this type of thing, checking anything except for the tool used to gain access would not be necessary. They agreed, so I was spared black, greasy smudges all over the house. (No fingerprints on the tool. Of course not.)
What about drugs, probably, the deputies suggested, the primary reason for the invasion? Nope, unless you count Tylenol. They left that, and a some almost-empty allergy medication forgotten by a guest.
Honestly? I think The Visitor was interrupted when our car turned into the rocky drive to our house in the hollow. Why? I initially typed in my preliminary report that I was missing a gold stick pin, a large repousse heart necklace charm on a chain, and my brother’s gold color Navy insignia. When I had time to check more thoroughly, I found those three items in a black velvet bag still among the mess on the dresser. There are other signs that hint at a hasty exit out the back door and through the woods to a car up on the road somewhere.
We have taken new precautions, followed some ideas suggested by the deputies. I occasionally feel a twinge of concern when we both leave home for errands. But, over all, there is a lot to be grateful for. For one thing, as we straighten up, we are filling bag after bag with excess “stuff” to take to the “Care and Share” shop in town. We have The Visitor to thank for that.
October 13, 2012
Do I really want to be a writer . . . ?
Before I wrote my first book I spent a number of years writing essays and feature articles for magazines and newspapers. The editors I connected with, almost without exception, welcomed my writing about the Ozarks. I grew used to seeing my byline in print.
Then came my first book. It was non-fiction, a collection of previously published pieces, plus new writing and a story line. This recording of the Nehring’s transition from too-busy city career people to Ozarks homestead dwellers became “DEAR EARTH: A Love Letter from Spring Hollow. “
The book sold to a publisher in 1993. In 1995 my first book appeared in hard cover.
Now, what? Back then a platform was “raised flooring or stage for speakers, performers, or workers to use.” Or it could be “a declaration of principles by a group–such as a political party.” Back then, a platform had nothing to do with my work as a writer. Back then I wasn’t even sure what part I was supposed to play in promoting my new book, other than a dim thought about going to bookstores in my area for signings.
But my publisher and editor did know. I had a publicist assigned to me. I got suggestions for signing locations, appointments with radio talk show hosts, shipments of publicity packets, posters, and flyers. Ads for my book and reviews in important places appeared magically. I admit that, during this time, I felt as if I were standing aside, watching the world of promotion build around me. I did what I was told, and little more. (I have often wondered if my publisher wanted to kick me in the behind. I’ve been afraid to ask, but we are still friends.)
Slowly I learned that I was an important part of a promotion team, but, even then, the work was far from stressful. I made new connections. I worked with friends I had already made through my work for both print and broadcast media. (In addition to my writing, I researched, wrote, and performed a fifteen-minute radio program about the Ozarks for ten years.) I had signings in bookstores I already knew well as fulfillment sources for my reading addiction.
Skip to 2012 — seventeen years and seven books later. Up early and in my office to check e-mail because early morning is the best time to make connection on our feeble Internet. We still live in Spring Hollow amid a forest. Satellite is unreliable and expensive. There is no DSL, no cable, no high-speed anything. Cell phones don’t work here. For years we suffered with dial-up Internet, and a couple of years ago, the availability of Verizon MiFi seemed a miracle. What we didn’t know (and the salesman didn’t tell us) is that we are on the very edge of their coverage area. For large files or sending photographs, we have to drive nearer the Verizon tower to access a good connection. Forget U-Tube, video files, or even time to connect to many sites I want to be part of.
The need to promote has exploded, but not my ability to do it. On a good day I spend an hour or more in my office waiting for connections, twiddling with the computer and Verizon card to wake them up. That’s time I can’t devote to writing or anything else. I barely manage to receive and comment on blogs, take part in groups, read lists, click on posts of interest, mentor other writers, and initiate or respond to e-mail.
I’m still in my office when it’s time to think about supper. (I usually work through lunch time.) Probably partly because he gets hungry, my dear husband has become adept at heating prepared food or left-overs.
My next novel (number eight in my mystery series) is bobbing around inside my head. I like what I am holding on to there.
I love writing of all types. I enjoy writing this blog. But, something has to give if I am going to start that novel, and people are already asking for it.
Where will I find time to begin Chapter One?
