Barbara Forte Abate's Blog: Doodling Outside the Lines, page 7

Guest Interview

I'm so excited to be today's guest interview on Walter Rhein at:

http://walterrhein.blogspot.com/2011/...

Hope you have a moment to pour a second cup of coffee and come by

Queen for a Day

When I was in 6th grade at Alden Place school in Millbrook New York, I won 1st place for the best costume at the Girl Scouts Halloween party. It's one of those cherished memories that, incredibly, has actually remained intact inside a head that's become host to an increasingly faulty memory. I'd dressed-up as a little old lady and the prize was a jewelry holder: A folding plastic ladder with holes in the rungs to hold earrings, a little tray at the top for rings, and a perfectly darling plastic silver poodle resting on a red velvet cushion at the base. I was thrilled with my treasure and for good reason, not simply because I absolutely adored it, but it marked the last time I carried home the prize.

But then several days ago I was notified that my novel, The Secret of Lies, had won 2nd place in the Royal Dragonfly Book Award Contest, in the category of Newbie Fiction. It's very possible that I may have sprang through the house in wild abandon on a current of abundant joy -- I may have -- but my immediate reaction remains something of a blur.  What I do vividly recall is how terrified I was to scan the list of winners for my name, fully unsure what I expected or dared hope for.

Honestly, but that's just the way it is. I'm not someone who wins stuff. For me, buying a 50/50 ticket is a donation, because I well know and understand that the numbers in my hand will not match those printed on the winning ticket. The squares on my Bingo card will never fill-up with the letters announced by the caller. Just as my scratch-off lottery tickets will not have three matching cherries, leprechauns, or treasure chests once the silver squares are scratched off with a coin. Nearly all of my Field Day ribbons that I've kept in a cigar box from my school days are bright yellow -- 5th place. And I mention this not because of any particular sense of heartbreak or long-running pity party. It's just the customary state-of-the-union. It is what it is. (And I happen to love the color yellow.)

Only now there's this -- the winning ticket, the second runner to cross the line, silver medal looped around my neck.  Does this award which has arrived on the wings of unsurpassed joy somehow help to validate my work as a writer?  Yes, no...well maybe. Though it could just as well be nothing so deep as that it feels good. Really.  It just feels pretty good. 

Yup, definitely, Queen for a Day

Why So Serious?

I guess I just don't get it. Either that or I never stopped to read the memo. Call me naive, but I've just always appreciated the entire concept of giving and receiving without reward, with a special place in my heart for random acts of kindness, which so often are the most generous acts of all.

And yet I have to wonder, when did everything become so serious?

There seems to be a good deal of discussion lately on blogs, newsletters, and writer sites I regularly visit as to those offending fools guilty of trouncing etiquette by attempting to promote oneself on various social networks --  whether it be dropping a trail of links to their blog like breadcrumbs strewn across the internet, requesting/suggesting a visit to a new book page on facebook, or posting a link for their book trailer. Just another instance of putting oneself out there with the crossed-fingers-hope that some kindhearted entity will take a moment to peek, offer an opinion, or - the holy grail - click the "like" button. 

Apparently, and this is where my innocence raises it's perpetually naive head, (honestly, but I had no idea!)  such suggestions are not only rude, but completely unacceptable. it seems that this "solicitation of favors", roughly translated, is about people asking for stuff, but offering nothing in return. Aka, If I click this button for you, than what's the payout for me?

I want to think the reward for such selfless acts are warm and fuzzy feelings, but I'm pretty sure from my reading across the internet, that that's the wrong answer.

Huh?  Really?  Just what is it that's going on here? 

For starters, I am a member of several online writing communities. One would assume it's all good; receive and offer support, learn or re-learn something beneficial to my writing life or life in general. And certainly there's that invaluable hand-holding-leg-boosting-moral-support. For me it's writing, but for you it can be any fill-in-the-blank dream or obsession. The pursuit of one's hearts desire is often a wholly exhausting uphill climb.  Sharing the experience with others on the same ride ranges from very nice to absolutely wonderful. We certainly have a lot to offer each other. At least, that's what I've always thought.

And thus arises the question of whether we really need some comparable payback just
to check out someone's blog post, leave a book review, "Like" a Youtube video, read a new author interview. Are we really so highfallootin' and self-important? I truly adore the
concept of doing something supportive or nice for no reasoning other then "Just because."
What's more, as a community of oft struggling artists it strikes me as just a very cool thing to do. A gift to the random passenger
riding along in the same boat -- on the chance that a thumbs-up of support and encouragement might somehow help to make an enormous difference in someones life.

What a concept. Relatively painless, thoughtful, and kind.

And oh yeah,
it's free.

Social Media - Friend or Foe?

It just keeps getting better and some of us are hopelessly hooked. It's not only incredible, but highly addictive, this ever-changing buffet of social media dishes ready and waiting for us to come along and select our favorites. 

Not the least appealing element is that it's all there, spread out like trays of sparkly candy 24/7. Ready and willing whenever we have a few moments to quench that immediate urge to drop a tweet, have a quickie sprint through Facebook, surf potential contacts on Linkedin, read our favorite blogs, visit interesting websites, watch a few videos on Youtube...
It's all so fabulous until you glance at the clock way down in the far corner of your computer screen and realize that two and a half hours have flown past never to return. That coveted block of time you've beg, borrowed, or stole to write, create, and accomplish that which dwells closest to your heart.

True, sometimes a mind needs a lazy afternoon to unwind by surfing the internet, combing for obscure treasures on Ebay, comparison shopping on Amazon, or even just one more peek into your email to see if something of utmost importance has just sailed in across the wire to change your life for eternity. However, the occasional spin becomes something of a problem when it takes over as the accustomed routine of the day.

We click away from our work-in-progress for just a moment, and we don't return for ten minutes. Once back to the task at hand we stay just long enough to hit a glitch and we're off again, this time for a half hour. It's a lethal combination that takes procrastination to the next level -- that being the plateau of outright avoidance. 

What has always seemed like a friendly set of social icons has become a threatening force standing between us and realized accomplishment. We coax ourselves into believing we are networking, learning, keeping in touch -- all those things we deem essential for our work, health, and the pursuit of happiness.  And certainly there is a strong element of truth living within this observation. But it's when we allow our online social activities to become the all-encompassing entity in our lives that this pretty new friend starts to resemble a rather greedy foe.

I've come to the conclusion that maybe I need to go cold-turkey. Keep to an addicts schedule until I can once again trust myself to return to the party. Well, maybe not cold turkey, but more of a slow steady weaning. It just may be the only possible way for us to remain friends.

Spam Attack

I'm pretty sure the grand plan is to annoy us into submission.

Just slam our email account enough times with promises of "Immediate Debt Relief, Discount Drugs, LowerMyBills", even "girls, girls, girls, " and we'll eventually throw up our hands in frustration -- too weak to press the delete button yet one more time?

Once upon a time it was telemarketers that haunted our lives at the most inconvenient of hours -- but then blissful relief -- that genius device known as "Caller ID" arrived on the scene and we gained some necessary control over the invasive onslaught against the yearned for peace, solitude, and privacy of hearth and home.

Only now, something far worse - treacherously tucked between emails from Mom and friendly messages from Face Book - SPAM! Creepy, annoying, never invited, SPAM. The eternally unwanted junk mail of the internet.  Stealing into online mailboxes under cover of night, creeping in alongside favorite newsletters and sparkly new blog postings, newsy updates from friends - robbing the anticipated thrill of scanning the morning mail simply by being there.

Something akin to a home invasion, spam feels nothing less then a direct invasion into my personal space. Unwanted, unappreciated, and threatening. Finding promises of Cheap Viagra,  Revolutionary Diet pills made with magical ingredients harvested from the rain forest, or the ideal mate at Match.com (28 yrs and counting - I've got it covered), do not tempt as much as annoy.

If you have a product to sell, why not try marketing your magic beans honestly and fairly? Rather then running up and slamming your intended victim over the head like a thug wearing a stocking cap, walk up and introduce yourself. It's a whole lot nicer and surely a good deal more effective.

Alright then, your turn to fess-up -- have you ever been intrigued enough to crack open any of your spam-o-grams? Did you actually purchase or investigate whatever it was you found there?

 

The Clock is Ticking

So what exactly is the expiration date on New Year's resolutions? I know they have a habit of being broken rather early on - in fact it seems to be expected, but what about those of us that haven't quite gotten started?

Here we are a week into the new year, and I'm still pumping up to launch my soon to be new and improved self into that impressive list of good intentions. And once I do get around to instituting the new me, rest assured I'm gonna be the most amazing person that ever filled these particular shoes.

I'm not so much referring to the baggage so many of us are inclined to drag around like a broken limb - the heavy duty stuff that would likely require some inspired brand of surgical removal. It's that other stuff I'm determined to toss away with the trash. Impatience, procrastination. Annoyance with the kinks inherent to ordinary life. Ugly flareups of anger that serve little purpose other then to assure all those closeup and personal (aka, sharing life within the same four walls) to "clear the room and head for zee hills, because Mom's having another one of her crazy lady meltdowns."

Mostly though I'm looking to enforce those changes that will just make me a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and child of God. You know the type I'm talking about - cool, calm, and mellow. And thoughtful - that's especially important to set the others in motion. One of those zen people who allow the baloney and cheese of life slip away like rain on glass, rather then chasing after storms demanding justice for inflicted damages, even after the worst of it has rolled away across the horizon.

And courage. Definitely courage. Courage to equal the faith and perseverance that inspires me to make mountainous New Year's resolutions every year.

Here's to your own happy New Year, everyone!

If You Love A Writer Let Them Know

No question, it's rough out there. With the number of newly published books flooding the market somewhere in the range of 400,000 yearly, it's a far from easy task for the majority of books to find their place in the sun -- in fact, it's not only hard and incredibly frustrating, but its just plain disheartening at times. Sure there are tips and suggestions aplenty for revving your engines in hot pursuit of the world's attentions and subsequently turning heads onto your book, but that doesn't eliminate the hotly debated question of which magic formula actually works as opposed to those that will merely register on the scale of wishful thinking.
    So lets say your friend, mother, pastor, or baby brother is the proud and excited author of a newly published book.  Aside from sharing a glass of champagne and enjoying a second piece of cake at the book party, what might you do to assist them in defying not only the uncertainty of effective publicity, but the awful post publication blues when the grand ticker-tape release day has come and faded away as predictably as the last of the Halloween candy?
    For starters, if you haven't read the book, please consider doing so. (With extra points for buying a copy. Double for buying a second copy as a gift and passing it on.) And once you do, take that extra step and let the author know you did. Don't assume they will just "know" you took the time and effort, because they won't. Mental telepathy is not only unreliable, it generally doesn't work at all. That you enjoyed their book is precisely the sort of thing an author needs to know, because it matters. It matters a lot. Just as your opinion does. Good, bad, or hideously ugly, your thoughts count. Share them generously, although if you genuinely hated the book, you might want to hold back a little as it applies to random public discussions. In short, singing from the rooftops is good, screaming in horror is not.
   However, if you truly enjoyed a book, regardless of whether it be authored by friend or complete stranger, consider writing a review on Amazon or Goodreads, mention it on Twitter and Facebook, even recommend it to your book group. Bottom line, tell people about it. Shine a little light in a very crowded room -- which by the way, is still the most effective means of marketing there is. Grassroots. Pass it on.
   Honestly, it's that simple. If you love a writer, let them know. Let us all know.
       

Perserverence in Faith

On June 30, 2010 my debut literary novel, "The Secret of Lies" was published. To anyone looking at the elated author holding the shiny new book, it would surely appear as a portrait of proud achievement and a dream fulfilled. In fact it was a good deal more than that – a tightly held and absolute aspiration that took twenty years of faith, hope, and determination to see through to fruition.

I have never been one of those people to experience the phenomenon of "overnight success."  Rather, my life code has always been reliant on the ingredients of diligence, persistence, and patience (which is quite possibly the most difficult to find peace with) all of which must be stirred together and bound with a thickening agent of faith.  And although I've come to understand the recipe, that isn't to say it has been especially easy to prepare or otherwise maintain.

Because family circumstances ill-afforded an opportunity for college after I graduated from my small town high school in 1978, I vowed that I would simply need to dig-in and commit myself to working hard to prove that I was indeed capable of achieving the vision I'd held so dearly since childhood – the dream of being a writer. Growing up in a fractured family with more than a few obstacles to overcome, I felt fragile and yet oddly confident, thoroughly prepared to leap into my future with both feet and fists flying – not unlike Rocky preparing to go into the ring – diligent training and tenacious determination would take me the distance, of this I was convinced.

Except when they didn't.  Early on, married with four small children, living in an old house in need of renovations, hardworking husband trying to establish a career, I didn't often have long uninterrupted hours of writing time, so I simply parked my stack of yellow pads on the dining room table and wrote whenever babies napped and housework and meal planning were up-to-date. While writing is its own brand of hard work, I believed, hoped, confidently expected, to accomplish what I'd set out to do.  It would simply take more time than originally anticipated. I was after all, a wife and mother first – an ordinary person attempting to gain admittance into a country club whose members were not so ordinary.  And so I prayed. I prayed hard and often.

In the midst of struggling through the writing of this first novel, my younger sister died suddenly and in the space of an impossible instant, the world as I knew it came grinding to a loud and immediate halt. Writing a fiction novel at once felt like the most ridiculous and frivolous endeavor a person could think to undertake. Making up stories and inventing characters was both foolish and idiotic, especially when real life was right here slamming into me so hard and fast I'd nearly forgotten how to breathe.  It was a slow and devastating climb from the depths of loss back into the realms of continuing life, and yet somewhere along the broken road of healing I discovered that the very act of writing about people, places, and experiences pulled from the tangled jumble in my head was incredibly restorative – somehow even necessary.

My first book at last finished. I borrowed a typewriter from a friend, transcribed my yellow pad scribbles onto tidy white paper and send it off.  Abundant elation! I'd finished! Done precisely what I'd so long determined to do.  Not without a fair amount of blood, sweat, and tears, but nevertheless something akin to giving birth to a child – the pain is secondary to the beautiful creation you hold in your hands as a result.

Fast forward a dozen plus years ; the form rejection letters now require an entire bludgeoning drawer in the file cabinet, the babies – now in elementary, middle and high school, no longer take naps but instead require transportation to various events, emergency shopping trips for must-have supplies they forgot to mention at a convenient hour, homework assignments that go on for days – and still the dream continues to thrive, only a little more painfully,  and with a steady requirement of renewed effort. 

I find myself increasingly wrestling with the undeniable fact that the piles of rejection letters I've so defiantly collected are in essence delivering a message I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. I have every reason to pack away the pages and surrender, another causality of real life, since I'm clearly not a "genuine" writer; merely the face pressed against the window looking in on the party I haven't received an invitation to. 

And yet I can't force, convince, or otherwise cajole myself to stop believing in this thing that isn't happening; continuing to write, edit, rewrite, rewrite once more, querying and submitting sample chapters to every editor and agent with an address. The subsequent rejections stubbornly compelling me to launch into yet another flurry of rewriting, querying, and a flood of frustrated prayer.

 "A wiser person would have the brains to give this up and move on," a mean and persistent voice rudely pokes like sharpened fingernails inside my head.  Though I continue to write and dream, there are times I can't avoid pausing to actually hear this voice; my earlier certitude quavering before the sobering logic of those words. Some part of me wondering if maybe this dogged admonishment is right and true.  Nevertheless, even though the hollow toll of unfulfilled dreams continued to grow louder and clearer with each passing year, I understand I can never permit these uncertainties to settle. Conceding, I know, is to forfeit faith.

But what is it that inspires any of us to stay the course when life continually seems to thrust forth hands that are consistently empty?  To look for the single route that will take us safely around the roadblocks erected in our path?  Certainly it is Faith clinging to the back of Hope as it gallops ahead, allowing us a glimpse of the light forever glinting at the end of the tunnel.   But something else as well – a single word so powerful that has become my personal mantra – trust. Trust that this potent heart's desire that I've carried since girlhood is first and foremost a gift. Trust that a loving Creator such as ours would never be so cruel as to grow dreams in our hearts without then guiding us to the perfect nourishment that will enable them to bloom profusely.  Trust that there are reasons why the journey so oftentimes takes us on a different route, far removed from the one we've painstakingly highlighted on the map, assured that we ourselves must stay faithful, as He is faithful, and that's when we can, and will, move mountains.

Looking back – and it is unquestionably a far distance – I can't very well determine what I was thinking all those times I refused to take "no" for an answer. I only knew that I was in passionate pursuit of something – something planted so deep I had no means for abandoning it.

Some time ago, when the rejection letters from agents and editors were landing in my mailbox at a fever pitch, I made a prayerful agreement with God, assuring that if He would just look the other way while I coddled my injured psyche after receipt of yet another "no thanks, not for us" missive in my mailbox, I would try my hardest to keep it to no more than 24 hours of heartbroken, woe-is-me, the world hates me, all out misery, before promptly moving on. As much as I know that doubt and hopelessness are the enemies of faith, I believed at the time that without this passage of mourning I might very well implode.  And I stayed with it, up until the time when I realized I didn't so much need there interludes anymore.  Faith, hope, and trust had firmly established their place and replaced my need to grieve.

And now, twenty years after first sitting down with pen, paper and a head full of dreams, I can somehow understand why the delays and disappointments might have been necessary – the knockdown-drag-out bouts against tears and hopelessness essential – for the underlying truth that in some miraculous way, not only have these hard-hitting villains led me to this peculiar fruition of events that have unfolded in ways I never could have anticipated,  but the person I am now is someone who didn't exist at the beginning of the journey. 

I find it impossible to believe that even a moment of our lives simply travels forth on some random, chips-fall-where-they-may, path. Because whether or not we see or understand it as it unfurls before us, there is indeed a plan.  His perfect plan.

And as it is with all answered prayers, it is only the beginning. Trust, trust, trust…

Ode to the Vanilla People

Several thousand years ago when I first aligned my yellow pad and pen with the stars and set to the task of writing the book I'd been carrying around like a baby waiting to be born, I came across what remains one of my favorite writing books: Secrets of Successful Fiction by Robert Newton Peck.

        For the newbie scribe that I was all those years ago, naive, idealistic, and absolutely committed to planting my butt at the kitchen table, intent on transcribing the bits and pieces of The Great American Novel rolling around inside my head, Newton Peck's book of writerly wisdom contained everything I needed to stoke my already smoldering passion into a terrific blaze. Although the entire book did - and still does - inspire, educate, and excite - it is the last chapter of advice that quite possibly has resonated loudest in my own writing. You see, I've concluded that not only is it a really fine aspiration to write for The Vanilla People, but I am definitely one of them myself.

        So who are these Vanilla People? Quite simply, we are those who DON'T necessary believe that only sex sells, that morality isn't cool, or that characters with strong values and integrity are boring. And while I am forever intrigued by flawed people - it is always with the faith that they will somehow overcome, or at least learn to live, with whatever it is threatening to crush them.

       Just as importantly, if my story people do land in a place where they find themselves taking their clothes off, I don't feel compelled to stand there with a camera or detailed instruction manual. As a woman married for 28 years and the mother of four children, I have a pretty good idea what goes on when the bedroom door closes, and I'm confident that most readers have an equally good idea. What does appeal to me as both a writer and a reader, is a touch...a wordless hint...a certain look.  A handful of ingredients, the suggestion of the recipe, and yet not the A-B-C, step-by-step instructions.

       While there are those who would argue that such omissions of detail are a sign of lazy composition, I would most vehemently disagree. The unleashing of the imagination is one of the greatest reasons for reading -- and writing. And it's a fine, oftentimes frustrating balance to get it right.  Getting it down on the page in such a way that allows the reader just enough room to roam.

      Which isn't to say I prefer my confections plain and unadorned.  I absolutely do enjoy sprinkles on my cone -- sometimes even a cherry on top. 

Who Really Cares About Book Reviews Anyway

Any one who reads, goes to the movies, eats out at restaurants, gets their hair cut by anyone other then their scissor wielding mother, is shopping around for a new car...well, you get the idea.  We all take a moment to look over or listen to reviews at those times when we're scoping out something new and otherwise untested and we'd like to weigh the wisdom of those who have gone before. 



Which specifically brings me to book reviews.  For better or worse they carry a grandiose amount of weight. So much so, that a good/great review can push a book onto the radar just as quickly as a stinker can hurl it out into oblivion never to be seen or heard from again.  Frustrating, but understandable especially when said book is launched by a new, non-name brand author. 1.) The much anticipated (by the author)  tome arrives. 2.) Kind, generous, and merciful family and friends buy book. 3.)The buzz begins it's ever so slight swell.  4.) Then just as quickly fades as book's ranking on Amazon begins it's steady climb into the 500,000's, (not good, since the plan is to have the numbers heading in the other direction, toward ONE) then higher as it becomes more and more removed from all those potential readers who don't, and might never, even know it exists.



And yet there is an amazingly effective means for holding a book by the tail to keep it from spiraling out of sight - REVIEWS!  That's right, this is it, a golden opportunity for your opinion to shine, to make a difference, to be heard loud and clear. The fact is, if you love a writer, write a review. Not just a glowing email delivered to the author's personal mailbox (although that is always, always welcome and appreciated!) But specifically, taking that extra step of posting your honest review to online sellers such as Amazon and Barnes & Nobel. It's much simpler then some people have led themselves to believe. No need to analyze, explain, or opine in the grand scale of a professional reviewer, just think of what you might say to someone looking for a good read. "A real page turner, read it straight through in 24 hours, wonderful, engaging, suspenseful, thrilling, romantic, thoroughly drawn into the story by great characters...etc."  Of course there's the not so gushing comments you might prefer (since the idea is an honest review) , although kindly allow me to suggest that if you HATED the book, it's probably best if you forgo leaving your mark on the book's review page!



SAVE A BOOK - LEAVE YOUR REVIEW. Readers searching through the stacks will appreciate it, and author's will genuinely love you for your efforts.



P.S And did I mention the best part? You don't even have to use your real name.  At long last you can use that cool pseudonym you created in sixth grade, but before now had no place to wear it.