Nath Jones's Blog, page 2

Cool Cal Carries On

I've been adjusting to a new job with a commute. I like it--the job, the commute, the whole thing. But it does take me all the way away from the work of writing. There are still several cases of books in my apartment. Once a welcome arrival they're now more imposing, becoming a little too much like the veritable Mary Kay starter kit.

Action. That's what they say: Take action.

Wonderful. Lovely. Fine. So I emailed a few more coffee shops to set up a few more events. I figure I'll just do these little events until there are no more cases of books.

Anyway. It's all very professional when these emails go out, small scale, grass roots, but professional. I approach a proprietor, try not to have it get too boilerplate, and we all maintain our decorum for the most part. So I was quite surprised this evening when I saw one reply begin with, "Are you shitting me?"

I wasn't sure whether or not to click on the email.

Now I cannot count the emotionally charged emails I've sent. Staggering numbers. But to receive one really is quite different. Anyway, I did end up clicking on it. The person was not put off by my request, wholly the opposite. She's fairly well interested to have me stop by next week.

600 Miles

I got out of the car this morning and stared as two hawks, or kites--I heard my father's voice say buteo--circled over a small body of water behind a chain link fence.

I don't know where I was exactly. Some gas station 93 miles east of Reno. But these birds were there in the morning, in the light air, impressing me the way such moments do, or can.

I drove from Reno, Nevada to Evanston, Wyoming today. It's funny to have this freedom. I saw the headlines--the 200 abducted girls perhaps found, Baltimore in an uproar. And then to be free in the face of that, in spite of that, connected yet unfettered.

So just to drive. Just to be a woman driving 600 miles. No protest. No fight. No politics. No religion. Just exercising the rights we're so privileged to possess.

Believe me I have plenty of fear. One friend talked to me for a solid hour today. I was like a treed cat--because I really do hate driving in the mountains. The car straining up. The triple-trailered trucks barreling down. The cars whipping around and gone. Vehicles at all speeds, curves, ravines, cliffs--mountains.

But so what? Drive.

I had two chats with two women in the past twenty-four hours. Both were desk managers of crappy little roadside hotels. Both were about my age. In Sparks, NV I asked the woman what I-80 was like toward the east. She said, "Toward Sacramento and that?" I said, "Toward Chicago." She kind of thought about it. Then didn't really have an answer, said, "I don't really know."

I didn't say anything. I don't care if she doesn't drive east on I-80.

I can see why she didn't have an answer. Bunch of buteos. Some chain link fence. Utah has an answer to that, of course: rock. But again just a reminder of its inherent grandeur.

And when I got to the little crappy motel room in Evanston, Wyoming--same thing. I asked the woman at the desk which was her favorite of the sites in Wyoming. She had no answer. Seemed odd. Granted there's no official concierge service at the place I'm staying. But still, usually there's some kind of hospitality or at least awareness of one's surroundings enough to toss out a highlight.

Nope.

Now, part of me wants to round this out without doing anything unbecoming of a lady. And I'm not going to assert anything about these other women, insist they explore, demand they use what they've got--this life, this place, the ideals our nation yearns to implement. If these two desk managers don't want to? They're well within their rights never to bother.

But to see those two hawks this morning in the early light. Not sunrise light, that light right after. Just soft brightness. And at about 3:30 this afternoon I took my Buick out onto the salt flats.

Friends, Real Ones

I really wasn't expecting to have to go sell this collection of short stories. I thought I'd do the five On Impulse collections, revise a novel or two, and then start pitching agents. I thought pharmacy would be the underpinning and I could just kind of plug away quietly at the writing, refining my craft.

As it happens, the pharmacy went out of business, which is completely understandable. Other retail pharmacist jobs are in fairly short supply. I'm sending resumes, setting up one-on-ones, networking, exploring other careers, meeting with people who do those other things, emailing mentors--doing all the stuff you're supposed to do for a job search and: nada. There were four conversations about running a hospital pharmacy in Guam but that ultimately went the way of all things.

Meanwhile, here comes this book, Acquainted with Squalor: Short Stories. It's just a little book. No big deal. A collection of short stories written by another aspiring talent from another MFA program. Great. I never thought it would be the one to bet the farm on. But what is happening is that doors are opening for the book that are not opening for my pharmacy career right now. And it's the most beautiful validation.

People are opening their homes. One of my best friends designed a tee shirt to match the book cover. A woman I know is driving with me to all the book events for the first week. Another friend is driving with me for several more. It just keeps happening. People just keep helping. A guy I know says he can introduce me to a photographer who can take the work, "to a whole other level." Three friends are helping me book events, which has led two more friends to suggest even more great locations.

What a bounty in the exact moment when it seemed I have no real prospects.

Still. There's this resistance to really offering myself to the work. I love to give 98% and then say it will all be supported by a pharmacist's income. Well, maybe the book will find its audience. Maybe the audience will love the characters the way I do.

Maybe it's possible to trust that enough, to follow this quiet path of openings and opportunities far enough that I will allow something to happen, which I don't believe can.

Promotions

I wish you guys could see my Hotmail inbox. It's where I send all the promotions. Just now I logged into it, because I need to track down my Apple ID again, lifelong quest.

Right there in the middle of the screen was "Go Green with Lobster Gram!"

Now this inbox is filled with all sorts of stuff: Stonewall Kitchen, Yankee Candle Company, DICK's Sporting Goods, The Saint Paul Hotel, credit cards, real estate agents,--you name it. I mean, we're talking seriously 26,170 unread messages and I purge, delete, archive, sweep this thing fairly frequently. So I'm not singling out Lobster Gram. I have nothing against them.

But. I'm telling you right now. Lobster Gram? Really? Come on. How many repeat customers do you think Lobster Gram gets? I'm sorry. But even if they have the email address I used in high school Lobster Gram is a one-time thing.

Plus. These companies really do not seem to get it that maybe I do not want to be reminded of my ex-husband's favorite uncle's fiftieth birthday every time I open my inbox. Am I right?

Okay. Fine.

Well. So. Here I'm about to go sell my book, right? And. I need to take this effort seriously, because I'm out of a job. (Dude, we seriously need some sales with this one.)

Anyway. So. As always I will make a personal attempt to toe the line between making sure you guys know these books have been written and incessant screaming into the deaf ear.

Marketing

Have you discussed marketing with anyone? Recently?

I've had several such discussions. They are not the most fun.

But, yes, I've spoken with a gentleman who may or may not have tweeted for the White House. (Would have cost $4,000 to move forward with him.) I've spoken with publicists who are very good and can prove it, though they want no part of being paid with a percentage of sales.

What to do?

Two weeks ago I spoke with another woman in marketing. She is quite good at her job and was generous with both her time and her attention to the project.

I showed her an article that explained how readers mainly buy books because the book was recommended or because it's by a known author.

She said, "Get known."

I stared at her.

Suffice it to say the interaction did not end well. I said, "Thank you for your time but I don't feel helped." She may or may not have left abruptly.

That's not the point. The point is that the only motto I have as a writer is, "I don't want to be here."

Now, yes, I've had that motto embroidered onto ball caps with the nathjones.com url on the back. But I can't even really wear that thing very many places myself, let alone ask anyone else to wear one.

When I'm feeling terribly anti-social that hat is the best defense against the world. However. Antisocial marketing postures really are not going to serve this cause of getting known. I highly doubt I'm to be embraced by a wide public if I show up at author events wearing an "I don't want to be here"/nathjones.com ball cap. You're supposed to be all touchy-feely, warm, approachable.

The worst part is that I actually am those things. Just, not as a writer. And, sorry, not with people I don't know. And, sorry again, I really don't want to know enough people to sell books only to people I do know and still make a living at it.

Plus I thought writers were supposed to remain at aloof distances and observe from above (or beyond) and all that. I was not prepared for, nor have I yet to fully accept, this new overly-familiar culture of readers who all know you personally and chat you up. Recently I've had more phone calls from fans than from family members. Call me old fashioned but I really don't think you need to be telephoning people you've never seen in the flesh.

Am I right?

(I hope so.)

Anyway. So. Regardless of what I think about how everything should be, it's time to: Get known.

Toward that end I spoke with my friend Alan this afternoon. He wants to help me do some barnstorming in the West. Could be fun. Then this evening I sat down with my friend Rose (also in marketing), who said, "Yes. Go. Do it." Or. Something. I wasn't really listening.

Christmas Eve

It's two in the morning. I'm on the couch surrounded by pictures of friends' children; a box of brownies, buckeyes, and bear claws; and what I have to imagine is a gag gift, at least in part. (Let's hope.)

Mom was here for a few days. We went through the mess of a first draft I'm blocking out for a new novel.

I had this idea that I should be focused on action, on cause and effect, on heroism, and on whatever else it is that helps a novel stand up on its own.

This whole concept of working on plot is great in theory. But to have the entire series of fits and false starts out in front of you, to hear it coming from the voice of another is to be confronted with just what a task the real writing will be.

I'm not ready.

I said to my mother, "It's hard."

She said, "It's real work."

I shut the laptop.

But as quickly as I threw some ideas down in the first place, rushed off and away from the manuscript when it became apparent that the writing would not be easy, I went back to the familiar grace of E.M. Forster's Aspects of the Novel. I read it for a while this morning at the coffee shop. I read it in the break room at work while waiting for the other employees to have our festive lunch.

It's quite bizarre to be reading something that well written in a room with place mats from the dollar store where a pad-locked chain drapes necessarily through both handles of a cabinet for band-aids and plastic forks.

It was my last time at this little dingy clinic at 48th & Ashland.

The setting in a novel matters so much, but the place where we read a book has almost no relevance. I was there in the quiet, in the good-bye, in the waiting while the girls were busy with their dental patients. Just when I would rather not deal with writing a real novel, it was impossible to deny the peace that emanates from a truly well-written book.

Love & Darts - Audio

We had an audience of one in mind for this project: an opal miner in Australia. I don't know how much it matters, what changes in the delivery or the voice--likely nothing.

But while we were recording Love & Darts, I thought of him, that man in a red tee shirt, tan suede steel-toed boots, and jorts. In my mind he kept drilling, chipping away, shoving hopeful pieces into his pocket, and then he'd lean back, in some floodlit hole, to rest for a moment and listen.

I would love to say that we've conquered the new publishing model, these home computers and Amazonian websites. However, I will not. What has happened is that Mike and I gutted our way through to the end of the thing. He dealt with most of it: the editing, the ACX stuff. My friend Gin made a cover from the original ebook cover designed by Ryan Bradley. We all kind of foundered our way from one thing to the next until all the little tasks were finished.

So. It's ready.

Submission

When I was making this task list of what's required to round out production of the On Impulse series, it all seemed hopeful and earnest and exactly what to do~!

Right now? Dragging myself from line item to line item? Yeah. I could really probably quit at any time and be fine.

One of the thirty-nine line items is to submit all the stories to at least three literary journals. That's fine. So, okay. I'm doing it. The work goes out. The rejections come back. The work goes out again.

There's almost no hope in this effort. The competition is ridiculous. Selection is preference, is subjective, is impossible to assure. But there is this sense that--I don't know, that it's at least worth meeting the goal. Just to keep with this curious effort of: does anything ever even happen if you take all these actions you're supposed to take?

I don't know. It doesn't seem like very much is happening. I swear to God if Chase Card Services calls me one more time and asks me whether I have an "alternative revenue stream", I'm going to tell them there will be one if every person on their call bank reviews these collections on Amazon.

Short of orchestrating that, it's this slow process, which, let's face it, is not incremental at all. Yet it's a constant forward motion, fractaling without expectation of arrival. So this morning "How to Cherish the Grief-Stricken" is going to The Georgia Review and Alaska Quarterly Review.

"Harbinger of Spring" is going to the Nimrod theme issue for the spring of 2015, because it's all about the circulatory system.

"That Hollow of a Poppy Stem" is going to Alaska Quarterly Review.

and "The Nightmare State of Leduc" is going to Nimrod.

I've printed all the stories. As soon as I address the envelopes, make some SASEs, and take them to the UPS store, everything for this line item, for this collection will be: Done.

I can't control the outcome. I can't make any journals publish the stories. But. I am grateful that the work is along classic lines. I know I could make a name for myself with work that's basically evidence of a behavioral disorder. I know that. I could already be famous. But. I'd most likely end up dead.

So. No. This is the work: to really tap the emotional life, to really write the kind of literature that is most human, most divine.

And. That's just harder to do well.

If these journals aren't interested in my effort, fine.

But. This is the work I want to do.

This is the work that will keep me alive for another fifty years.

Pre-order Acquainted with Squalor for 4/6/2015

Looks like the collection will probably be ready fairly soon. The literary journals are getting back to me about the individual short stories in Acquainted with Squalor. I uploaded the manuscript to Smashwords today and also sent some emails to reviewers.

We're looking pretty good for an April release.

Audiobook recording session 2

Mike and I have put a dent in the recording work for Love & Darts. There are twenty-four stories. We've recorded fifteen of them.

I tell you what, voice work is not easy. S's and P's are everywhere. Then with these long sentences? Omg. I definitely understand why voice actors get paid what they do. It was all lovely and lyrical when I was writing this stuff. But you would not believe how difficult it is to articulate some of this stuff out loud. It took us forty minutes to record one fifteen-minute track. I just kept stumbling over the phrases, tangling them up.

But, we're getting through it.

I still think it would be better to have a professional do this stuff. But Mike's going to Europe in a couple weeks. We want to have the project finished before he leaves. We didn't really have time to find another voice actor after Ryan moved on.

I've had a few requests that I do the voice work anyway. So. Whatever. It'll be what it is. I'm grateful for Mike's patience with my inexperience.

We should have the product online for you in the next few weeks.