Rachel Thompson's Blog, page 12

When I Said No: How Family Abuse Creates Trauma by @Wholisticmuse

***Trigger Warning*** Non-explicit mention of sexual abuse, secondary trauma

He hurt me on a fall afternoon in the nineties. I was seventeen and he was more than two decades older. Everyone knew him from his job at the local hospital – a highly educated professional who wore tailored suits to work. I doted on him.

Though not my real father, his presence still meant a lot to me. I looked up to him. I longed for him to be proud of me and love me like daddies love their little girls… but everything changed that day.

My first year living on my own (with the state’s help), my son, who could barely walk, and I lived on $300 a month—not enough money to do much of anything. Needless to say, things were constantly getting turned off. That day, I had no power. I needed help, so I reached out to the only person I felt I could trust, my dad.

Although embarrassed, I swallowed my pride and called him.  My voice trembled as I spoke to him, “Hi Dad, I need your help. My lights got turned off.”

“Oh kid,” he sighed. “How much do you need?” I told him then paused, “I don’t have the money now, but I’ll give it back to you on the first.”

“Don’t worry about it, brat. I’ll be by in an hour to take you to the power company.”  My anxiety subsided; he saved the day again, like many times before. I could depend on him. He’s my dad after all; why wouldn’t I trust him? He watched me grow from the time I was three years old. He tucked me in at night, bandaged my boo-boos, and wiped my tears when I cried. I loved him, but soon I saw he loved me differently.

Like clockwork, he arrived at my apartment and honked the horn. Happy to see him, I jumped in and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it, brat.” He repeated, then chuckled.

I gazed out of the window as he hummed to a distant jazz melody. The ride was short. He paid the bill, but I had to wait a few hours for my power to be turned on. He offered to drop me at his house to wait. I accepted.

“Thank you, Daddy. I really appreciate it.” I repeated. “I’ll pay you back ASAP.”

“You know, I thought of a way for you to pay me back.” He glanced at me then tugged at his ear.

“Ok, how?” I responded with a slight smile.

His pause made things weird; I felt everything move in slow motion, shades of memory. The year before, he tried to show me some photos that were hidden above the kitchen cabinet. He took them down, but apparently changed his mind at the last minute. I felt the same butterflies in my stomach.

He stuttered, “I…I…”

My eyes were glued to his lips, “What, Dad?” I laughed nervously.

He was silent once again as he turned into his driveway then parked the car. He looked at me with a crooked smile, then spoke, “I am wondering if we can exchange oral sex.”

My heart sank. I felt disgusted. My eyes filled with tears “What?!?” I could hardly catch my breath.

He repeated himself, this time his voice lower and steadier as he asked, “I am wondering if we can exchange oral sex?”

Tears stroll down my cheeks as I search for my father’s likeness in his eyes. Who is this stranger? I want to punch him, but the pain consumes me. I become immobilized. Eventually, anger fills my belly like fire and assists my roar, “NO!” I sob. He tries to explain, but I can no longer look at his face. I want out—away from the shell who I use to call my daddy. He grabs my arm; I rip it away and jump out of the car. He runs behind me.

“Wait, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” It was too late, the girl he watched grow disappeared into the darkness. Only despair remained in my hollowness.

“What did I do? Why would you say that to me?” I sobbed.

“Well…” he paused. “Your mom told me some things about you…”

Again, that horrible woman had betrayed me. It seemed she reveled at the fact that anyone could love me. Now she had taken away the only daddy I knew. I hated her.

“What could she have possibly said to you?” He had no words. I waited—I wanted to know.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He hurried past me and unlocked the door. “I have to go.” He shuffled to his Ford SUV and drove off.

He left me standing there, my heart shredded into a million pieces. Things would never be the same. He was no different than the man who raped me in Mississippi while I slept. The pain was the same. My body cringed at the thought of him entering me.

I wanted to rid myself of the pain, but it had no exit. I clawed at my chest and paced as my thoughts wandered. Was I ever his daughter, or was he just waiting for me to grow old enough to fuck? Had he always looked at me that way? Why me? His words stuck to me like glue. I felt filthy. My skin burned and I scratched harder. I wanted to forget but couldn’t. “God,” I pleaded, “Please take me. Dying is easier.” I waited, but nothing happened. My depression grew deeper.

I told my family—they made excuses and then acted like it never happened. They blamed me. They said I dressed too sexy. I believed them, even though I knew they were wrong. I stopped coming around. They told me to try harder. I could no longer pretend.

I resented him, but I resented them more for supporting his monstrous behavior. I lost myself that fall afternoon. Fragments of my brokenness remain. No one utters a word of that day.

My tenderness took a backseat to his sickness. I guess it’s easier to blame the victim.

 

About the Author:

Christy Lynn Abram is a Gravity Imprint Author, poet and Wholistic Muse. Through her books, workshops and insightful articles, Christy inspires others to find peace after trauma. www.christylynnabram.com

Twitter: @Wholisticmuse

Facebook: facebook.com/authorchristylynnabram

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places on Amazon. 

Photo courtesy of unsplash

The post When I Said No: How Family Abuse Creates Trauma by @Wholisticmuse appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

Two New Anthologies By Women For Women You Need To Buy Now

I’m honored to be included in two AMAZING anthologies released this past week:

Raw & Unfiltered by Feminine Collective (created by Julie Anderson and Marla Carlton, foreword by former supermodel Rachel Hunter). This anthology includes incredible writing by Gravity Imprint authors Kelly Wilson, Jackie Cioffa, and fellow author friends Hasty Dawn Words and Nicole Lyons. Their words…they leave me breathless.

PLUS: For the launch of this book, Feminine Collective has partnered with Women’s Center of LA. Now through March 31, 2016, Feminine Collective will donate 50% of the net proceeds from the book sales to Women’s Center of Los Angeles (WCLA). WCLA is a community of dedicated women with the shared goal of guiding, educating and supporting women and girls to attain the knowledge, confidence and courage for a life of personal success. On January 28, 2016, Feminine Collective will host a book launch party and fundraiser for WCLA in Los Angeles, open to the press.

and

Embraceable: Empowering Facts and True Stories About Women’s Sexuality by August McLaughlin (creator of the dynamic Girl Boner radio show and blog). August is an amazing talent and one of the strongest, most vocal supporters of women’s sexuality I’ve ever met. She’s fearless, brave, and honest. And really, really nice. This collection is just, wow. 

Purchase both anthologies on Amazon now! Support female writers, female initiatives, and the wealth of experiences women bring to this world. Plus, regardless of gender, these books are full of some of the most talented writers I’ve ever read, and I’m still pinching myself that I’m even involved.

I always say #WriteWhatScareYou, so I went there with my writing for both pieces. Here’s a snippet from one of my pieces in Raw & Unfiltered, titled Fools:

“It bothered him I had secrets he knew about, and even more he didn’t.

He wasn’t the one, after all those many years, I felt like giving my secrets virginity to, scorching his ego more than how I secretly laughed at, and loathed, his thirty-second erections.

I am the fool, because I stay. It is enough.

Treating me that way, the only way he knows but doesn’t see, twisting his thorny truths to fit flat in his palm of lies.

I am the fool because he stays. He is enough.

No, I don’t want to listen anymore! I can’t hear what will happen, what might change, meaningless letters dripping from his tongue, digging into my skin. Decades of faith lost inside my bones, I gasp at the sharp, messy realization of my mistake.

I loved him. Something so simple becomes so terribly complicated. I believed in him, and then I didn’t. Left to right, right to left, up and down, down and up, marching marching marching through endless days. Opposites attract until they collide and atoms smash, leaving behind an explosive mess of ashes and pain.

But we didn’t explode. It was more a quiet implosive retreat, patiently gathering my forces and wits, strategically placing every moment on my hidden board of fools, waiting, biding, holding each breath, pushing down every bitter verbal volley until I could finally, finally say it: leave.”

Visit Feminine Collective to read the entire piece. Both books make excellent Christmas presents for both the women and men in your life. So…go!

Thank you, as always, for supporting my work. Broken Pieces continues to hit the #1 Women’s Poetry spot on Amazon and Top 5 spot on Women Authors, which is amazing to me. I cannot thank my readers enough for spreading the word and your kind shares and reviews. Broken Places is winning awards and continues to stay in the Top 5 spot on Women’s Poetry and Women Authors on Amazon as well. 

Please visit the Gravity Imprint website (which I direct for Booktrope) for more incredible stories from talented authors about trauma and recovery. I handpicked each story. I think you’ll be amazed.

 

 

 

 

 

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This is What Happens When Manipulation is Disguised as Lov​e ​by @AugstMcLaughlin

 

“Do you know how likely it is that you have HIV?” my then boyfriend asked. “That we have HIV?”

What? His words stung though I could barely wrap my mind around them.

We’d only been together a few months, but the relationship already felt serious. This new kind of seriousness was unfathomable.

I was a model/actress, he was a scientist/physiologist. If either of us understood STI risks and overall health well, it was him.

Shortly before, I’d described symptoms I was struggling with. His storm of questions had started with my physical health, shifting quickly to my lifestyle habits.

“How many partners have you had?” he asked, his tone more doctor than boyfriend.

I began to count in my head.

His stare deepened. “You don’t even know how many guys you’ve slept with?”

“I know approximately. I’ve never had to care.” I came up with a number.

He paused, disappointed. “I never would’ve guessed you were promiscuous.”

Had I been? Later, I would realize he’d “slut”-shamed me. At the time, I wondered if he was right—if I really was “slutty” for having more partners than a good girl has and HIV was my punishment.

“Wait.” An epiphany showed on his face. “That photo of you with _____ (a celebrity). Was he… Did you….”

Gulp.

“Tell me you used protection,” he demanded.

“We did…most of the time.” Shit.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. You know he has STIs, right? And, at least, a 50/50 chance of HIV?”

Then, those life-altering questions: “Do you know how likely it is that you have HIV? That we have HIV?”

Sweat coated my palms. I shook, tears flooding my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

We sat in silence.

“Listen.” Voice softening, he reached for my hand. “If we do have this, it’s okay. I love you. We’ll be okay. There’s good treatment now…”

In that moment, I promised myself that I would make it up to him, no matter what our health outcome turned out to be.

Sure it was a newish relationship, but everything had seemed ideal—until now. Everyone loved this handsome, successful, kind and charismatic guy, coining us the “perfect couple.” The least I could do for hurting us was up my commitment.

I canceled my plans to visit family for the holidays; I would stay with him, likely forever. How could I have done something so awful?

The next day I took myself to a clinic that offered free, rapid HIV testing. Sitting in the lobby, I felt an odd kinship with the people around me. Some of us probably have it.

My heart broke as a man exited the clinician’s room sobbing.

Deep breath. My turn.

Is this it? The moment I learn that my life changes forever?

The woman who conducted the test told me she was living with HIV herself. She was vibrant, beautiful and nearly put me at ease. I wondered if the lavender aroma was her choice of perfume or used as calming aromatherapy.

She looked down at the test.

Oh, dear God…

She looked me in the eyes. “Negative.”

The stress balloon I’d become deflated as I leaped into her arms. “Thank you!”

From there, I saw my physician, who assured me that I merely had a bladder infection.

I tucked my HIV test results into a greeting card, with an apologetic note to my boyfriend. We spent the holidays together, just the two of us, me still riddled with guilt over the stress I’d brought upon us and grateful that he’d stuck by me anyway.

Beneath the guilt and gratitude, a sense of off-ness poked at me; something wasn’t right. Actually, many things weren’t right. I would later realize that jealousy and the desire to control and “keep” me inspired his extreme reaction to my UTI symptoms, and many similar bumps along the way.

Eventually, I’d listen to my instincts—but not until the bumpiness triggered a lasting flare-up of the major depression I’d struggled with years before.

There’s a meme I’ve seen many times on Facebook that says, essentially, “Before you go self-diagnosing yourself with depression, make sure you’re not simply surrounded by assholes.”

Well, sometimes both are true. Sometimes the very sensitivity that makes us more vulnerable to depression makes us more vulnerable to toxic relationships. But it can also help us.

Depression ended up saving me; I had to get out of that relationship in order to thrive again. I sought help—both therapy and temporary medication—left my boyfriend and moved to a healthier place, physically and emotionally. No longer blaming myself, I’d broken free from the manipulation that had been disguised as love.

 

About the Author: 

August McLaughlin is an award-winning, nationally recognized health and sexuality writer, radio personality and host and creator of Girl Boner®. Her work appears in DAME Magazine, the Huffington Post, The Good Men Project and more. Kirkus Reviews called her first novel, In Her Shadow, “an engaging story with an inventive structure and an intriguing focus on body-image issues.” Her latest book, Embraceable: Empowering Facts and True Stories About Women’s Sexuality, is a celebration of women’s sensuality. Each week on Girl Boner® Radio, she interviews relationship experts, celebs and more, exploring women’s lives and sexuality “like no one else.” Known for melding personal passion, artistry and activism, August uses her skills as a public speaker and journalist to inspire other women to embrace their bodies and selves, making way for fuller, more authentic lives. www.augustmclaughlin.com  Twitter: @AugstMcLaughlin

 

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places on Amazon. 

Photo courtesy of pixabay

The post This is What Happens When Manipulation is Disguised as Lov​e ​by @AugstMcLaughlin appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

Once Upon a Time: Ignoring Rape in a Modern Fairytale by @willvanstonejr

The other day, I was happily watching the latest episode of ABC’s Once Upon a Time when Zelena/The Wicked Witch, Regina/Evil Queen’s half-sister, was allowed to see the baby she’d recently given birth to. It was supposed to be a sweet scene and as mother and child were reunited, Zelena looked all smiley and glowy. But I couldn’t get that damn nagging voice in my head to shut up, mostly ‘cause it was too right.

That baby is a rape baby. And no one has even whispered this fact.

PREVIOUSLY ON ONCE UPON A TIME…

Marion, through magic and time travel and other fantastical insanity, was brought back from the dead when Emma, the Savior, well, saved her from becoming The Evil Queen’s victim. Or at least she thought that. After Marion and Robin Hood (Regina’s love) ran off together to try and be a happy family, audiences were shocked to discover that Zelena had used magic to fool everyone into thinking she was Marion (who is dead for reals. Maybe. Who knows.) and, while shape-shifted, slept with Robin.

No, wait. She raped Robin.

Not in the “tie him down and stuff him full of Viagra” way that so many foolishly believe is the only way to rape a dude. She lied to him, made him think she was his dead wife and got horizontal. Robin Hood never consented to sex with Zelena. He consented to sex with Marion.

And without consent… c’mon, say it with me… it’s rape.

Yet there she was, holding her baby right in front of Robin. Her victim. And this is being ignored why…?

Storyline? Lame. And lazy. Cause the vics a man? Pathetic and slap-worthy. Maybe they don’t know? Well, that’s just ignorant. And the most obvious choice. So listen, Once Upon a Time writers; I’m gonna break it down just for you.

RAPE, DEFINED

Rape is, in its most basic form, a sex act done without your partner’s consent. Now, consent occurs when your partner agrees to have the sexytime with you. You. Not your cousin or bff or creepy Uncle Joel. You. When you do something like use magic to make your partner think you are someone else (and it’s not some kinky game you two agreed to beforehand), you are not giving your partner the opportunity to make an informed decision and without that, consent cannot be given.

Simple, right? Now, let’s review what you did: you took Zelena, who is not Marion, and had her take Marion’s form without having Robin know. He believed, because of Zelena’s words and actions, that he was with Marion. And they made a baby.

Where in that scenario did Robin consent? If you said “nowhere,” congrats; you’re not a total fucking dumbass.

RAPE CULTURE… FOR MEN

There’s this thing referred to as rape culture and it’s as bad as it sounds. Whenever rape is viewed as something other than what it is – that’d be rape in case you were being ignorant again – that culture becomes bigger and meaner and more dangerous than before. You might think oh, but she didn’t force him so it’s not really rape, but you’d be stupidly wrong, and making rape okay when it’s so not.

Thanks to society’s obsession with toxic masculinity and Real ManTM bullshit, even when a man recognizes he’s been raped, he doesn’t speak up as often as a woman. Why? Well, he’s been told all his life by stupid society that men can’t be raped and if he is, he’s not really a man.

Cause, you know, reasons. That suck.

When you have this sort of malarkey on a family show – kiddies watch it – you’re showing those boys in your audience that men have no say in the sex they have. This sort of shit will stay with them – maybe forever – and give them a totally messed up definition of rape.

Hm. I wonder why rape culture is so widespread, even among otherwise intelligent men.

CAN WE FIX IT? YES, WE CAN!

Listen, OUAT, you can fix this. Very easily. Call what Zelena did rape and go from there. Hell, have Robin, a big, strong man, work toward the realization that he was sexually assaulted. Y’all love story arcs; use it.

If boys see a man, a hero, take the steps to understand what happened to him and then have to work through it, Robin Hood becomes a real life hero; someone to inspire the younger generations not too old to relearn this hell. Don’t be stupid like DC or the dude who wrote Faggit.

Become part of the solution instead of the fucking problem.

 

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places on Amazon. 

Photos courtesy of pixabay

The post Once Upon a Time: Ignoring Rape in a Modern Fairytale by @willvanstonejr appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

The Painful Double-Edged Sword of Dissociation by @BobbiLParish

Laurel and Hardy

I spent eight years of my childhood at the mercy of the nuns at St.Paul’s Catholic School. They were not happy women, and they didn’t care if we were happy either. In their opinion, it was not their calling to make us happy. No, their duty was of a much higher purpose: to save our souls from eternal hellfire by educating our minds and striking fear into our hearts. They excelled at both.

We were taught that seeking happiness was a selfish and foolish endeavor. There were much greater ideals to strive for, like repentance from our sinful nature and complete obedience to God’s wishes (as interpreted by God’s representative on Earth, the Pope, who told the priests who told the nuns who were tasked with teaching them to us). Happiness would not get us closer to salvation. But brokenness and suffering, those were a one-way ticket to the skies parting and a dove descending to perch upon our shoulder.

Because happiness was so close to sitting on the same shelf as sin, we were allowed few pleasures by the nuns. There were two things we would do for fun: square dance, and watch Laurel and Hardy movies. I knew how to do-si-do before I learned how to multiply. I could take it or leave it. But when we were herded down to the big music room and I saw the old reel to reel projector set up I was giddy, at least for the first four years.

The nuns had a stash of old black and white Laurel and Hardy movies that we watched. Over and over again. Every year, the same movies. I didn’t care. I loved them. They transported me away to a life of laughter and happiness, someplace I was never allowed to go to any other time, at school or at home. Those movie days were one of the rare joys I had in my life, until about the fourth grade.

Dissociation

At the age of nine the sexual abuse I endured at home had turned very ugly. The only way my mind could find to cope was dissociation. When my abuser showed up in my bedroom I flew away into the pictures I had drawn on the bottom of my sisters bed bunked above mine. Depending on the amount of damage done by the abuse, I would return to my body later that night or sometimes not for days. Dissociation saved me. It allowed me to survive a situation that would have otherwise been unendurable.

But over time, my mind grew so adept at dissociation that I had no control over it. I would fly away whenever a switch, that I no longer had access to, flipped in my head. Although it saved me, dissociation also took from me one of my few joys in life. In exchange, it brought me even more shame and social isolation.

Starting in the fourth grade, after we were arranged in precise lines sitting cross-legged on the music room floor when the lights were switched off and the filmed images began flowing over the screen I would fly away into the movie. I became a black and white caricature of myself, laughing and playing a part in the comedy sketches alongside Laurel and Hardy. Until the lights snapped back on. Or something happened around me that caused such a ruckus that my mind called me back into my body.

That ruckus was often caused by my classmates, making fun of me. At some point, someone noticed that I dissociated during the movies. They watched my jaw go slack and my eyes glaze over. My body was completely still, lifeless without my mind occupying it.

The first time I was suddenly snapped back into my body my eyes refocused on my classmates staring at me, laughing. I was disoriented. Why were they laughing at me? My eyes settled on my cousin, sitting two rows in front of me. He was my favorite cousin, only a few months younger than me. I had always been jealous of him. He’d led such a charmed life. Cute, athletic, smart and the darling of our entire family, he was at the epicenter of popularity at school. One year his younger sister made quite the pocket full of money selling his school pictures to her female classmates.

When my eyes caught his I must have had a puzzled look on my face. Immediately he let his own jaw go slack and crossed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. The realization hit me like a literal blow. He was mocking me. They all were laughing at ME because I had flown away and left my body behind.

My eyes shot to my lap, where my hands grasped one another tightly. I had only myself to hold my hand as shame took the shape of hot tears dripping down my face. I didn’t wipe them away, hoping that in the darkness my classmates wouldn’t see them. I let the rest of the movie pass with my eyes focused on my lap. Eventually, my tears dried, but I didn’t trust myself to watch the movie again.

The next movie day I was resolved not to fly away again. I lectured my brain to behave, that happiness and pleasure were not acceptable pursuits. But once again my mind betrayed me, slipping into the familiar state of dissociation within moments of Laurel and Hardy’s arrival on the screen.

I snapped back at the noise of the laughter. This time rows and rows of students were staring at me. There, in their midst was my cousin, laughing and nudging his friends, sacrificing me to his altar of popularity.

I lost Laurel and Hardy as one of the few sources of pleasure in my life. From that point forward I hated movie days, sitting in the dark staring at my hands and humming tunes in my head to distract myself from the movie soundtrack. I had no idea why I flew away into the movies, but I hated myself for it. The dissociation had come to save me, but not without a price. It was a double-edged sword – one side slicing off my awareness of my abuse but the other side hacking away at the limited connections I had to joy and my peers. I was alive, but what life was this I was left with?

Repairing the Damage

As I grew, dissociation continued to serve me, but it also continued to cost me a price I scarcely had the resources to pay. I lost jobs, relationships, and so much time because I couldn’t stay present in my body. My thirtieth birthday passed before I finally gained the capability to stay here in this world regardless of the stresses and triggers that came my way.

It’s been another two decades of repairing the damage caused by my abuse and dissociation and building a life for myself that I enjoy living. I am thankful that dissociation was available to me as a means of coping with my abuse. I still mourn the loss of those precious hours of freedom with Laurel and Hardy when I could laugh and play without worrying that my abuser would steal my space and claim possession of my body.

When I close my eyes, I can still see that little black and white caricature of myself, blissfully free and full of joy. That little me, she deserved so much more. I let her play and laugh anytime she wants now, without the boundaries of shame or abuse. It won’t make up for what she lost. Nothing can. The pain of our past is easier to bear now that we are in control – not our abuser or the double-edged sword of dissociation.

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places for the month of November 2015 for only $2.99! on Amazon. 

Photos courtesy of pixabay

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The Reasons Hollywood Has A Pedophile Problem by @willvanstonejr

*Trigger Warning*

So a few months ago, I rediscovered one of the best bad horror films I’d ever seen. When I first watch Clownhouse, I must’ve been ten-ish and on my friend’s beat-up sofa munching stale popcorn and drinking Kool-Aid while a perfect mix of stupidity, pointlessness and violence played out on screen. What more could a horror loving boy ask for?

So, naturally, when I found it floating around YouTube, I was all happy and shit – especially once I found it was as terribly awesome (or is that as awesomely terrible?) as ever. I even decided to write up a review for it to premier during Halloween-month. To prepare, as always, I Googled all about it.

Why? Why the hell did I do that? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

CHILDHOOD RUINED

Turns out, the horror on screen paled to what happened on set. The film’s director, Victor Salva molested the film’s twelve-year-old star, Nathan Forrest Winters. Molested. Here, let me say that again:

M.O.L.E.S.T.E.D.

On film. ON FILM. He recorded the sick shit he made the boy do. For four years. That means from the ages of eight to twelve, Winters was repeatedly sexually assaulted.

Makes my skin crawl in ways that cheesy little movie never could.

Winters, showing true strength, eventually told his parents what happened and Salva was arrested, tried and sent to prison for three years (outrageous), but only served eighteen months (bullshit).

That was 1987. Fast forward to 1995 and Powder was released. Y’know, that one about the magical albino kid? Well, guess who directed it. Did you say… Victor Salva? Then you, my friend, are right. Here, have a cookie. You’ll need it.

In less than a decade, Salva went from dirty kiddie diddler to major motion picture director. How’d he pull that off? Shouldn’t he be persona non grata after what he did to a little boy who was manipulated into trusting him? Well, at least there were no minors on set, right? Um, maybe. The producers admitted, when they were presented with Salva’s past (which they claimed not to know about until during production) couldn’t say if all actors were over eighteen.

F.U.C.K. Y.O.U.

Oh, and did you catch the knowing while filming? I’d ask why his ass wasn’t fired but I’m sure there’d be a bullshit, ass-covering excuse and I don’t feel like dropping another f-bomb so soon.

(Disney-owned Buena Vista, who distributed the film claim they never knew. Because of their family-friendly reputation, which they rely on for their continued success, I’m gonna give ‘em the benefit of the doubt on this one.)

NOT A CAREER KILLER

Following the hubbub surrounding Powder’s release, brought to you by Nathan Forrest Winters who protested it (have I said how bloody brave this boy, who was twenty by then, is?), Salva should’ve been tossed out like the trash he is. Only he wasn’t. In 2001, Jeepers Creepers premiered and thrust him back into the spotlight. Luckily, again, no sign of underage boys anywhere near set. Small consolation.

There shouldn’t have been a set. There shouldn’t have been a Jeepers Creepers, no matter how enjoyable the film was. Salva, even though found in possession of many homemade child porn tapes, shouldn’t keep getting work. Especially when kids are involved – like with Jeepers Creepers II.

Yes, he was allowed to work with a child. Did no one tell the boy’s ‘rents? Why would they do that?

Isn’t a child’s well-being more important than some crappy sequel? Oh, wait…

 

G.R.E.E.D.

FOR THE RIGHT PRICE, HOLLYWOOD FORGIVES ANYTHING

The sad truth is, Hollywood doesn’t care what you do. Look at Mel Gibson, Sean Connery, Woody Allen, Michael Jackson and Bill Cosby. All have done really fucked up shit, from drunken racist rants to wife beating to sexual assault, yet they still have careers (even the dead pervert). And when Hollywood says, “it’s cool,” the world follows suit.

C’mon, H’wood. Stop it. Don’t be an enabler. You make it way too easy for dirtbags to keep being dirtbags. It’s one thing when Gibson goes all “sugar tits” and spits out a pathetic non-apology and is welcomed back into the fold, but Salva put his penis in a boy’s mouth. Big. Fucking. Difference.

But I guess all that money a child molester makes you makes up for what he did to Nathan Forrest Winters…who was EIGHT when it began. Eight. And he’s not the only one. Remember Corey Haim (you know, the cute one) and how he told the world about how pedo-happy Hollywood types are? The casting couch is no place for a child (or an adult for that matter). Directors and producers are in positions of power and have no right to use that power to make actors do things that anyone not a perv would find despicable. Stop being a haven for them.

I’d like to think in 2015, things would be better and horrible people like Victor Salva would no longer be welcome in Hollywood. But Jeepers Creepers III is coming so I think it’s a safe bet that people like him, who commit heinous acts against children, will be welcomed with open arms and bushels of cash.

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places for the month of November, 2015 for only $2.99! on Amazon. 

Photos courtesy of pixabay

The post The Reasons Hollywood Has A Pedophile Problem by @willvanstonejr appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

Why I Honor The Island of Exiled Children by @BobbiLParish

PAST

When I was a little girl — before cable television, Netflix, and even VHS tapes — I used to wait every December for the newspaper to print the schedule of Christmas shows. Frosty the Snowman and Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town were rare annual treats. If you missed them, there was no replay or DVR’d copy. You had to wait another year.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was my favorite. I could identify with that little reindeer. As hard as he tried, he didn’t fit in. Everyone else could see he was different, and they didn’t like it. He sat on the sidelines while the other reindeer romped. So did I. Watching Rudolph get rejected by his fellow reindeer both gave me solace that I wasn’t alone and made me sad, for both of us.

But when Rudolph, the Prospector and Hermey the Elf arrived on the Island of Misfit Toys, it didn’t just leave me sad, it broke my heart. There was a collection of creatures that weren’t just ignored by others because they were different, but they were rejected. Thrown away. Exiled to a land completely separate from those who belonged. Misfits, literally.

I was a misfit, too. So different, because of the nighttime visits by my father, that I didn’t belong amongst “normal” children. The world hadn’t thrown me away yet. But they would, I knew it. Every day, I waited to be exiled, like the toys on the Island of Misfit Toys. It was, in my mind, inevitable.

It didn’t happen during the years I continued to eagerly await the December announcements of Rudolph’s arrival. It didn’t happen during my adolescence when watching the little reindeer was no longer cool. Instead, I lived in the limbo space where I walked just outside the boundaries of the lives of those who belong, watching but not welcome to join in. The exile didn’t happen…until it did.

I kept the secret of the nighttime visits because he said I was special and no one would understand. And it was my fault, too, he said. Telling on him would be telling on myself. At three years old, I was complicit. I knew my guilt could contribute to my being exiled. I kept the secret for that reason, too.

In my twenties, a family member found my childhood journals and, even though I begged her not to, spilled the contents out into the public. I was given the chance to deny its truth. But I couldn’t. Even though I had not intended for the existence of my abuse to be known by anyone other than my father, I and those that enabled him, I didn’t want to cower before my family anymore. I stood tall and held fast.

My exile was swift. Instantaneous. One moment on the fringe of belonging, the next on the Island of Exiled Children. Even though I was an adult before, here I was, the little girl made misfit by her father’s touch. I’ve never been home again.

PRESENT 

I am not alone here on the island. There are many others. All of us exiled from our families because we dared to speak, stand by or even hint at the truth of our childhood abuse. It was much easier to ostracize us, the victim, than to acknowledge a criminal had existed in their midst for years, or even decades.

We are all here alone, but together. Some of us are more ready to come together into a new semblance of chosen families than others. For a few, that time will never come. They chose aloneness over the risk of pain from any further relationships.

Even though we may build a new house here on the island, that over time may begin to feel like something of a home, it takes years for that longing to leave the island to die away. Although we may understand in our logical minds what landed us in this place, it is a whole other matter to make peace with this exile in our hearts.

FUTURE

Sometimes you will see a child sitting on the shoreline, grieving and trying to catch a glimpse of their former home on the horizon. Often it isn’t their actual home that they are mourning, but the lost opportunity to be standing by should a miracle occur and their family transform into the loving, kind, accepting people that the child has longed for their entire life.

I’ve been on this island for two decades now. In fact, I celebrated my 20th-year Arrivalversary last month. I still visit the shoreline to grieve my exile. As hard as I have worked to make peace with being shunted off to this place there are still moments, though far and few between now, when I cuddle up with my “what ifs” on the beach. I shed a few tears and scoop sand into an igloo mound between my feet. There is no more searching the horizon for my home, though. I know it isn’t there anymore.

It is here, on the sand and soil of this island. Here my truth is welcome. Here, I belong.

Interested in learning more about Rachel’s services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places for the month of November, 2015 for only $2.99! on Amazon. 

Photos courtesy of pixabay

The post Why I Honor The Island of Exiled Children by @BobbiLParish appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

Stop Worrying What Others Think And Write Your Damn Story

‘How do you share intensely personal stories without worrying about what people will think?’ someone asked me in the comments of the article I wrote recently for SheWrites. I get asked this a lot, and I think it’s jumping ahead a step.

Back up to first getting there: you have to give yourself permission to write the hard stuff. You can’t think about, ‘What will mama say?’ because last I checked, none of us wants to become our mothers (no offense to moms). Write for you, not what someone else will say. You need to give yourself some tough love!

You are allowed to tell your story, unless for some reason, you’ve been ordered by a court of law not to, or if you fear for your life. Even then, I believe it’s okay to fictionalize your story, or take a pen name, but I’m not in that situation so I can’t share that particular experience. If sharing your story will put your life or someone else’s at risk, definitely weigh your options and consider a pseudonym.

Let’s deconstruct.

PERMISSION

One hurdle many authors have to get over is worrying about what their family will think. Every family is quite different, but most are so busy with daily life, the fact that there’s a writer in the family means little. I always laugh when I read reviews that say ‘the author must have gotten her family members to write glowing reviews,’ because — as most authors will attest — our families could give a flying sack of rat crap about what we do or don’t do. Few read our work. Even fewer review it. Mostly, they just want to know: are you on the New York Times Bestseller list yet? (No.) So, how about them Yankees? (*crickets*)….

Writing a book (or a blog or articles) is very lonely, individual work, which is why most writers love it so much, given our introverted nature (for some, not all, obviously). The positive aspect of this is that there’s nobody standing over our shoulder saying, ‘Oh my god! You can’t write THAT!!!’ Right? So get over yourself. Write anything you want. Fiction, nonfiction, whatever it is — get out of your own way.

In fact, try just for fun, to write the exact opposite of who you are. I have one client who’s an Ivy League MBA in a large accounting firm who writes erotica under a pen name and he’s doing very well.

BOOKS

As I discovered through my own process of writing about difficult topics in Broken Pieces and Broken Places, it’s hard to let all that crap go. What will so and so say/think/feel? But you know what? It’s our story to tell, nobody else’s. I decided to share stories of my childhood sexual abuse in a way that isn’t a trigger (I hope) for other survivors, but that makes people uncomfortable, because there’s no way to sugarcoat the subject. And I didn’t want to.

If my book isn’t for you, don’t read it. I give plenty of warning that it’s not unicorns and rainbows. You owe it to yourself to write your story. Nobody else. YOU.

ARTICLES/EXCERPTS

Leading up to the publication of your book, I suggest you reach out to readers (always, every day, constantly), reviewers, book bloggers, and other writers or publications who are interested in reading about the topic you are writing about. I do many guest posts and interviews, because I reach out to people and connect with them. I feature many authors here on this blog who share incredibly stirring stories of real life. That’s what fascinates me, and it gives them a chance to discuss difficult topics they may not be able to write about on their own blogs.

As for my business side, I draw from my eighteen-plus years of sales and marketing, plus all I’ve learned since I began writing professionally in 2007, and put that into articles that can hopefully help others or answer some  questions, as well as drawing on experts.

Bottom line: you want people to read your work, so stop hiding from yourself. Once you clear that hurdle, write your damn book already.

 

Interested in learning more about my services or books? Click here. Purchase Broken Pieces or Broken Places for the month of November, 2015 for only $2.99! on Amazon. 

The post Stop Worrying What Others Think And Write Your Damn Story appeared first on Rachel Thompson.

For the Daughter I Never Had with guest @TroccoloSusan

You know, your changes have nothing on mine. I’m getting older and quirkier by the day. I watch my body change and it is clear that I am not in control of anything, just whatever is peering from my eyes. It is funny—in the right mood—to see the skin take on a life of its own, folding and sagging in places and acquiring spots. Sometimes it stays put where I squeeze it, which is unnerving. And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges, says Shakespeare. Is this revenge? Is it malevolence when the skin folds and sags? And when stirring sugar in my coffee cup and for the tiniest fraction of a second, the teaspoon stops but the hand doesn’t, what do I do then? Look at my hand with murder in my eyes? Maybe I’m afraid my hand will betray me. Maybe I’m afraid it will all betray me.  It will change, but this is no betrayal. Just a promise kept. The promise that is new life and the incendiary promise that life will end. Gardeners know about this. No daughter could save me from it. I can’t tell if what I long for is the usual legacy wish—keeping humanity going, though by all indications it’s going well enough without me. Is it the grandchild wish? Pictures in the wallet? The family to invite me to Thanksgiving when I’m eighty? Some rescue from loneliness? No. It is not a daughter’s job—to rescue her mother.

Still she haunts me, this daughter I never had. What if I’ve made her a placeholder for loss? All kinds of loss, some having nothing to do with her? What kind of thing is that to do to a daughter?

The question I hadn’t planned for came on a weekend away with friends. There were six of us—close women friends—away from our families, jobs and the usual responsibilities. We had known each other for years, so we were comfortable talking about everything.

After dinner, we sat on big pillows in front of the fireplace in a cozy old beach house. I remember hearing the waves breaking on the rocks outside and the hollow wooden chimes pushed around by the wind. Some of us had mugs of hot tea, with organic looking teabag labels draped over the top. We were a green tea crowd. There was a lot of talk about mothers and daughters; a lot of whining, complaining too.

My friend’s question was almost an afterthought: Your mom gave you so much in your early years, don’t you wish you had a daughter to share all this with? Nobody had ever put it like that before.  A daughter.  I thought my heart would break. I said—too quickly—“no, I have found ways to share.” But my eyes betrayed me and everybody saw it.

My friend’s face crumbled into horrified apology. She hadn’t meant to hurt. Reaching for a Kleenex, she said: “Of course, there are other ways to share!”

I’ve toyed on the edges of her question for years, and I have come to an honest answer. I didn’t have a child because I didn’t really want one. When the biological urge washed over me, I’d say to myself: wait forty-eight hours and see if you still feel this way. Two days would pass and the motherhood urges along with them. So, why dredge them up now?

Today—a summer’s day—in my garden, I think: This could be a good day to look at this daughter I never had. If I am going to look a heartache in the face, a garden is a good place to do it. It is time to explore this ache. It is time to knead it into something I can finally use.

I will knead it long; work in the oil, the salt, sweetness that makes it rise. Then I will bake it—laying out here in the sun—and eat it hot.

I pick a tomato from one of the vines and feel its hot red skin. I want my heartache to be visible so I can see its outlines, like the outlines of this tomato. But there is a catch: the details. I suppose I could tell my daughter about her childhood; children always want to know about their childhood.

You were the first miracle I’d ever known. Nobody had to tell me how to hold you. I wanted you to know my skin and my smell. I wanted to nuzzle your dark hair against my cheek. I was astonished to see that there were places on your head where I could see your life pulsing.

There is a pressure in my chest now. This might be harder than I had imagined. If I can only go with what I know in the garden—the hours I spend working without thinking, the hours tucking vines around their poles, feeding, suckering, watering, harvesting. The soil is warm today. Somebody planted that daughter in me years ago.

You were so silly sometimes. Once when you were a little girl, you escaped down the hallway after your bath because you didn’t want to put your clothes on. I caught up with you in my room looking at yourself in the full-length mirror laughing and pointing. What did you see there? I wanted to scoop you up in a fluffy towel and hold you, but you made a slippery escape and kept running.

Hot and perspiring now, I find a smooth place to lie on my back and watch the corn sway. There would never have been any guarantees. Who knows what you would have said to your friends at an all girl weekend while you held your mug of green tea? You might have said I never understood you and that you were glad to leave home. I wonder how my mother felt, before she died, about raising two daughters who were so different. I wonder if she ever thought about it or if parents just take that as a given. I’d like to think my sister and I could talk about anything, but we can’t. We have to keep the conversation light or my sister gets nervous. I make her nervous because I’m prone to introspection. Jill hates introspection. When she almost died from cirrhosis of the liver a few years ago, the moment I cherish most was the time she let me help her out of bed. She actually asked for some help. I try too hard with my sister, I know. Big sisters get a bad rap. Just as a joke during our last phone call, I said, “OK smart aleck, we’ll just take turns with the big sister thing. I was the big sister last year, now you be the big sister this year.” I heard all the air being sucked out of the line.

It was silent for a long time. I thought Jill was laughing, but she was crying, “No, I can’t. I can’t be the big sister. I’ll screw it up.”

Time passed and you had slumber parties and school plays. You had flute lessons and soccer practice. You outgrew your shoes and your wisdom teeth. Life was both better and harder because of you. We went one summer to a small town on the coast for vacation. You were ten years old that year with long legs like a colt. We walked on the old dock curling our toes at the edge of our sandals because of the long splinters in the sea-torn wood. It was September, but there was a chill in the air and fog in our pockets. We watched men loading wooden crates on to barges. The ships groaned with the sound of metal against wet, creaking rope and wood. You stood mesmerized before the largest ship there, an ocean liner going to Finland. When the ship’s horn shook the depths of its metal hull and dark smoke churned through the fog, you shivered.  The ship groaned away, slipping heavily through the deep water and you asked, “Is God like a ship going to Finland?”

What could I say to you about God? I don’t know myself. But we could have walked in the garden on a day like today. “Get down on your hands and knees with me”,  I would say. “Look close at the bean sprout, see how it knows already what it will become. Look at how the potato greens up; then dies back when it goes underground to make the potato. See the roots of that red sunset maple, as deep in the ground as the maple is high. Hear the voice of the wind in the hollows of your ears. Listen for the voice of the rain on the corn, and all the voices pushing up towards the sun—only listen with me. You will have your answer.”

The teenage girls were standing in a circle in front of the long mirror in the school bathroom. It was your school bathroom and you were among them.  At thirteen, you were all legs and arms and shiny hair. The circle was vibrating with energy and giggles. Some of you had braces on your teeth; most had T-shirts that didn’t completely cover their tummies. You were all talking non-stop to each other, but looking in the mirror at yourselves as you talked. Nobody seemed to mind this—it was understood that you could talk to each other without looking at each other. Really the whole purpose of the talk seemed to be to watch yourselves say things, laugh, toss your hair and laugh some more while watching the effect in the mirror. You were trying to figure out who you were—and desperately hoping the mirror would provide some clues.

I never carried you for nine months. I never planned birthday parties for you or put a band-aide on your scraped knee. I didn’t feel your wet tears against my cheek. We didn’t have that talk about sex. We didn’t go and visit colleges. I don’t know who you would be by now, now that I am old enough to be a grandmother to your children. That is, if you had even decided to have children.

The sun is dark red in the sky. This is the time of day the tomatoes love. I sit in the heat of that late day sun, tears on my face, dirty hands and dirty nails, my basket full of dirt-caked vegetables. I am worn out, but lighthearted somehow. The loss is built in, into the code of the creation.  No guarantees, this business of planting seeds. As for mothers, they sometimes leave too—leave you to make your way.

I feel close to you everyday. Sometimes I even see you in a stranger’s smile, a girl who might have been like you. But I know you don’t belong to me.  Even in the best of circumstances, I would have to give you up. I would have to let you go.

 

About the Author:

Susan Troccolo is a writer, gardener, and community volunteer. She still loves telling stories, especially humor and gardening essays for her blog: Life-Change-Compost. She writes for Culinate, Open to Hope, and Lighthearted Travel and her essays have appeared in Voicecatcher and Northwest Women’s Journal. Her gift book entitled The Beet Goes On: Essays on Friendship & Breaking New Ground was published in 2015. Susan lives with her husband, Patrick, and Fly, a love-bully of a Border Collie in Portland, Oregon.

To get in touch, contact Susan at srtroccolo@gmail.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SusanTroccoloAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/TroccoloSusan

New book Trailer:  https://youtu.be/UKo8hBr55qk

Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/susantroccolo

Website: http://www.life-change-compost.com/

 

Broken Places is available NOW from Booktrope. It's already hit #1 on Women's Poetry and Hot New Releases on Amazon! Broken Pieces is still going strong, #1 on Amazon’s Women’s (paid) Poetry list.

Sign up for my newsletter and never miss a post again! I will never share your email and that’s a promise. Follow me on Twitter @RachelintheOC or @BadRedheadMedia for social media, branding, or marketing help. Increase your blog traffic by participating in #MondayBlogs (a Twitter meme I created to share posts on Mondays — no book promo).

All content © 2015 by Rachel Thompson, author, unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to use short quotes provided a link back to this page and proper attribution is given to me as the original author.

Photos courtesy of pixabay and Susan Troccolo

Why Social Media, Blogging, and Censorship Matter

This is kind of a ‘catch-all’ post where I answer some of the questions you’ve asked me the past few weeks — social media, censorship, blogging, other interesting stuff and why they matter to all of us. Let’s do this thingy.

What’s your headline secret?

Easy. I cheat…ha! Not really, but I do use a free program from CoSchedule and you can, too. Simply go to their blog post headline analyzer, type in your headline, and keep fiddling with it until you get your score over a 70 or above (the green zone). They offer a myriad of terrific articles that help you understand which types of articles help improve your headlines and why as well. I’m not a fan of ‘click-bait’ type articles; rather, I prefer articles that help solve problems or answer questions. Here’s an immensely helpful post I refer to again and again:

How To Write Headlines That Drive Traffic, Shares, and SEO http://ow.ly/TP8s8

What is #MondayBlogs? Can I only blog on Mondays? Why can’t I promote my book with it?

I created this twitter blog-sharing meme in 2012 with a simple intent: share blogs, not books. Increase website traffic, connect with other bloggers and writers, readers, increase your Twitter followers, yea maybe, increase your book sales indirectly. Read all the specifics here:

What Is #MondayBlogs and Why You Should Be Participating via @BadRedheadMedia http://ow.ly/TPaNh

I’m not a fan of the HARD SELL, as many of you probably know if you read my BadRedhead Media blog, or even take a look at any of my social media. It’s rare you’ll see me hawking my books in your face, because I find social media fairly ineffective for selling; however, I find social media wonderful for networking and connection, which leads to selling. 

Blog any day you want, but share your post on Mondays. I personally spend anywhere from 24-36 hours (starting Sunday late afternoon pst — it’s already Monday in Australia, Asia, Africa and Europe) retweeting people’s posts every week (with the volunteer help of the ever so fetch author, Will Van Stone, Jr), through midnight Monday pst using the @MondayBlogs handle, as well as many of my own Twitter accounts. I do this purely out of a desire to create a wonderful blogging/writing community. Between 5-8K people participate weekly — even I’m blown away how much it’s grown! While I cannot guarantee we’ll RT every single post (Twitter limits and human limitations — even we have to sleep), we do our best.

The more you participate and the more interesting your posts and headlines, the more RTs you seem to get. It also helps to generously RT others, rather than blast a bunch of posts and then sit back waiting for RTs (which many do).

Be generous…the vibe carries. 

Promote your book any way and any day — just use a different hashtag! The hashtag #MondayBlogs is pretty self-explanatory — it says Monday and Blogs. There’s nothing about books in there, now is there? So don’t do it. If you just have to promote your book in a blog post, go ahead! Just don’t promote it on Twitter using the #MondayBlogs hashtag. Got it? Good.

Is your family upset by what you write about in Broken Pieces and Broken Places?

I’m an adult. I write about adult situations. I write about difficult, uncomfortable shit like childhood sexual abuse, sex, grief, mental health, loss, and love. I didn’t ask anyone’s permission — except my own — to write about my life or my experiences. Do they ask me for my permission to live their lives or do their jobs? No. So why on earth would I cower in fear, worrying about what they maybemightcould say about my work?

I don’t. As a strong person, as a survivor, I accept where I am in my life right now without looking to my parents, sisters, ex-husband, children, current relationship, friends, neighbors, strangers on social media, or the local Starbucks barista dude for approval. I write about not censoring ourselves here on The Huffington Post — it’s one of my most popular posts. Maybe it will help you:

3 Reasons Censoring Your Writing Is Holding You Back: http://ow.ly/TAYaw Rachel Thompson Author

via The Huffington Post

Can you interview me for the Huffington Post? Can you review my book for HP? Can you get me a gig writing for HP?

No, no, and no. Let me explain, but let’s back up a little bit first.

At least once a week, a few people ask me to write a review for their book, or interview them for the Huffington Post. Now, I get why they do this: they see HUFFINGTON POST and get stars in their eyes. I would, too. I totally get it. If only it were that easy.

Here’s the thing: many people do interview authors for HP — I’m not one of them, which people would know if they bothered to take a nanosecond to Google it, or look up my bio on Huffington Post, which they clearly have not done. I write articles about social media, book marketing and branding. I don’t review books. I don’t interview authors.

That’s not what Huffington Post asked me to write about.

Why do authors ask me to do these things for them? Because they’re lazy, which annoys the hell out of me, so even if they had a sliver of a chance for a review or interview, that’s gone now (which they don’t anyway, I’m just making a point). Why does it annoy me? Well, I didn’t get my writing gig because someone handed it to me on a pretty plate of Nutella. I worked for years submitting pieces and being rejected. Eventually, after much networking, someone somewhere liked a piece I wrote and it happened…for me.

It’s not like I don’t give back in other ways — I do — see #MondayBlogs above. This is simply not in my power to do so. Amazing that people think it is, though!

So, no, I can’t hand you a gig. I don’t work for Huffington Post. I don’t even have an editor there I know by name. It’s like submitting your piece to The Borg: you plug into a massive network, submit your piece, and hope for the best. A nameless, faceless entity either approves your piece or, after a few days, you receive a “thanks but no thanks” form letter and you try, try again. Yes, some people who have more ‘name’ power do know their editors. Clearly, I’ve not reached that level yet.

Which social media channel is most important for authors to sell books?

There’s no easy answer to this one, because it’s a complicated issue.

— First off, I believe social media is great for connecting with readers if you have a clear idea of your branding, demographic, and readership — most authors don’t.

— If you’re looking at social from an SEO/Google ranking perspective only, Twitter and G+ (a brand page, not a personal account) are indexed by Google. Facebook statuses and updates (whether your personal ‘friend’ account or author page) are not indexed by Google — ironically — yet 99% of authors spend all their time on Facebook, right?

— If you’re looking at social from your reader’s perspective: where are they? If your readerships skews younger, you want to spend time where they are, aka, Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest, Twitter — yet most authors who write YA are where? Facebook.

— Comfort level: it’s easy to go where WE are most comfortable. As adults, we do what’s easy. It’s “hard” to learn new skills because we talk ourselves out of the necessity of learning without trying. Next to teaching, the highest form of learning is doing. Children and teens, heck, even babies, learn by doing.

What are you so afraid of? FAILURE. Twitter can be intimidating to adults because it has its own culture, but there are hundreds of easy how-to articles (Google is your friend). Do the research…even Twitter’s own HELP section is amazing. Go get your hands dirty.

That about covers this session of WWRD (What Would Rachel Do). If you have more questions for me, please leave them in the comments below!

Broken Places is available NOW from Booktrope. It's already hit #1 on Women's Poetry and Hot New Releases on Amazon! Broken Pieces is still going strong, #1 on Amazon’s Women’s (paid) Poetry list.

Sign up for my newsletter and never miss a post again! I will never share your email and that’s a promise. Follow me on Twitter @RachelintheOC or @BadRedheadMedia for social media, branding, or marketing help. Increase your blog traffic by participating in #MondayBlogs (a Twitter meme I created to share posts on Mondays — no book promo).

All content © 2015 by Rachel Thompson, author, unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved. Permission is granted to use short quotes provided a link back to this page and proper attribution is given to me as the original author.