Rachel Thompson's Blog, page 30
September 23, 2012
Bestselling Free Books AND Enter to Win A Kindle Fire HD!
Never Easier for Chances at a New Kindle Fire HD!
BEGINNING Mon. September 24th:
Comment below for ONE CHANCE
Comment below + Like on Facebook for TWO CHANCES
Comment below + Like on FB + Tweet for THREE CHANCES
ENDS Tue. October 2 (Winner announced 10/3!!)
(Facebook Like, Twitter Tweet, and Comments at bottom)
I couldn’t be more pleased to be joining with bestselling and award-winning authors R.S. Guthrie and Frederick Lee Brooke this week to offer you our books FREE!
Threesome Read Some Freebies!!
September 24th – October 2
Win a KINDLE FIRE HD!!!
(See details below free books – no purchase or download required!)
(And more great reads — see Rob’s site — at great prices!)
THREE FOR FREE:
US Download
UK Download
Zombie Candy
FREE 9/28 – 10/2
From her gorgeous husband to her acclaimed cooking classes, Candace Roach’s life looks nearly perfect from the outside. Well, appearances can be deceiving. Her husband, Larry, has three unruly addictions that drive her to the brink–zombie movies, cilantro, and having sex with other women. Luckily, her best friend Annie Ogden is back from Iraq and armed with a private investigator’s license and a fierce determination to see Candace happy again.
Together, the women uncover the ridiculous extent of Larry’s infidelity. He needs to be punished; that much is clear. But how can they hit him where it counts? Oh, if only she could find a way to tap into those three little addictions–what a lesson that would be. Italy is calling, as are the zombies in the night, as suburban housewife Candace Roach transforms herself into the ultimate fidelity vigilante, complete with a badass motorcycle, a very small pistol, and the nom de guerre “Zombie Candy.”
US Download
UK Download
The Mancode: Exposed
FREE 9/28 – 9/30
‘I’m over forty. I don’t have a blankie. I have vodka.’ Note: this is not a book of advice, how-to, or self-help. The author deconstructs stereotypes with satire. Totally different concept.’ I write about men, women, sex, & chocolate. My experiences, my truth, my martinis.’
*Note: Thompson employs hashtags (i.e., the # sign) in her collection. Google it. These are not typos, people #deargod.
Looking for a humorous take on family relationships or love and romance? Look no further.
Praise for The Mancode: Exposed — already a #1 bestseller in Marriage, Parenting & Families AND Parenting & Relationships!
US Download
UK Download
Black Beast
FREE 9/24 – 9/28
Decorated Denver Detective Bobby Macaulay has faced down a truckload of tragedy over recent years. The death of his partner; the loss of his own leg in the line of duty; the companionship of his beloved wife to cancer; his faith in God to his inner demons.
After the man who ruined his leg and killed his first partner is executed, Macaulay becomes the lead detective investigating the Sloan’s Lake murders. The method of killing in this double-homicide is so heinous it leads Macaulay and his partner down an ever-darkening path–one that must be traversed if they are to discover the evil forces behind the slaughter.
Just when Bobby Macaulay is questioning the very career that has been his salvation, he will discover a heroic history buried within his own family roots: The Clan MacAulay–a deep family lineage of protectors at the very core of a millenniums-long war against unimaginable evil.
Comment below for one entry. Comment and also share this post on Twitter or Facebook for two entries. Do all three and get your max of THREE entries just for sharing! (No purchase required.)
One of you, my lucky friends, will win a brand new Kindle Fire HD!
AND…
If you want even more great, bestselling reads at great prices, click on R.S. Guthrie’s site for more award-winning books from Molly Greene, Susan Salluce, Christine Nolfi and Martha Bourke.
Remember, NO Kindle required to download eBooks from Amazon (click here to download their free apps for smartphone, computer, or tablet).
Thanks everyone for being so supportive of indie writers! And be sure to follow us all for updates of our upcoming work!!
@RachelintheOC and @BadRedheadMedia
or Facebook:
Frederick Brooke, R.S. Guthrie, and me! Rachel Thompson
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September 20, 2012
Snow White And The Feminist?
Snow White And The Feminist?
Goo bath, anyone? (Courtesy of Google Images)
What is the Bechdel Test?
It was originally called ‘The Rule’ by very funny writer/cartoonist/humorist/feminist, Alison Bechdel, with regard to whether a movie is worth seeing or not. She asks these three questions:
Does the movie have at least two women in it?
Do they ever talk to each other?
Is that conversation about something besides a man?
I had heard about this test before, of course, but recently ran across a terrific article in an old Entertainment Weekly from two years ago (which I saved – as in paper – me) titled, ‘I Am Woman. Hear Me…Please!’ by talented writer and critic Mark Harris.
He mentions that the final, if ‘particularly brutal’ requirement is this:
4. Do the two women even have names?
Now, not every movie (or show – any work of fiction, really) needs to pass this test in order for it to be interesting. Far from it.
But it does make you think.
I recently watched two iterations of Snow White: Mirror, Mirror with Julia Roberts (whom I normally enjoy but total snore here), and Snow White And The Huntsman, with the piece of wood (aka Kristen Stewart) and the scene stealing Charlize Theron. Looking at these two movies through the Bechdel Test, I was a bit surprised.
Just look at all that emotion. (Courtesy of Google Images)
We already know the movie has two women in it. Okay, #1: check.
Let’s deconstruct the rest, shall we?
Do they ever talk to each other?
Yes, they do. Kinda. In the very beginning and at the end (when one woman wanted to kill another and when the evil woman died). Yada, yada, you know the story.
Girl power!
In Huntsman, there isn’t much chatting between the two characters. It’s almost like there were two entirely different movies going on (which is reflective of the classic story, I suppose): the one where Piece of Wood runs around and falls in goo in the forest, and the one where Theron walks through goo in the castle to visit her mirror (who is, by the way, a dude). There’s also the twist of the Evil Queen’s brother, who also has powers (I’m not sure if he walked through goo though. Yes, yes he did. My god, what’s with the goo?)
So. Back to the test.
Is that conversation about something besides a man?
Well. Clearly these queens were crazier than loons, so they talk quite a bit of gibberish to inanimate objects about … yea, I lost interest. There was discussion in each about killing Snow White of course, and balls (as in dancing), and quite a bit of running, which frankly made me tired.
Do I have a point?
Yes. In Mirror, Mirror, they empower Snow to save herself. Which is great. Big happy feminist jump for joy. However, her goal – along with, ya know, not being murdered by Nathan Lane (no, I couldn’t write that with a straight face either, though I do adore him), is to live happily ever after. With a man.
My guy says, “So what? Everyone wants to find love. Do you expect her to live alone in that big castle?” and I suppose he has a point. Then my teen daughter pipes up and says, “No, Dad. You’re missing the point. She saved herself from a man, just to give herself up to…another man.”
My baby feminist.
I kinda dig the whole Evil Queen scenario – riches, power, lots of fabulous shoes, bossing people around. Okay, sure, she’s at the mercy of that evil mirror man, but at least it was up to her when to chat with it. Him. Whatever.
In Mirror, Mirror, Roberts’ Evil Queen’s mirror is her own pale reflection. Which is kinda cool. It was like her id, you know? I assume she died at the end, but in all honesty by that time, we shut it off to watch American Dad.
That Stan Smith is one smug son-of-a-bitch. And by the way, that show does NOT pass the Bechdel Test.
But it still makes me laugh.
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Light (Sneak Peek Excerpt From My Upcoming Book ‘Broken Pieces’)
Bella vs. Katniss – In Defense of Bella
September 16, 2012
Adoption and the Cosmos by guest author Joe Hefferon (aka @HefferonJoe) via @RachelintheOC
Photo of Joe’s son Jackson courtesy of Joe Hefferon
When I asked him to guest for me about an experience that greatly impacted him, he sent me this post within the hour. He knew exactly what he wanted to write. It’s beautiful and made me cry. I know you’ll enjoy it. Please take a look at his books. He’s extremely gifted (and okay, kinda hot).
Adoption and the Cosmos
Looking Back
I remember the heat. I remember it because it was the only thing that made sense in that place, at that time, in a wary atmosphere that slipped past me on gossamer screens, a layering of sounds and images. It wasn’t so much dreamlike as it was a cinematographer’s vision of a dream, crafted to guide the audience through the actor’s misgivings: silent interactions, shifting points of view, some mine, some just behind me, my world seen through a filtered lens. I can’t remember feeling the floor against my feet. I needed to find something familiar, something I reached for of my own volition that I recognized as making sense, something that put me back in control.
Looking Out
The heat makes sense because the logic works; I’m near the equator. It’s the only thing I planned for. Where are the people? It’s the main airport in the southern half of the country and there are no people except for those from my plane, and the workers, all of them quiet and all looking away, expressionless under a vague announcement from overhead. I decide it doesn’t pertain to me, half out of fear that I’m being watched.
I’m traveling alone, which is normally fine with me, but not here, not now. I need to know someone, so more of this makes sense. I’m carrying a lot of cash – too much cash for being alone in such a faraway place that offers no comfort, not a smile or a familiar thumbs-up. It’s just a yellow haze and me, moving forward by instinct to get outside where the haze was grayer but the heat heavier still, more familiar.
Here they are. The people are all outside, loosely gathered in a horseshoe and looking at me, or toward me. That’s odd. They all seem to share a common interest but that couldn’t be me, so what is it? I need familiarity. I am closer now to the horseshoe, dragging my luggage and holding on to the heat. Most of them up front have paper signs, or maybe they’re paper shields, mostly hand-scribed, but all in a language of symbols, none of which I recognize.
I’ll search the crowd again. Maybe I missed my name, or a name I know that links me back to where I was sure, before the heat.
Nothing. No symbol or face registers with me, nor I with any of them.
Lost.
What if I’m just in the wrong place, or here at the wrong time? Maybe I made a simple mistake and it’s not as bad as my stomach is leading me to believe, to be frightened of. I’ll walk back inside and start again. I can’t. It seems going back is not an option; it’s less familiar now. Suddenly a change, a moment of clarity, a fragile moment that makes sense. Now there are two: the heat and the photos.
A large and calloused hand is eight inches from my face, holding two snapshots.
The hand is large, so the rest of the man by most assumptions would be proportionally as large. How could I not see him before? How could I let him get so close? Who is this infant in the photos? Clarity – something that should make sense. I begin to feel unconcerned about the horseshoe that seconds ago threatened to abandon me. The hand, the photos, no voice attached, no warning, just there as suddenly as the dread that met me inside. Do the normal thing – turn, be familiar, turn toward the arm, to the man with the large hands. Be familiar.
Relief. I don’t recognize him but his presence makes sense. I’m supposed to meet an American here, to help me begin this process. This must be him. This must be the baby, my baby, our baby. This is how they tell you. It must be him, the guy I’m supposed to meet, yes Paul. Smile.
“Oh, you must be Paul. I’m Joe.”
“Here, these are yours. Get in the van.”
Well, why not? I’m twelve thousand miles from home in a communist country and I have over $7,500.00 in a money belt. A strange man with big hands tells me to get in the van so, why not? Here goes. He puts my luggage in the back while I open the side door. A cool wave and another sense, a smell or picture in the periphery, I’m not sure, adds yet more familiarity. There’s someone else. An accomplice? A victim? He seems happy. Who is this guy? He’s smiling. Does he feel as strangely as I do?
“Hi, I’m Bill.” Good. Normal name, familiar accent. A handshake. Things are looking up.
“Hi – Joe.” I sit, unsure about the seatbelt. I decide against it for getaway purposes. I watch movies (awkward silence). “Well. We’re here, finally.”
“Yep, and a beautifully hot day too.” He laughs. He knows the heat too. More relief.
“Welcome to Vietnam guys. We’re waiting for one more and then I’ll take you to the hotel.”
Big-hands is behind the wheel. One less thing I have to figure out on my own. Take a deep breath.
At the hotel the desk clerk takes our passports. Unfamiliar. Normally I wouldn’t allow that but you have an eerie feeling that everyone in this country who wears a uniform, even the bellmen, works for the government.
“Relax. They are required to register you with the government.”
See what I mean?
Wow, nice room. I need a drink.
Looking Forward
I love my son. I love him so much it makes me dizzy. I love my daughter also of course, and I would die by half if anything terrible were to happen to her. But this is about adoption, the adoption of my boy, Jackson. It’s about a transfiguration. It’s about the unfettered joy he brings to my life.
People have a misconception (pun?) about adoption. Some people believe they couldn’t adopt a child, especially (shock) a foreign one, because “it” wouldn’t be their own. It, “wouldn’t be my flesh and blood,” and, “I’m not raising someone else’s kid.” These are things I’ve actually heard. Some people are ignorant; it’s not their fault. They are driven by ego, by an astoundingly selfish notion that no child who was not of their own loins is worthy of a home, their home.
How do I know Jackson is my son? Well I believe in God, or perhaps the spiritual universe in that Paulo Coelho sense. I had my doubts before my son came into my life but since then, I have become a believer. The reason is simple; my adopted son, Jackson Binh Hefferon, is my own son now, in every physical, literal, spiritual and emotional way one man can explain it. He is the unrelenting energy of my life’s blood. There is no doubt. Only God could make such a transfiguration.
Every adoptive parent will tell you this: there is never a time when you doubt it, question it or pass it off as something you’ve only convinced yourself of. It’s a stone cold fact of your life.
My heart aches for him. He has asthma so I worry about him. I laugh at his silliness and marvel at his thoughts. I enjoy watching him sleep, watching him enjoy his lunch, watching him catch a fish, which he always releases. I am awed by his vegetarian conviction, which may not seem so marvelous to you until you realize he made the decision as a toddler. He wouldn’t even touch meat to feed it to the dog. It’s a decision he has made from within. Family and friends have been eating meat around him and encouraging him to do the same for all of his nine short years, but he is resolute, and I admire him for it. I said, “Jack, I won’t force you to eat meat, just tell me why you won’t.” My 7-year-old said calmly, no… peacefully, “Dad, I just can’t see myself eating an animal.” I believe he never will.
He is a humanist. He always has a kind thought about someone, always chooses the kinder thought when presented with a choice, and always offers his spot in line or half his dessert to another boy. And he gets extra nervous around cute girls; that’s adorable. He is wicked smart, a quality that lends itself to sarcasm and quick retorts, but he’s so damn cute you can’t get mad at him.
He reads very well, but still likes for me to read to him. He likes video games and the Disney channel and playing chase games with his friends. He is a normal boy. If anyone were to ever hurt him, there is no place on earth that thing could hide from me.
I’m divorced. When I am not with him I miss him like a vital organ. When I see him again, I smile once again. There is something special about him and I know every parent feels that way, but I mean something else, something strangely different – noticed by waiters, the parents of his friends and others who hold him in conversation for the first time. It’s something spiritual. Meeting him leaves you feeling you’ve met an uncommon boy. My daughter believes he is a genius.
I know, in a place in my heart that only a parent knows, that someday, he will involve himself in a series of breathtaking events. Even though I will have known it’s been coming his entire life; it will startle me in its magnificence.
I am not a prophet or a psychic, but there is something special about my son, and I must protect him until his time comes.
Please chat with Joe here below in comments, follow his fantastic blog, follow him on Twitter, and enjoy more of his
words by purchasing his books!
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September 14, 2012
Light (Sneak Peek Excerpt From My Upcoming Book ‘Broken Pieces’)
LIGHT
Courtesy of Google Images
Allow me to drape my limbs over you; my secret murmurs soothing fears that keep you awake as the rays of the day fade on borrowed rest.
Grasping your hand to keep you from losing your way back to me, you meet my eyes with a rush of desire that slams me in a hard, brilliant flash.
Do you hear me? I whisper along your skin, cooled by the night air. Crossing this wide river to you, I pray you’ll reach for me as I pass by drowning in your depths.
You, my only salvation.
Will you save me?
Waiting for the sun, I barely breathe in order not to wake you, unable to turn away from the glare of what we’ve wrought.
I bathe in our entangled gleam, where love lives inside the knowledge that tomorrow fades again.
Illumination only lasts til darkness decides to fall.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this sneaky peeky of Broken Pieces, due for November release. If you want a few more looks, check out previous posts like: China Doll, Bird, or Rebound Guy. I look forward to your feedback below!
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Ethics Of The Written Word
September 9, 2012
Ethics Of The Written Word
Image courtesy of Google Images
I am an author. I am a reader. I get reviews, I write reviews. This is called Freedom of Speech. I can say whatever I want about a book; I can also write whatever I want in own my books (as long as it’s not plagiarism).
With all the hoopla this past week about paying for reviews (John Locke), creating sock puppet accounts to praise their own books and create poor reviews for competitors (Ellory and Leather), the validity of reviews – and book marketing itself – is being called into question.
(How is what they did different than what legacy publishing has done for years to get their books in large publications like People, Time, Rolling Stone, or the New York Times?)
Let’s discuss.
GREEN LIGHT
Write book. Collect royalties. Don’t go to jail.
Konrath wrote this week about how giving other authors 1-star reviews is ‘a shitty thing to do,” and I agree. I personally have never, nor will ever, give any author a 1-star review. He also says those authors above worked a flawed system, as was their right to do.
Liking books is such a personal thing – what I may love another may hate. That’s why art, in and of itself, is such a nebulous (and fascinating) subject.
However, I am somewhat of a champion of the 1-star. This sounds crazy, but stay with me. My two books (A Walk In The Snark and Mancode: Exposed) are bestsellers on Amazon; books people either love or hate (or love to hate). And that rocks. Here are my stats for Mancode: Exposed:
Customer Reviews
The Mancode: Exposed (A Humor Collection)
82 Reviews
5 star:
(43)
4 star:
(18)
3 star:
(2)
2 star:
(3)
1 star:
(16)
Average Customer Review3.8 out of 5 stars (82 customer reviews)Share your thoughts with other customers
So let’s look at this objectively. Of the 82 reviews I’ve received, 20% are 1-star. Does this mean my book sucks? Obviously, for some it did. For me, I believe this gives my work validity. This shows that, despite conjecture to the contrary, I don’t have 50 or 60 friends in my pocket writing glowing reviews (mostly cause I don’t have pockets, but whatever).
I welcome the 1 and 2 star reviews simply because I believe in readers. Because I am one.
Readers are smart. If I really want a book because my sisters told me it rocks, I don’t even bother with the reviews. (Heck, would Fifty Shades have sold millions upon millions of copies if everyone made buying decisions based solely on reviews? No way.)
I get a fair number of negative reviews and I see that as a win. The people who hate my books felt something: anger, frustration, disappointment, etc. – and that means I’ve elicited some type of emotion in them. Yay me. I’m not upset that someone called me a ‘trustafarian dewdrop,’ because a) I had to look it up and b) I don’t take any reviews personally.
Definition of PROPAGANDA
1. The spreading of ideas, information, or rumor for the purpose of helping or injuring an institution, a cause, or a person
2. Ideas, facts, or allegations spread deliberately to further one’s cause or to damage an opposing cause; also: a public action having such an effect
We as authors need to just focus on writing with our vision, getting feedback from those we honor and respect, putting out the best quality product we possibly can, market the hell out of it, and move on to the next work.
But wait. I put that definition of propaganda up there for a reason. Is there really that much difference between presenting our work in the best light (blurbs, reviews, tweets, messages, blog posts, etc.) and propaganda? We are, of course, biased, because we believe in our vision and hope others will, too. We are artists – which means we are insecure and need feedback that we’ve done something good. Do we wield that much influence with reviewers? No. Especially on Amazon, where it’s open season.
YELLOW LIGHT
This is my warning to all authors: keep writing. How much time have you spent this week debating with self-righteous fury that what these authors did was wrong, when you could have been working on your own art? How many hours have passed since you put the issue to bed and wrote a few thousand words on your latest work?
I agree that there are ethical questions to discuss. But don’t let that detract from what drives you. The system is flawed. People sell books. Isn’t that kinda the point?
Book royalties pay bills and allow us to keep creating art. I see the argument that these guys (why is it always men, by the way? #Mancode.) usurped the ‘fair’ way of getting those royalties, but guess what? Whoever said life is fair? Should they offer refunds to every person who loved their books? These guys sold a vision of their vision. They propagandized their message.
Is that against the law? Nope.
RED LIGHT
Stop lamenting your 1-star reviews. Let them go. Move on already.
1-star reviews give our work validation. Get over yourself if they upset you. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: none of us is perfect, not everyone will like our books, and in the end, many people will read them anyway because readers are smart.
Authors behaving badly give us all a bad name – no matter if you’re indie or traditional. I always tell my kids: you get what you give, and you give what you get. Karma, baby. If you think your work is the best ever, get lots of opinions from people you trust before publishing. Betareaders, critique partners, editor, proofreader, etc., people who are qualified to help you.
Bottom line: I personally love all this heated battle about books. BOOKS! In this age of digital, electronic everything, we’re fighting over the ethics of the written word.
Yay us!
That’s my opinion anyway. I’d love to hear yours!
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Top Three Reasons to Give Away Your Book.
September 3, 2012
Why Quitting Social Media Is Stupid!
Why Quitting Social Media Is Stupid! 
I just read something that disturbed me greatly.
A tech geek was discussing how quitting social media improves productivity.
I disagree with that statement for this main reason: many of my readers, colleagues, and clients come from social media. I am productive because of social media.
Now, I don’t know this guy and I realize we have very different professions. But his stance brings up a few points that relate to all of us:
1) Why are you on social media?
2) What do you achieve by being on it at the end of the day?
3) How much time do you spend on it each day?
4) If you stopped today, what would happen to your business?
Let’s deconstruct.
1) Why are you on social media?
I ask the same of each BadRedhead Media client I work with. If your goal is to have an automated stream and get a bunch of followers, okay fine. But I don’t recommend it.
Why? People buy from people who interact, engage, and are in fact, real. As an author and media consultant, I find social media critical to my every day work and success.
What do you define as social media? I’m talking about Twitter, Facebook, G+, Pinterest, YouTube, Instagram, what have you. Some throw in blogging as well since these sites are intrinsically tied it.
I have clients from all over the world: Qatar, Greece, Africa, Holland, England, and the U.S. How would I have met them without the benefit of social media?
I’m also a member of Triberr, and grateful for it every day. I’m able to help others increase their reach and frequency through Twitter and their blogs, while meeting good friends and supporters from all over the world. How awesome is that?
2) What do you achieve by being on it?
If you can’t answer that, you’re probably on too much! Or, not enough.
I personally find new connections each day, great blogs, cool info, and great resources. To close myself off from that is unthinkable to me. We, as humans, are always learning. Social media is an amazing source of breaking news and information.
I am a chick – I multi-task. Social media is no different. I schedule in tweets using Hootsuite or Buffer – both are great, smart applications. And free! I also live tweet and interact on Facebook when I have a moment, but I schedule it in, after client time, writing time, family time (let’s not discuss laundry … ahem).
For anyone who believes Twitter is a waste of time, I must argue this: it’s the best free marketing tool out there if you take the time to learn it, understand it, use it correctly. There is a right way and a wrong way, though what I love about Twitter is that you curate your own stream and lists.
From a strictly SEO/SMO standpoint, being on social media, blogging regularly, guest posting and of course, providing product or service updates all count toward your Google (and other search engine) rankings. Fresh content is where it’s at, baby.
Bottom line: if you don’t understand how to correctly use social (not utilizing time-saving apps, spamming people constantly with self-promotional links, not interacting live), then you have no business being on it.
3) How much time do you spend on it each day?
I’m a bit different than your average bear simply because I tweet and Facebook etc. for clients as well as my own two streams (@RachelintheOC and @BadRedheadMedia), and the four author promo streams I started (@IndieBookPromos, @BkPromoCentral, @YAPromoCentral, @RomPromoCentral) – though I thankfully have help on a few of those (grateful to @sugarbeatbc for all her hard work! — someone else I met through social media, by the way).
Tweeting and Facebook (as well as LinkedIn, Pinterest, G+, Instagram, etc.) are my business, for lack of a better word. I build accounts for people, help them learn how to tweet, Facebook, pin, link, video, etc. It’s my job to know as much about each channel as I can to help others to the best of my ability.
My ego is not big (though some may disagree), simply because I see social media as a huge component of my every day learning. Social media is the ultimate connector, as well as the ultimate equalizer – I talk to professors, CEOs, even an actor or two.
4) If you stopped today, what would happen to your business?
There’s no question I have met clients and important colleagues because of my social media connections. Here’s a perfect example:
About three weeks ago I stumbled across a Forbes article written by David Vinjamuri, NYU prof and published author, about the current state of publishing. At the bottom of the first page, David had a ‘follow me on Twitter’ button. So I did. And I complimented him on the article, we had a good discussion there, I left a comment on the article and I thought that was that.
David not only followed me back, he also looked at my bio, websites, and then added me into the article (see page six!). Not only that, but last week we spoke live because he wanted to quote me for his most recent article about KDP Select. In Forbes. Me…in Forbes. (And I hate math.)
How cool is that?
So where does that leave the tech dude who’s no longer on social media?
I wish him luck. I mean, I would — if he were still on Twitter.
Please let me know how you feel about social media and its impact on your life and business!
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August 30, 2012
Witness, A Guest Blog on Depression by @Streetlights94 via @RachelintheOC
Please welcome my very special guest Christina from Streetlights Imagination. She’s one of the first fast friends I made on Twitter over three years ago, is a terrific writer, and is determined to take me to Vegas (I’ve never been!). She also promises to come cook for me (given that she’s one determined woman, I’m sure it will happen soon).
She shares a compelling story today about families and depression and I’m honored to host her. 
Witness
I never smiled as a baby. At least, that’s what my sister says. Only my brother could coax a laugh out of me. It was as if I somehow knew that smiles and laughter were foreigners in that house, and they’d much rather reserve space in their passports.
It is not as if my childhood home was a horrible one. I was not abused. Nor was I neglected. On the contrary, I was well taken care of and provided for. It was a beautiful home in an almost-perfect neighborhood. My mother stayed at home to rear us and I, being the youngest, had her to myself the longest. My father worked hard to enable our lifestyle. We had a gardener and a pool man. There was a beautiful front yard with a magnolia tree that gifted us with enormous flowers. I miss the night-blooming jasmine. I went to excellent schools, had the right clothes, and we were a nice family.
Only, it’s hard to maintain perfection in an imperfect world. My brother and sister and I are all quite far apart in age, and I was left alone there in that lovely house. A silent house. A house where I never heard my mother laughing. I don’t have any memories of my mother laughing. Not one. I don’t have any memories of my mother smiling. Not a real, genuine smile. My mother has a “show smile” – it never meets her eyes.
What I do remember is my mother always staring into the television with a blank look on her face. I remember her snapping at me whenever I asked her a question more than once because she hadn’t heard me the first time. I remember her constantly telling me “It hurts to be beautiful” if I complained while she pulled at my hair as she rolled it in curlers. It seemed no matter how hard I tried to make her happy, the unhappier she was.
I didn’t know what depression was as a child. I didn’t know that it would cause a mother to constantly ask her little girl questions like, “Am I fatter than that woman [gesturing to a stranger]?” I did know that I couldn’t win no matter how I answered. I didn’t know that depression could make a person feel chronic pain or take away emotions except anger. I do now, but I didn’t then.
All I did know was to keep quiet. There was no laughter in my home, but there was a helluva lot of fighting. Late at night when my father came home the fighting would start. I would sink myself deep into my covers with pillows over my ears to drown it out, but I could always hear it. It would start as contentious mumbling and then start peaking in shouts. Like thunder, it would roll through the halls, doors would slam, dishes would settle loudly onto the counters. And then? Nothing. Silence so palpable the fighting would almost seem better. The television would turn on, volume loud, and I would hold my breath until I fell asleep. Tears were optional.
The next morning it would be as if nothing had happened and it was if my father didn’t even exist. Gone by the time I woke up, he didn’t return from work until long after I had gone to sleep. He only existed to me as a shouting voice. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized he didn’t even live with us; he lived at my grandparents’ house. In the mornings, though, my mother was back. Her silence would have returned, the firmness around her mouth, her readiness to pick a fight with me – I wouldn’t have recognized her in any other way.
I grew up awkward with emotion. Compliments were like so many boxes in my arms and I couldn’t walk with them smoothly. I didn’t know how to laugh out loud and I didn’t like smiling. All of these made me feel conspicuous when they came easily to others. It was as if I were in chronic puberty – which would be hell, by the way, if it were possible.
Even when I moved away from home at 19 years old to live with my sister, I remained “old.” She constantly reminded me to “just smile.” My sister would wake me up in the middle of the night to watch Baywatch because she was positive a shark would eat someone that night, and who would hold her hand? Or, she’d wake me up in the middle of the night and say, “We never talk anymore, why won’t you talk to me?” It was always something in the middle of the night, never at a reasonable time of night, and I had an early class. But it was good for me.
Slowly, I found my laugh and my smile. Later, as a teacher and a mother I grew more confident in them. How could I not? As a teacher I had a student eat my plant. How could I not laugh or smile? As a mother, I have insisted my children would know my laughter every day and see me smile constantly.
And my mother? She still doesn’t smile or laugh. But I have learned that I cannot be responsible for these things. She owns her behaviors just as I own mine, and I will not place the burden on my children as she did to me. My happiness thrives and there will not be a day that goes by when my kids will not be witnesses to it.
“Let it always be known that I chose joy over despair, family over the world, and to fight when it mattered. Welcome to me. I give a damn.”
Please leave comments or questions to her piece below, and share your own experiences with depression. The more we discuss it, the better it is for all of us.
Follow Streetlights on Twitter at @Streetlights94 or Facebook at the same.
(On a completely different note, please check out the last two Forbes articles by David Vinjamuri, NYU prof, branding expert, and published author — check out his books here — who quotes me in one (see page two) and refers to me in another as a successful indie author (page 6). I’m truly honored.)
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August 24, 2012
The Next Big Thing (Ahem)
Want to hear about my latest WIP (Work in Progress)? I’ve been a bit tight-lipped about it since it’s a departure from both my bestselling humorous essay collections, A Walk In The Snark and The Mancode: Exposed. Now I’ve been tagged by the awesomely talented and kinda hot Mark Souza, so there’s no backing out now. I can only hope it will live up to the title of this post (which I did not come up with, but I appreciate the motivation).
Here are the rules: 
***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress) ***
Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them, and link back to my page (http://www.marksouza.com/2012/08/the-next-big-thing-zombiesaurus-rex/).
Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing
1. What is the working title of your book? The working title is Broken Pieces, which I’m pretty sure I’m going to stay with it. I’ve already got a cover graphic image in my head and my designer is starting preliminary concepts.
2. Where did the idea come from for the book? As I wrote Snark, an ex-love killed himself. I included four or five essays regarding loss and grief in that book, but did more delving into our past relationship after publication, via journals and memories. I found myself unearthing not only grief, but also remembering my journey from loss, to love, and back to loss.
3. What genre does your book fall under? Essays, non-fiction.
4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? It’s always hard to pick other people to play yourself. Someone mentioned Jennifer Aniston once (probably because she played ‘Rachel’ on ‘Friends’ (everyone knows I adore that show). But I’d love to see someone like Julianne Moore or Christina Hendricks — hot redheads, baby (though did you know Hendricks is actually blonde?) 
5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? A woman’s real-life journey of desire, love, loss, fear, pain, and ultimately, trust.
6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? Self-pub’d. I’m happy with where I am right now (both my books are Amazon #1 bestsellers). I’ve been approached by agents but so far, nothing has been interesting enough for me to jump. A friend in publishing suggested I create a proposal for my book after this one, Chickspeak: Uncovered, which I’m just starting to write now. We shall see.
7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? About six months. I work full-time (I founded my own social media and book consulting company, BadRedhead Media last year) and I’m a full-time mom also. Wearing all these hats is tricky!
8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? Hmmm….there are lots of memoirs out there by many amazing women. I read as many as I can and find each one inspiring because every woman’s journey is so unique.
9. Who or What inspired you to write this book? I’ve been fortunate to have lived a full and complicated life, with different men, friends, jobs, and as a mother. I tend to be pretty honest with regard to my own past, so hopefully I can be a voice to other women who can’t, or won’t, speak about the difficulties they’ve experienced.
10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? I seem to be a sort of magnet for controversy (based on the feedback and reviews of my last two books). People either love them or hate them with a passion, which rocks. I imagine readers should expect nothing different from me here — I cover dark, taboo subjects that many people, women especially, can relate to.
Now, since all is fair in love and um, tagging, here are my five nominees:
1) Gabe Berman, author, Live Like A Fruit Fly: The Secret You Already Know
2) Joe Hefferon, author, The Seventh Level: Designing Your Extraordinary Life
3) Melissa Huie, author, The Broken Road Series
4) Justin Bog, author, Sandcastle and Other Stories
5) Pandora Poikilos, author (and owner, Orangeberry Book Tours), Frequent Traveller.
If you have any questions for me (or about any of my fab nominees), please let me know!
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August 16, 2012
Flying With The Angels by guest author Melissa Huie
I’m honored to host author Melissa Huie (The Broken Road) here today with a touching tribute to her mother, and a cool story about a butterfly. Please give Melissa some love at the bottom in comments and check out her excellent book.
This day holds particular meaning for her. I’m so glad she decided to share it with us.
Flying With The Angels 
Everyone has that moment in time, when your life as you know it has changed. That moment was mine, eight years ago today.
Frozen in time, my memories from that day still go thru my mind every day. Eight years ago, I was a twenty-three years old, with a husband and one year old daughter. I had just gotten home from work, enjoying the brief respite from mommyhood as my daughter was with my in-laws for the night. I was making a snack in my grey kitchen and on the phone with my friend Courtney, when a call beeped in. Checking the caller id, I saw it was my then brother-in-law, Xavier. The call changed my life.
“You need to get here quickly. Rocky found your mom, she wasn’t breathing. They took her to the hospital.” My heart stopped and I let out a cry of panic. I screamed for my husband, who ran quickly into the living room. We beelined for the car. The drive to West Virginia was the longest hour and half of my life. As we drove down the Dulles Toll Road in Loudoun County, I frantically made the calls to my mother’s three sisters. Listening to my aunt Barbara screaming her prayers to God to save my mother broke my heart even more. Then, the call came from Xavier, telling me to go to the house and not to the hosptial. I screamed the question, the dreaded question that my family demanded from me. I knew, deep down, the answer already.
“Is she dead, Xavier? Is my mom dead?” He choked on his sobs as he answered yes. I screamed. My husband shouted in disbelief. I hung up with Xavier and made the calls to my aunts. Listening to their sobs, their cries of despair, killed me. We got to the small home that my mother shared with my two stepsisters and my stepfather, Rocky. My younger sister, Laura, had already arrived and sobbed in my arms.
The week was the longest week of my life. As the calls were made and the arrangements were decided, we grieved. I grieved the loss of my best friend, of the best mother I could ever know. My mother was an amazing woman. She didn’t cure cancer; she didn’t go to the moon. She had her faults. But she was my mother; the mom who made me a full Thanksgiving dinner for my birthday because of pregnancy cravings. The same mom who taught me how to drive, to stand-up for myself in the face of bullies, to say no to friends who didn’t have my best interest in mind. The same mom who was there for me whenever I had a problem, allowed me to curse her out then cry on her shoulder, asking for forgiveness. At the funeral, her closest friends, her family, her business partners, all came together to celebrate her life. To tell me stories about how her good-natured laugh and kind heart touched their lives.
At the burial, I stood beside my husband, family and friends, listening to the pastor speak. I could see my daughter chasing butterflies close by, under the watchful eye of my sister-in-law. I happen to glance at the pastor, when I saw a butterfly land on his bible. He said, “Bless you,” and the butterfly flew away.
After the service, my husband, stepfather and I went back to my stepfather’s house, where he lived with my mom, where she died. We walked onto his front porch, and there was a butterfly, very similar to the one that landed on the bible. My stepfather told the butterfly, “I’ll be fine Nancy. I love you,” and walked into the house. When we came back out, the butterfly was still there. Shockingly, he bent down and the butterfly landed onto his finger. Rocky gently pressed his lips to beautiful creature and the butterfly fluttered over to the railing. Amazed, I did the same thing. I held out of my finger, gently brought it to my lips, and said a prayer. A prayer of thanks. And said goodbye.
But I never truly got to say goodbye. My mom was taken from our lives in such a swift and cruel manner; I am still coming to grips with it. It kills me everyday when I can’t call her and ask her for advice. It breaks my heart when my kids ask about her. My kids don’t know her, but they know the memories of her and they see her pictures prominently displayed in the house. She wasn’t here for the births of my sons, my niece or my nephews, but I know she’s watching over them. I know she’s watching over us.
When writing The Broken Road, I put so many elements of my own life and personality into the story. The urge to put my own mom in the book was overwhelming. I wanted everyone to know her, know that she was my rock in life, my guardian angel, my best friend. In The Broken Road, the mom is Norah. But her personality and heart, is my mom Nancy.
I love you, Mom.
You can find Melissa on Twitter @MelissaHuie or her website. 
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August 15, 2012
5 Ways To Make Us Care About Your Navel Lint
5 Ways To Make Us Care About Your Navel Lint
Image courtesy of Google Images
I’ve noticed a somewhat disturbing trend in blogs lately.
People are pissing me off.
Not because I don’t agree with what people are saying – okay, sometimes I don’t; Freedom of Speech and all that – but because it’s all about them, all the time.
Which is fine – if you want to tell us everything you ate for dinner or how your hair looks in pigtails, knock yourself out – if you’re a foodie or a hair stylist. But you must realize that we come to your blog expecting your words to actually mean something; amuse and/or entertain us, raise issues that make us feel guilty for leading our petty lives in branded vain, or show us the latest vanity product we can’t live without.
Oops, sidetracked.
In other words, we don’t give a flying f**k about your pigtails.
This Bart Simpson Syndrome (Look at me! It’s all about me! Me, me, me!) is a sad by-product of blogging. Not all bloggers are writers – fine, whatever. I don’t personally care if you’re an illiterate spaceship salesperson from Mars, just be interesting.
I am not pointing or naming names here; I simply want you to look at your navel lint and decide if we will care. At All.
So, what can we do as bloggers to prevent readers from feeling like they’re wasting their time?
Ask your followers what they want. Shocking, I know. But guess what? People tell me all the time what their needs are, ask for information they can’t find or don’t understand, or tell me they’re ready for more Mancode or serious posts. Great! Terrific! I’m in touch with my peeps and they’re in touch with me because I ask them stuff.
Invite guests to write for you. All of us are interesting, special, yada yada. But it’s good to share different perspectives, and have others share their experiences. What’s in my head and seems interesting to me may be the post that puts you to sleep. Tap the potential of colleagues, people you admire, even people you’d never ask normally. Step out of your box!
Be your keywords; become your keywords. If you always blog about the same single topic, we’re gone. If you’re random, same thing. What’s the middle ground? Knowing your brand. Everybody has one, even if you reject it (which is stupid, but whatever). Ever watch Shark Tank? Great show. Allllll about branding (okay, and making deals for lots of money. Small detail.). Figure out six or so things that have something to do with your something.
For example, my keywords are men, women, relationships, blogging, writing, social media, and snark. Backups include vodka, coffee, and Nutella. It’s not that I can’t talk about other stuff, but these are the topics than I’m instinctively drawn to anyway.
K.I.S.S. aka Keep it short, stupid. No offense to any of my dear prolific author friends, but if you’ve got a lot (two words, dammit) to say, split it into another post.
500-750 words is plenty for one post. If you’re giving a lesson or demonstrating something, go long (are we talking about football here?), but even then consider Part I and Part 2.)
We know every word you write is gold, but consider breaking it up even further into short sentences, paragraphs, and using bullets (Whoa. I just did that.) Share the wealth.
Comments. I can’t tell you how irritating it is to leave an amazing (okay, down children – you know you feel the same way, shut up) comment on a blog and never get a response! The whole point of blogging is so people will think we’re brilliant, right? Oh wait, that’s just me. Anyway, answer your damn comments, people. I personally don’t care how ‘big and important’ you are – it’s us little people who got you there.
I guess that’s all that’s bothering me this week (not really but I’m at 662 words and don’t want to break my own rules). Tune in next week for more hopefully somewhat more intelligent drivel.
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