Erika Mitchell's Blog, page 14

Behind-the-Scenes Hustling

“Good things come to those who hustle.” – Commonly attributed to Anaïs Nin but in actuality coined by Chuck Noll.

It took me a couple years to get the hang of this whole How to Be A Published Author gig. It’s astonishingly difficult, and so much more work than you can possibly realize until you’re doing it.

From the outside, publishing looks pretty straightforward. You write a book, you shop it around, you freak out when someone offers you a publishing contract (if you’re very lucky), you sign it, and then you polish it until voila! Your book is done! Then you wait for it to be released, when the whole world will of course explode with excitement because your book is AWESOME and duh, everyone will of course KNOW THAT.

It took me two books to realize that so much of this is wishful thinking/just plain naivete. Fifteen thousand books get published every month in the US. Wrap your head around that figure. FIFTEEN THOUSAND.

That’s insane competition. Add to that the weirdness that is the paradigm shift happening in the publishing industry and the whole self-publishing ebook revolution going on right now and there’s just a whole lot of deck stacked against any new author trying to break in. To think that you can just sit back and passively let people discover your book is fine, just not likely to result in the kind of book sales figures that you’ll be anxious to tell your mom about.

I’m not going to pretend I have this whole process locked down. I am, after all, still a Grade A Nobody in the publishing world. I have, however, learned that when you have a book coming out, you have to start hustling early.

There are six months between me and the publication of Bai Tide, but I’ve already started reaching out and laying the groundwork for appearances, signings, reviews, etc. like some kind of maniacal mutant octopus with three brains, twenty-four arms, and six computers. Emails are flying out left and right, my calendar is starting to look like it might be pretty booked for next year, and I’m starting to get the barest forward momentum started in terms of buzz.

But oh my gosh, you guys, it’s a ton of work. Tons and tons of work that most people never see because all this stuff is done behind the scenes. The average reader has NO idea how much work goes into getting a book into their hands. It’s bananas.

But then when someone reads your book, and tells you they like it, and leaves a positive review for you to revisit and enjoy whenever you’re having a bad day, man that just makes it all worth it.

If you learn nothing else, learn this: I will GLADLY send a hundred futile emails that go nowhere if it means introducing someone new to my work who will enjoy it. Hustling is hard work, but at least in the writing business the payoff is gratifying in the extreme.

Readers are the best people in the world. If you’ve read my work, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. Truly, none of it would mean anything without you!

Thanks for sharing!

When is a Compliment Not a Compliment? When It’s an AFFRONT.

Wes and I were hiking with the kids last weekend and passed a family heading the opposite direction. My son went running past the other family, all gangly limbs and flying feet, at the same time a boy of around the same age went whizzing by me. I remarked to the mother in the family as we passed, “Boys have just the one speed, don’t they?”

It was meant to be a simple pleasantry. She took it as something more, however, because she replied, “Girls too.” The tone of her voice wasn’t humorous, it was serious. Her reply was meant to be a correction.

A correction I resent enough to write a whole blog post about because, really? Is it necessary to be so fearless feminist prowling the woods, politically-correct Seattleite who’s sensitive to so many things there’s almost nothing that’s not offensive, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar-or-else that she needed to correct a stranger in the middle of nowhere that girls like running, too?

Give me a break.

For the record, both my daughter and her daughter were holding hands and walking nicely while the boys in the family went tearing past with wild abandon, mighty yawps shaking the leaves in their exuberance. But yeah. Girls have just the one speed too.

I think this is what bothers me most: It was her assumption that I needed that daily dose of self-righteousness. Like she felt she was saving me from something, when really, she doesn’t know a thing about me.

For crying out loud, I chose to have a baby without pain medication. I write espionage fiction (how many super popular female espionage authors can you name? Exactly. My genre is kind of a sausage-fest, but I’m okay with it). I enjoy shooting guns, one of my favorite characters in the world is Zoe from Firefly, and I throw a decent punch.

I’m no wilting flower who needs to be reminded that girls are awesome. I am a woman, and I feel awesome. You know why? Because I’m out there being awesome instead of trying to remind people all the time of how awesome I am.

I’m going to continue to recognize other people’s strengths and merits (even, gasp! Those of the men and boys in my life!), because I know that acknowledging other people’s strengths in no way diminishes my own.

So take that, random woman from the forest who will never read this. Chill out and stop trying to make everyone agree with you. Just enjoy the walk, smile at strangers, and compliment your son. I promise, no one will make you turn in your Feminist card.

Thanks for sharing!

Skullduggery

Pretty sure this is what the inside of every writer’s head looks like, though I imagine there are variations. For example, there was probably more bourbon in Hemingway’s head, and there are probably cobwebs and creepy clowns in Stephen King’s, and I bet Tom Clancy’s was AMAZING and full of all kinds of weaponry and tactical equipment.

Oooh, this could be fun! Comment with your favorite author, and tell us what you think the inside of his/her head probably looked like!

Thanks for sharing!

Break Out Your Wee Violins

“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life. I haven’t had a very hard life.”

We had some new neighbors move in on Wednesday and, when our cable company came to install the new people’s Internet, they accidentally disconnected ours.

Whoops!

When we called the cable company, the informed us they’d be out as soon as possible…Which was on Sunday. This means Wes and I, and the kids by extension, lived without Internet access in our home for three and a half days.

Woe is us, right?

Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal at all. This just happened to be a really busy few days, during which I had to send quite a few time-sensitive emails. My solution was to schlep my laptop and kids to mother-in-law’s house on Thursday (she was gracious enough to let us come destroy her house for a few hours while I caught up on stuff) and then tote my daughter and laptop into a Starbucks on Friday only to spend $10 on coffee and snacks just for the ability to send one single solitary email.

It made me feel like some kind of unfortunate WiFi refugee and reminded me of a huge storm we had up here eight years ago. Trees went down left and right, taking out homes and power lines across Western Washington and making a huge mess out of everything. We were without power for almost a week, during which I learned a few things:

A house can become too cold to live in within six hours, give or take depending on snow levels outside and insulation and windows and whatnot.
You can take stuff out of your freezer and bury it outside in the snow to keep it from going bad.
Smart people have flashlights with good batteries and plenty of candles handy.
Gas stations don’t work without power, which means you, along with everyone in your city, are all in the same panicked almost-out-of-gas-with-nowhere-to-fill-up boat. It’s a crappy boat. Add to that the interminable wait when you do find a gas station with power and you have to wait in line behind everyone in your zip code, and you’ve got a whole lot of no fun.
Electricity changes things. A city without power is eerie and desolate. A house without power is creepy-quiet. It’s incredible and strange how vulnerable and alone you feel, and how fast, as soon as your cell phone loses battery power for good.

While things were far from this desperate without Internet, it was kind of similar. It’s amazing how frustrating it can feel to know you have an important email you can’t respond to. You don’t realize how fragile all of this is until one tiny part of it goes haywire, and then it becomes abundantly clear what a house of cards we all live in.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s an awesome house of cards. Truly, we live in an incredible time. All you can do is hold your breath and hope no one kicks the table too hard.

Thanks for sharing!

Halp? Please?

Coming up with a good title for a book is an art form. Truly, it’s a gift some people have and some people don’t. Personally, I can write an entire novel and yet when it comes to coming up with a title I’m stymied by the worst writer’s block of my life.

I’ve been trying to come up with a title for my new book, pestering my close friends for days with various possibilities. They’ve all been fabulous sports, thank goodness, but I thought it might be time to open this up to the public a bit.

Feel like helping me figure out a title for my book? Of course, it’s subject to my publisher’s approval so we can’t just call it Silly Pudding Noodle Face or something, but if you see a title here that speaks to you, please cast a vote.

Or, better yet, leave a comment with an entirely new idea! Do my job for me!

Again, here’s the gist of the plot:

It’s about an inexperienced CIA case officer whose boring assignment gets complicated by a North Korean plot to bomb South Korea. Rather than allow the North Koreans to irradiate the entire Korean peninsula by mistake, Bai has to flip a North Korean operative to help him destroy North Korea’s nuclear weapons arsenal.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Thanks for sharing!

April 6, 2015

That’s a pretty cool date up there in the title, huh? It’s close but still kinda far away, in the spring when the weather up here in Seattle is starting to think about getting nice again, right before the tax deadline but not so close that everyone is panicking.

Rather than baring my winter-pale legs in an ill-advised pair of shorts as I frolic outside in anemic sunshine mixed with sleet, I’ll probably be spending that day hunched over my computer, trying to remember to update all the things that’ll need updating that day.

Why, you ask?

Well……………………………………

BAI TIDE IS COMING OUT THAT DAY!!!

Yes, folks, that’s right. The first book of my new espionage series is coming out, published by Champagne Books, in both print and eBook. Now you can finally figure out for yourself what I’ve been blathering on about for years at this point.

What’s it about, you ask? It’s about an inexperienced CIA case officer whose boring assignment gets complicated by a North Korean plot to irradiate South Korea. Rather than allow the North Koreans to irradiate the entire Korean peninsula by mistake, Bai has to flip a North Korean operative to help him destroy North Korea’s nuclear weapons arsenal.

This book has it all: Chase scenes, hand-to-hand combat, banter, and explosions, and that’s literally just in the first chapter.

Stay tuned for more details to come, I’ll be sharing teaser chapters, cover reveals, and giveaway here as I get them.

Thank you for all your support over the years, I couldn’t do this without knowing I have fantastic readers like YOU to entertain!

Thanks for sharing!

An Inadvertent Murder Mystery Dinner

Wes and I had the pleasure of having dinner at a lovely restaurant on the water last Friday. He talked me into ordering the five-course tasting menu with him (something my waist regrets but I do not) and we sat there for almost three hours, eating, chatting, and watching the sun go down over the water. Gorgeous.

Of course, there was a bit of an elephant in the room while we dined. Well, not in the room. Tied to the dock. A gargantuan (and I do mean that in the traditional sense wherein it’s meant to convey sheer, enormous size) luxury yacht.

Now, I’m sure you’re thinking of the nicest yacht you’ve ever seen. I’m sure it’s lovely. What you need to do in order to understand the sheer size of this thing is to double that yacht you’re thinking of. In height, width, length, everything.

This thing was so humongous, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it had a bowling alley and perhaps a wine cellar, too. There was a yacht docked next to it and I actually felt kind of bad for the smaller yacht because, even though it was a very nice yacht and probably more expensive than anything I’ll ever own, it looked piddly next to the grand empress of the seas that was this mega-yacht.

Wes and I took a stroll past it on our way back to the car and it must have been 150 feet long. At least. What we could see through the windows was absolute elegance with very good taste. The leather on the upholstery looked soft enough to chamois a car with, and the deck had to have been made of teak. A crew member was walking around outside the boat, patrolling the deck for any unwanted riffraff, and we passed pleasantries with him before heading home.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that boat, though. How fun would it be to invite friends to come for a cruise with you? I’m pretty sure a maritime party is even better than a land party because the water compounds the coolness. Everyone knows this.

I was looking up information on this kind of mega yacht, though, and apparently a vessel of this size requires a crew of eight to run. I think that might be a bit weird. Even though the crew have their own quarters on board, I just think it’d be weird to be confined on a boat with eight people who work for me.

Of course, the thriller writer in me thinks this is just begging for a murder on the high seas, where the motives are unclear and the mystery unsolvable until the final pages. Come on, that story practically writes itself.

In an attempt to prevent the crew from hating me and wanting to murder me for my money, I’d probably be tempted to help them clean up and do their jobs all the time out of some awkward embarrassment over being waited on.

Who knows, though? Maybe if I ever have hundreds of millions of dollars, I’ll get over that shyness real quick. That is, unless inflation keeps getting worse, in which case my hundreds of millions of dollars will be worth approximately enough to buy a postcard of what that yacht looks like.

Thanks for sharing!

Just Get Me a Wetsuit and a Whistle

I SO wanted to be the one high-fiving someone over an orca.

I have an unpopular confession. It’s definitely less ignominious than admitting you attend dog fights, but certainly less sanctimonious than saying you rescue cats and then train them to be firefighters or something.

Okay. Here goes.

I love SeaWorld.

I do. It can’t be helped. I know, I know, I know. “Blackfish” and animal rights and all valid points considered but still. Regardless. My love for SeaWorld cannot be ruined. There’s just something about all those brilliant animals engaged and learning and living with a purpose. Fantastic natural athletes with clear-cut reasons for getting up in the morning, I love how the animals bond with their trainers.

In point of fact, I wanted to be one of those trainers for a really long time. You know, me and about half the other southern California children who loved SeaWorld too. It just looks like fun, doesn’t it?

I’m sure part of my interest in animal training comes from my parents. They both trained dogs when they were younger and my mom continues to be a gifted animal trainer. You’ve never seen a better-behaved dog or horse than my mom’s dogs and horses.

Anyway, the reason all this is on my mind is, Wes and I took the kids to the Seattle Aquarium on Saturday and happened to arrive at the Harbor Seal exhibit at the exact moment the seals’ trainers were working with them.

Imagine my delight to watch these trainers working with fish and whistles to train the seals to do tricks and differentiate between shapes! Of course, when my son asked what they were doing, I had to stop my psych nerd self from answering, “They’re using operant conditioning to elicit desirable behavior from the seals!”

Wes and I had a good long talk the other night about what I want to do when I grow up. You know, when my kids are grown and my skills are irrelevant and I’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

Maybe I’ll train seals! Maybe I’ll ride horses all day! Maybe I’ll join an orchestra! Maybe I’ll write stories!

Or, probably more likely, some awesome heretofore unimagined option I have yet to think of.

How about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?

Thanks for sharing!

Hypocrisy, Thy Name is Motherhood?

I’ve been slinging a diaper bag and parenting with the best of them for almost five years now. During that time, I’ve lost much in the way of dignity and coolness.It’s just hard to feel like a bad ass when you can sing all the Thomas the Train sings by heart and yet have no idea who most of the musical guests are on SNL anymore. To say nothing of the fact that I wear sweatpants in public, regularly, and without shame.

Despite my sartorial failings, I’ve always considered myself more or less a straight shooter. If I say something to my kids, I want them to trust that it’s the real deal. If they start questioning your word, it’s a straight shot from realizing “Don’t have sex because you’ll immediately get pregnant and burst into flames” is a lie to questioning the wisdom of “Don’t stick forks in the electrical sockets.”

Ain’t nobody got time for that many emergency room visits.

Lately, though, I’ve realized that, while not a liar, I am somewhat of a hypocrite. Last weekend, I put on a movie for my kids to watch. It was a totally age-appropriate, animated movie teaching numbers that I thought would be a hit until my son started whimpering and covering his face. Apparently animated accountant pirates and silly anthropomorphic sharks are TERRIFYING.

I used the Socratic method (because I went to college, yo) to help him realize there was no need to be scared of pictures on a TV screen. It didn’t do much to assuage his fears, however, and we eventually moved on to a different movie.

Later that night, Wes and I watched The Cabin In The Woods. It’s a Joss Whedon (whom long-term readers will know I LOVE) horror movie. I was curious enough about what Joss’s take would be to watch it, even though I normally don’t watch horror movies because I am a big ol’ CHICKEN. The images are far too vivid in my head and I take everything personally.

When a character is getting dragged, sobbing, through the forest by a bear trap embedded in his/her back, in my mind it’s ME getting dragged through pine needles and I have a hard time parsing reality from horror.

Anyway, when the movie was over I asked Wes, in a very tiny voice, to turn on all the lights and escort me to the bathroom because, I’ll admit it, I was spooked. It was a good movie, but it was horrifying. As advertised.

I fully realize the irony of trying to convince my son not to be scared of something on the screen and then turning into a whimpering wuss less than ten hours later. Hypocrisy, thy name is Erika.

Same thing happened again with my daughter and thunder the other night. How am I supposed to convince my daughter that thunder isn’t scary when my heart starts pounding every time a particularly loud thunderclap sounds overhead?

Who knows? Maybe candor would be better than a brave face. Anyone have an opinion they’d care to share on the subject?

A Starbucks Snapshot

One of my favorite things about writing at a coffee shop is collecting little stories from the people around me. It’s a glimpse of humanity I don’t get on a daily basis while staying home with my kids. There’s not much time for quiet observation when you’re trying to keep two tiny humans from certain injury and mortal peril.

(My job is very exciting.)

When I arrived at Starbucks at around noon, I waited at the bar for my coffee beside two men in their fifties. They were seated at a small round table in the back corner, wearing identical beige windbreakers and sandals that exposed gnarled, yellowing toenails. I couldn’t tell their exact nationalities, but if I had to guess I would’ve guessed Indian. Until they started talking.

Their conversation was convivial and pure Russian. And apparently hilarious, because their guffaws frequently sliced through the sounds of espresso grinders and milk steaming.

I have no idea what they were saying, or why two Indian guys were conversing in Russian, but it was pretty cool.

A little while later, after I’d taken a seat and begun sipping my coffee, an older lady with black-framed bottlecap glasses sat down at the square table next to me with a chocolate cake pop and some kind of chocolate Frappuccino. She enjoyed her cake pop with obvious relish before pulling out a checkbook and filling out the little ledger part at the back where you’re supposed to balance all the sums to make sure you don’t run out of money.

She sat and sipped, balanced and budgeted, for about half an hour, at the end of which she collected her things and left with a faint smile on her face. It made me wonder how long she’s been coming to a cafe to balance her checkbook, how and when she began this little ritual, and why it makes her so happy.

After she left, two jocular men in their sixties bulled through the door. They had the look of two men who’d been doing sports their whole lives, with deep tans and easy grins that made me think they’ve both spent lots of time outside on golf courses. Their conversation was mostly football, but from the context I have to assume they’d crossed paths here at this Starbucks rather than arranged to meet here.

Interestingly, they both ordered drip coffee. After doctoring it up at the cream and sugar station, the taller of the two smacked the ass of the shorter guy and said, “Go get ‘em!” and then they were both gone.

I wonder whether the guy who ordered second had been planning on ordering a pink Frappuccino with extra whipped cream or something but changed his mind so as to save face around the other guy. Either way, I know that shorter guy’s ass is probably still stinging from that slap.

It’d be interesting to see whether any of my observations turned out to be true, but I can’t very well go and ask a stranger how his butt cheek feels, can I?

Thanks for sharing!