Cynthia Rogan's Blog, page 5

Marketing, Schmarketing

So I say to myself, “Now, Cynthia. How hard can it be to get a little attention for your book? I mean Symphony of Dreams is a great story. The people who’ve read it, love it. You love it. And we’ve all been in Symphony’s position at one time or another. So . . . readers identify with it.”

I take a break from the build-up talk because the phone rings and/or I get a text message, and/or an email comes in. (and/or I want to check my sales status in every place I have a status.)

“Well,” I say to myself (because, at that moment, no one else is listening). “When people start to read Symphony of Dreams, they’ll tell their friends, and those friends will talk, and sooner or later -Cynthia Rogan- all kinds of people will be reading your book. Now stop worrying about it and go finish making dinner.”

But, at this point, all I really want to do is grab a big ole spoon and that half gallon of triple chocolate ice cream out of the freezer.

Should I?

Marketing, Schmarketing

So I say to myself, “Now, Cynthia. How hard can it be to get a little attention for your book? I mean Symphony of Dreams is a great story. The people who’ve read it, love it. You love it. And we’ve all been in Symphony’s position at one time or another. So . . . readers identify with it.”

I take a break from the build-up talk because the phone rings and/or I get a text message, and/or an email comes in. (and/or I want to check my sales status in every place I have a status.)

“Well,” I say to myself (because, at that moment, no one else is listening). “When people start to read Symphony of Dreams, they’ll tell their friends, and those friends will talk, and sooner or later -Cynthia Rogan- all kinds of people will be reading your book. Now stop worrying about it and go finish making dinner.”

But, at this point, all I really want to do is grab a big ole spoon and that half gallon of triple chocolate ice cream out of the freezer.

Should I?

 

Weeds

One glance at my garden used to leave me gnashing my teeth. Weeds were everywhere. If one of my plants wasn’t doing well, it was usually sharing its little plot of the world with a healthy green squatter.

From experience, I can assure you that no amount of cursing will kill a weed. I have found no four-letter words that squash them into non-existence. Although some yield beautiful flowers, many of them just plain stink and, if you do any gardening at all, you’ve had to deal with them. No matter what—they return (especially if you break them off at the roots).

Every year, weary of hoeing, yanking, pulling and digging, I search for an easy way to rid myself of the problem. There are sprays, solutions and amazing tools that can “cut your weeding time to a fraction of what it presently is for 3 easy payments of $19.95.” It’s true. I saw it on TV. So, I buy some new gadget, hoping for a magic fix. I end up selling it the following spring to some poor garage sale customer who’s, “always wanted to try one of these.”

Lately, my desire for emotional and spiritual growth leads me to explore, with great humility, those parts of myself that hold me back when I need to stretch and breathe. That said, I have come to the conclusion that, despite the weed’s undesirable reputation, there is much to be learned from its spirit.

Lies, Lies, Lies

Mr. Rogers died. Then came the story about how he was a Navy Seal and a sniper in Vietnam with 25 confirmed kills to his credit. And . . . the reason he always wore a sweater was to cover up his tattoos.

I was shocked. I always saw him as a sort of bland man who had lots of goodness to teach. I remember thinking, “Ah. There’s so much more to all of us.” It never occurred to me that I should check the story out. Why would someone take the time to concoct a story like that if it wasn’t true?

Well hell, I’m a novelist and playwright. I concoct stories all the time.

So, I checked Rambo Mr. Rogers. According to truthorfiction.com, Fred Rogers never served in the military. Lies . . .

And although margarine has many negative characteristics (including, but not limited to, taste), it was not originally created to fatten turkeys. Nor did it kill those turkeys it was not created to fatten. It was invented by some French guy in 1869 as a substitute for butter.  Lies.

Tonight, when my sister checked into her cabin on the lake and found a “Mosquito Eater,” she asked, “Have you ever seen one eat a mosquito?”

I haven’t. I decided to look them up, hoping to find evidence of the gore. But, guess what? Mosquito Eaters are really Crane Flies and they don’t eat mosquitoes. In fact, the adult Crane Fly doesn’t eat at all. Throughout my life I have felt safe from mosquitoes with them in the room. More lies!!!

Will they never stop? I suppose, as a writer, I can dish it out but I can’t take it.

 

We must believe

Marie Curie said:

“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all, confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something and that this thing must be attained.”

So . . . that’s why I spend my spare time writing, editing and, alas, writing some more.

My stories may never open doors to medical or scientific discovery, solve financial crises, end war, or stop poverty.

As a writer, I feed you characters and situations, hoping to deepen your understanding, broaden your empathy.

That, I believe, is my gift–and my responsibility.

Thanks for reading Symphony of Dreams.

 

 

 

Going places

Crazy Letters

Mama used to tell this story about how I came home from first grade in hysterics. The teacher said we were going to read the next day and I was horrified. How was I supposed to read? I didn’t know how.

I insisted Mama teach me that very night so I’d be ready. She tried to convince me the teacher meant we would begin learning to read. When Daddy got home from work, he tried to explain that reading and writing weren’t skills I could attain overnight. What finally calmed me down was the phone call to Miss Brewer, my teacher.

That phone call took a lot of the pressure off. I met the challenge. I got past the fear that I wouldn’t be able to do it. Before the year ended, I knew how to read and write.

Tonight, I ordered a new copy of “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” by Dr. Seuss.

Perspective is almost everything.

Attitude is nearly, almost everything.

But life is always life.

“So…

be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray

or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,

you’re off to Great Places!

Today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting.

So…get on your way!”

Click here to read the whole poem. You’ll be glad you did. Dr. Seuss was a wise man who sometimes knew just what to say to kids of all ages.

No pain, no gain?

Generally, I’m not the girly type.

I don’t wear makeup on a daily basis. In fact, I’m sure I’ve gone years without mascara.

I don’t own a pair of heels.

I wear my hair goopless, shiny, and straight.

I’m not opposed to showing a little cleavage now and then, but my breasts occurred naturally. They don’t require any additional prep when I’m getting ready to go out.

When my friend suggested we get our nails done before the Surrey Conference, I thought having pretty hands would give me a boost. And I was right. I felt almost dainty.

I had no idea:

1. They are painful for about 24 hours. Not miserable, just sore.

2. I cannot text properly with fingernails. I don’t know how anyone does. There was a number between almost every letter I typed into my phone. I spent more time backspacing than I usually do messaging.

3. I cannot type properly with fingernails – especially on my laptop. I don’t know how anyone does. I spent more time backspacing and deleting than I usually do typing.

4. I cannot ten-key or number key properly with fingernails. I don’t know how anyone does. I spent more time backspacing and deleting than I usually do keying in numbers. And I’m an accountant.

5. You’ll get used to them is an out-right lie. Well, maybe not out-right. And it may be true for some people. But it isn’t true for me. I know that, because today, 8 days after I had the nails done, I called the man I had paid to put them on.

“How long to take them off?” I asked.

“Ten minutes,” he said.

I was relieved. I’d finally be able to finish the payroll reports at work.

I go there expecting some magic solution that would melt them right down to my normal fingernails. But, nooooooooooooooooooo! He got out these little pliers with sharp pinching ends. He began to dig and gouge and pick at the acrylics until he was tearing into my real nail.

“Wait,” I said. “I thought you were going to soak them to get them off.”

“No,” he answered, digging again. “That would take at least an hour.”

We ended up agreeing that he would cut them short, file them down, and I would return in two weeks when the acrylics would come off more easily.

Now I understand the phrase, “It hurts to be beautiful,” and my nails aren’t even pretty anymore.

On this day, I write

Robert Dugoni opened the Surrey conference I just attended. “On this day, I write,” was the ending phrase of his speech. If you’d like to hear it, please click here. It is inspirational. Thanks to Robert Dugoni, I began the conference reminded of why I write.

Thanks to Robert McCammon, and Robynn Sheahan, and Russell Turney, I left the conference reminded of why I write.

That’s what I’d like to talk about right now.

I wasn’t an outgoing child. In fact, I was very shy. At an early age, I learned to watch and listen, hoping to unlock the code that would make friendships easier to come by. I was always trying to understand why people did things–especially those things that hurt others. (I’m still trying to understand that.)

When I began writing poems under the hall nightlight, there’s no doubt the subjects were dark and worrisome. I wish I could see those early attempts again–the brooding of a deep-thinking nine-year-old–but I have searched. Alas, (doesn’t that sound poetic?) those pages must have found their way to the trash via year-end notebook guts, etc.

Anyhow . . .

Way back then, before I was in double digits, I didn’t think about how it would feel to write a best-seller. (Don’t get me wrong. I would love to have a best-seller.) I didn’t think about what it would be like to have my name on the cover of my own book, or how much money I could make, or how famous I could be, or any of the rewards.

I thought about what it might be like for a shy kid to be able to say what he or she wanted to. I wondered. What if the kid everyone ignored, could do something no one else could? And, what if I wanted to show that we are all special, likeable, even loveable.

As I got older, those objectives stayed the same, but I added some. Today, I write about the chubby girl, the homeless man, the woman with Down’s Syndrome.  I write about people we don’t like, people we ignore, people we pity. I try to shed some imaginative light on who they are and why they are the way they are, all the while unfolding a story that grabs you and pulls you forward. My goal is revelation and suspense. And if the story I conceive begins with a five-year-old clairvoyant, I don’t say, “Nah, nevermind. Nobody’s gonna buy a story that starts with a five-year-old.”  I write the story because it needs to be written.

I want to sell books just like everybody else, but I have to be true to my characters and my readers. If a child grows up hating the gift she’s born with, finds a way to make it stop, then desperately needs it back when her life falls apart, do you begin with her life falling apart? I don’t.

The reader must accompany the girl through some horrible situations, see both sides of “the gift,” or they can’t fully comprehend her dilemma. If the reader can’t decide whether or not the girl makes the right decisions, there’s no way they can go through the consequences with her.

I did not set out to write a thriller, although parts of this book are extremely intense. My main goal is that when you leave the story, you have heart-poundingly fallen in love with the character whose life has forced you to chew your nails.

This story is not about an event.

It is about a person.

I have to trust my writing, and the story, and the reader.

And, on this day, I do.

I have my reasons and you have yours.

We all do what we feel we have to at any given moment and those actions we cannot justify, we rationalize.

Notice I didn’t say we always do what we feel is right. There’s a big difference. BESIDES . . . what’s right for you could easily wrong someone else (see my post  What’s your point . . . of view? )

There are always at least two sides to a story. The trick is considering all sides.

Talk to someone who is unemployed because their employer could no longer afford to pay them. They are angry, frustrated, depressed, and ridden with guilt because they can’t pay their bills and they feel they’re letting their family down. Then talk to the employer whose bank account can’t support payroll because customers are not paying their bills. The employer is angry, frustrated, depressed, and ridden with guilt because they’ve let their employees and their family down.

Interview two women in love with the same man. Remember Death Becomes Her?

Read The War Prayer by Mark Twain.

Most of the time, I understand why I do what I do. It’s either:

1. Necessary

2.The right thing to do

3. The best thing for me

4. Best for someone I care about or

5. Something I want to do.

I have to assume that others base their decisions on similar criteria. Therefore, I am curious.

Why do people do what they do? How do they justify it? Rationalize it?

How can a woman leave her sleeping toddler and newborn alone in her apartment at midnight to go out? Is it necessary? Right? Best for her? We know it’s not  best for her babies. Sounds to me like a want to situation. If you were to stop her on the street, what excuse would she give? Would any reason be acceptable?

As a person, I would have to say no.

As a writer, I must worm my way into her head to uncover how she reconciles herself with what she’s doing. Then, I have to show her character on the written page in such a way that the reader can understand her actions and follow her to the consequences. That’s a tough job when you disagree with someone’s behavior.

The other night, I awoke to a violent fight in my neighborhood. I could hear a man yelling. No, he wasn’t just yelling, he was raging. His anger had completely outgrown his capacity to vocalize it. He was doing that hoarse, spit-throwing bellow. There was door-slamming and wall-banging. Then after about twenty minutes of his disagreement with the universe, I heard her–the wailing, the pleading, the sobbing, the begging. I called 911. The police must have arrived soon afterward, because the noise stopped. I hope the fighting did.

I’ll never stop trying to understand how a person lets anger possess them. Is it possible to love somebody one minute and beat the crap out of them the next? And how do you justify and/or rationalize that? Is it necessary? Is it the right thing to do? Is it best for the rager? Best for the person they’re hurting? Or, is it another one of those want to situations?

Unless you’re a drunken hothead with a numb fist and little or no self-control, I’m sure you can figure out the answer to that one.

Here’s one more example to prime your thought pump.

Other drivers.

I actually used my middle finger last Sunday. I couldn’t believe it was still functioning. I thought I’d maxed it out during my last episode of city driving. (I’m joking. I save it for special occasions. That middle finger carries a lot of weight in some circles.)

I was on a busy, two-lane highway, waiting to make a left turn. I watched in my rear view mirror as some jerk in a bright yellow truck flew up behind me. He didn’t brake until the last minute. Nearly gave me a heart attack. (I’ve been rear-ended twice on that same highway.) Before I even had a chance to sigh in relief, he laid on his horn. I guess I was the only thing standing between his boat and the river.

I had my blinker on. I had brake lights. When I realized he couldn’t interpret the blinker or brake lights, I rolled the window down and gave him the full-arm, “stop being an idiot” indicator signal. It worked. The horn stopped.

Okay. So . . . what was his justification?

What about mine? Personally, I believe I used all of my reasons, with an emphasis on number 5.

I’ll leave you with that. It’s 8 AM and I have to get to work. I don’t think my boss will consider “I had to finish my blog post” a good reason to be late. And my job, falls under category number 1. Need I say more?

Mares do eat oats, right?

Mare-zee dotes and doe-zee dotes and little lam-zee diveys.  A diddly divey doo, wouldn’t you?

Wouldn’t you what???

I never understood this song.

I sang it anyway – as it is written above.

It has such a catchy tune . . .but the words?

Oh well, I figured. Nothing is perfect. But I could never just relax and enjoy it.

This morning, I decided I’d Google the words and here they are:

Mairzy Doats (This youtube video’s kind of fun)

I know a ditty nutty as a fruitcake

Goofy as a goon and silly as a loon

Some call it pretty,

others call it crazy

But they all sing this tune:

Mairzy doats and dozy doats

And liddle lamzy divey

A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?

Yes! Mairzy doats and dozy doats

and liddle lamzy divey

A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?

If the words sound queer

And funny to your ear,

A little bit jumbled and jivey

Sing “Mares eat oats

And does eat oats

And little lambs eat ivy”

Oh! Mairzy doats and dozy doats

And liddle lamzy divey

A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?

A kiddley divey too, wouldn’t you?

By Milton Drake, Al Hoffman and Jerry Livingston.

Well, it seems I was close. At least I sang “wouldn’t you?” rather than “wooden shoe.” It was the only part of the song that made sense. Right?

That’s me. Always trying to figure out how things really fit together.

To myself I say, “Relax, Cindy. Some things just don’t make sense. And they don’t have to.”

I can say it, but I’m still not sure I believe it.