Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life... - Posts Tagged "blogs"

So now that I've been home for a couple of months, I'm getting serious about doing the research for my second book. Really serious. I mean it.
To that end, I spent a few hours at the New York Public Library yesterday. I went there to find some books about Yugoslav history, and while perusing the shelves in one of the third floor research rooms I hit the mother lode.
In three large tomes, I found valuable information about Yugoslav history spanning hundreds of years. I also found information about politics, government, culture and education.
To date, I've gotten plenty of information about communism, socialism, past and present ethnic conflicts from my family, but I'm hoping to gain some additional insight from the library books.
In coming weeks, I'll continue my legwork at the New York Public Library and elsewhere. I'll also begin synthesizing the information in notes and outlines.
From there, I'll probably turn my attention to character and plot development.
Once that's all done, I'll finally be to start on the first draft of the novel based on my father's life.
So for those of you who may be wondering when my next book will be coming out, I can't honestly say yet.
But to keep myself on track, I'll be providing you with weekly updates in my blog. That way, you'll get some insight into the writing process from start to finish.
I hope you enjoy it. It should be a fun ride!
Until next time, "That's life..."

For some reason I can't set foot in the New York Public Library without thinking about Ghostbusters -- but that's aside from the point.
I was back at my favorite haunt last night, and even though the visit was unplanned, it was productive. In fact, I found and photocopied material from three more books detailing Yugoslav history. It took a couple of hours to find and copy everything I wanted, and as I look at the growing stack of research material on my desk I cringe when I think about how many trees were sacrificed for the cause.
To be honest, I'm starting to feel more than a little overwhelmed by this research project. The subject is dense, and it seems the more I find, the more questions I have and the more confused I get.
So I think it's time to stop gathering material and start sifting through what I've already found. I suppose I'll start making outlines and timelines and take it from there. In any case, the bottom line is, that until I not only understand the history of my father's homeland, but feel confident enough to write about it with some authority, I simply can't begin to think about character or plot development.
What about you? How do you go about doing research for your own books. Do you take a methodical approach or fly be the seat of your pants?
I'm eager to hear what you think.
Until next time, "That's life..."

For some authors, blogging is a marketing tool. For others, it's a writing exercise. For me, it began as both, and as such often felt like a bit of a chore. But now it's just plain fun.
It is in that spirit that I am penning this, my 40th blog, and as always, I'm thrilled to have you along for the ride.
First and foremost, I'd like to extend my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you for taking the time to read my weekly posts. With so many authors and bloggers vying for readers' attention, I am honored that you have chosen to join me on what's been an incredible journey.
Looking back, it's clear to see the steep learning curve I went through as I tried to find my "voice" or craft my identity as a blogger. From my first, introductory post in May to my initial posts about writing and related issues, I endeavored to find the style and topics that would resonate with readers.
And in hindsight, it's easy to spot the posts which have done just that. Reflections on the loss of a pet; a birthday celebration; advice on how to handle mainstream media interviews...
In the end, whether it's in print or in person, I'll always be the same snarffy, sarcastic, irreverent, outspoken, brash, sensitive, compassionate woman you've come to know... and possibly even love.
Until next time, "That's life..."

To paraphrase a famous comedian, this was the kind of day that makes you say hmmm...
First, I finally finished reading London Bridges by James Patterson. It was typical Patterson fare pitting the good guy -- FBI Agent Alex Cross -- against a particularly vicious villain called the Wolf. In this particular story, the Wolf and his crew are causing worldwide mayhem by blowing things up.
I know, I know. What's so strange about that? Well, give me a second and I'll put it in context for you so it makes sense. I just happened to finish reading the damned book the day after a lethal explosion leveled an apartment building (or two) in New York City. Without giving too much away, the Big Apple was one of the cities the Wolf targeted in Patterson's book.
To top things off, I decided that the perfect way to decompress after handling a month's worth of home renovations on my own was to go and see Non-Stop, the (relatively) new Liam Neeson action flick. I'm sure by now most of you have seen the trailer, even if you haven't seen the movie. I won't include any spoilers in case anyone still wants to see it. Let's just say there's some drama on a trans-Atlantic flight.
In my humble opinion, the movie was formulaic but entertaining. Even so, I couldn't really concentrate on the action unfolding on the screen. I was too busy thinking about the real life mystery and drama surrounding the Malaysian airliner that recently vanished into thin air.
When you think about it, there are times when truth definitely is stranger than fiction.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Here's a thought. If you've ever read a book, written a book or even thought about writing one, chances are you've got a literary hero.
For readers it's probably a character. But for authors, the odds are even better that it's a fellow wordsmith. For some, perhaps, it's a master of the craft. Or maybe it's an obscure writer whose name -- known only to a select few -- evokes the image of a starving artist driven solely by their passion.
For me it is Snoopy. Yes, that Snoopy -- the loveable beagle of Peanuts fame created by Charles Schulz.
For the record, I loved him long before it ever dawned on me to use a pen or pencil for anything other than doodling or homework -- and long before I could type, for that matter. I mean, what child wouldn't fall in love with a dog who could play baseball, fly an airplane, hold his own with a BFF as hip as Woodstock, and write the great American novel -- or at least try to write it?
To this day, the fact that he didn't quite manage to become a best-selling author hasn't diminished my respect for the pup. If anything, Snoopy's dogged determination in the face of so much rejection heightened it. But in all honesty, he didn't officially become my literary hero until a few years ago, when I received a book called "Snoopy's Guide to the Writing Life."
Edited by Barnaby Conrad and Monte Schulz, the hard-cover book features commentary, essays, anecdotes and Peanuts comic strips. Collectively, they show just how Snoopy dealt with criticism, rejection and writers block. In the book, some fairly decent authors including Ray Bradbury, William F. Buckley Jr., Clive Cussler and Sidney Sheldon, offer advice to help Snoopy hone his craft.
But to me, the best part of the whole book is the front cover. On it are frames from an old Peanuts comic strip in which the brilliant beagle struggles to create one of the best sentences ever written. Painstakingly, word by word, we see it evolve... "It was a dark and stormy night."
Pure genius.
And until next time, "That's Life..."

It's official. I'm a statistic.
A newspaper career that spanned more than two decades ended on a sour note 11 months ago. The reasons for my dismissal are best not publicly disclosed -- so let's just chalk it up to an unresolved personality conflict.
I wish I could say I quickly landed an even more satisfying and lucrative full-time job, however that is not the case. But then again, just because I've technically been out of work doesn't mean I haven't been working hard. If anything, I've acquired some valuable skills.
I've learned the ins and outs of social media,and how to walk the fine line between book marketing and self-exploitation. In the process, I learned plenty about advertising, branding, publicity and public relations. I also polished my interview skills in print and broadcast media appearances.
Then there are all of the other skills I've honed and positions I've held since last June:
1) Landscape architecture (mowing the lawn).
2) Snow and ice removal (self-explanatory).
3)Micro-and-macro-engineering (putting furniture together).
4) Micro-deconstruction and demolition (taking furniture apart).
5) Macro-deconstruction demolition (taking large furniture apart).
6)Expert in coordinating and supervising home renovations.
7)Expert in decluttering bedrooms, attics, and basements.
8)Waste removal (I'll leave that to your very vivid imaginations).
The list goes on... and on. And today, as I helped carry seven large floor boards and other debris down two flights of stairs, it dawned on me that I could probably make millions by recording the activity and starting a new fitness craze...
But all joking aside, I would like to go back to work... for real. So if you know of any openings, feel free to drop me a note.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Sorry I've gotten off to such a late start this week. I've been busy licking my wounds.
You see, my ego has been battered and my pride is a bit bruised. Simply stated, I am a sore loser.
After giving it some serious thought, I entered several book contests this year. And much to my delight, judges selected "Truth" as the winner in the Gay Literature category in the first contest I entered. It was selected as runner-up in the Biography/Autobiography category in the second contest I entered.
So yesterday, I could hardly wait to see if I'd placed in an even bigger contest. Organizers had informed the authors that they planned to announce the results on the "down low" before making the official announcement next week. Undaunted by previous emails detailing the number of entries and fierce competition, I was convinced I would win something. Maybe not a gold medal or even a silver. But I was convinced I had a realistic shot at a bronze medal. No, make that a good shot. A very good shot.
After all, I read the judging criteria and I just knew "Truth" met them all. There was no doubt in my mind that my book is timely and well-written. What else could those judges possibly expect?
Confident, I started checking my email at 9 a.m. There were lots of messages, but not the one I was expecting. So I checked again an hour later. Still no luck. By noon, I was checking my email at least two or three times per hour with the same results. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
By the end of the day I was fed up with the whole process. But just when I was about to give up altogether, the email finally arrived. I felt my pulse thumping in my neck as I opened it and clicked on the link to the result page. Eagerly, I scanned the list, trying to remember just which category I entered. It didn't matter, though. I didn't see my name - and as much as I wished it would magically appear, nothing changed when I re-read the page.
Maybe I entered the wrong category. Maybe the judges just didn't like the book. Maybe the competition was just too good.
I did my best, and this time it just wasn't good enough. But in the end, that's OK. Even I can't win them all.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Not that long ago, I read the fantastic memoir, Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl by Carol Bodensteiner.
Now I did not grow up on a farm and I've never set foot in Iowa (in fact, I'm an unapologetic child of the New York City suburbs). But boy, did Bodensteiner's accounts of her childhood bring back memories!
I first visited my Australian grandparents' "property" when I was just four years old. To the best of my knowledge, the trip took forever. Or at least it felt that way. But the cross country flight from New York to L.A. and the ensuing trans-Pacific flight from L.A. to Sydney, hour-long flight from Sydney to Tamworth and hour-long drive from Tamworth to Barraba, N.S.W., was definitely worth it.
At the end of that long, long journey, Mom and I finally arrived at "Wyndella," the 5,000 acre spread where my grandfather ran beef cattle and sheep. He also grew wheat and alfalfa there.
To a little girl so far from home, everything on the place -- from the cows in the paddocks to the catfish in the creek -- seemed unbelievably big and scary. But my grandparents welcomed their "Cranky Yankee" with open arms, and instantly became more than family. They became my heroes.
As I learned on subsequent trips, life on the land wasn't an easy one. Men like my grandpa and uncles faced an uphill battle in the drought-scorched "bush." Water and money were often scarce in the lean years... but somehow Grandpa managed to make a living and -- perhaps even more impressively -- Grandma raised five children.
Whether times were tough or good, my grandparents -- or the "Gs" as some family members affectionately called them -- always made sure I had a good time when I visited. So "Wyndella" quickly became my second home.
It was the place where I helped brand cattle and mend fences. It was the place where I stood in the back of the Suzuki with hair and adrenaline flying as Grandpa and my uncles hunted kangaroo at night. It was the place where I watched Grandpa behead a "chook" (chicken) and the place where I learned the importance of working dogs.
It was the place where I spent Christmas Day poolside when I was 12. It was the place where I played with my cousins and endured merciless teasing from my uncles. It was the place where Grandpa was the only one brave enough to try and teach me how to ride a dirt bike. It was a place where you went to bed and got up early without complaint.
It was a place I loved.
Sadly, all of that changed when time and age caught up with Grandpa. He and Grandma made the difficult decision to move off the land and buy a house in town. Extenuating circumstances made it impossible to keep the property in the family, so strangers bought "Wyndella."
While I've been back to Barraba several times, I haven't set foot on the land since I was 21. Aunts and uncles say I wouldn't want to. They say it's not the same. I hate them for denying me a chance to see for myself... but that's another story for another time.
One thing hasn't changed in all these years. Grandpa is still my hero. He turned 99 earlier this week, and (knock on wood) is still in great health. He attributes his longevity to clean living -- he gave up smoking when he was young and "keeps off the grog." Perhaps that really is his secret. Or perhaps all that hard work helped, too.
In any case, all I know is that he's the best. Happy birthday, mate! This "Cranky Yankee" still loves you!
And until next time, "That's life..."

It's official. I'm annoyed.
I'm somewhat annoyed because I'd spent more than an hour writing this post when it mysteriously vanished. Not that it was a great loss -- I didn't like how it was turning out anyway.
I'm mildly annoyed that I've sent out two dozen resumes in the past couple of days and I haven't gotten a single response.
But if you want to know the truth, I'm really annoyed about everything that transpired on this week's episode of Deadliest Catch.
It turns out that Captain Sig Hansen's 18-year-old daughter, Mandy, wants to follow in her father's footsteps. The only trouble is that he's a crab fisherman on the Bering Sea.
Now, those of you who have been living under a rock for the past decade may not know this, but crab fishing on the Bering Sea in the middle of winter ranks as one of the most dangerous jobs on the face of the earth. So plenty of people have plenty to say about whether young Mandy should chase her dreams.
I say, let her try. She should have the same opportunity to follow her passion that I did to follow mine.
You see, I spent my whole entire professional life working in male-dominated jobs -- so I know what they said to my face -- and what they said behind my back. My presence in male locker rooms made people uncomfortable. My presence at crime scenes threw some people for a loop. My penchant for risk-taking to get a story raised a few eyebrows.
I didn't care. I never listened to the people who said it was "too dangerous" or that I "didn't belong" or that I should have been doing something else.
If I'd listened to them, I never would have become a successful journalist. If I'd listened to the people who told me "you can't," or "you shouldn't" or "you're no good," or "you're not important," I never would have had the courage to write my memoir.
It's not about being a strong woman or being a feminist. It's not about "leaning in" or being all things to all people. It's about being true to yourself.
So if you have a dream, chase it. If you want a great life, live it. If you have a story, tell it. If you have fears, confront them. If you have demons, vanquish them. If you have adversity, embrace it. If you have triumphs, share them.
And if all else fails... Never give up. Never look down. Never look back. No matter what.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Let's be honest. We creative types don't exactly have it easy. Everyone's a competitor. Everyone's a critic.
Personally I wouldn't have it any other way. It drives me to work harder. It drives me to do better. It drives me to reach goals I once thought unimaginable. It also drives me crazy.
Given that, I can't stop thinking about Tuesday. This coming Tuesday -- July 15, 2014 -- to be precise. It promises to be a banner day. I'll find out more about a paralegal certificate program I'm interested in taking to jump start the next phase of my career. Perhaps just as importantly (if not more so) I'll learn whether I'm a finalist in a national literary contest, and how I fared in a national short story contest.
There's money at stake in one case, and major street-cred up for grabs in the other. My pride's at stake in both.
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm competitive. But I'm also realistic. The judging in creative contests is a largely subjective exercise. So my "banner day" may end in disappointment. If it does, it won't be the first time.
And it won't be the last.
Until next time, "That's life..."