Alexandra Bogdanovic's Blog: That's life..., page 7

So you think you can write...

To quote the late U.S. President Ronald Reagan, "Well, here we go again..." I am about to write something that might make a few people mad. Just remember that your reaction is a matter of choice; I am simply voicing my opinion and exercising my First Amendment rights.
With that disclaimer out of the way, I will now get to the point.
Some people can't sing. Some people can't dance. Some people can't act. And then there are the people who can't write. In fact, there are tons of people who couldn't write their way out of a paper bag if their life depended on it.
The problem is that they are under the incredibly misguided impression that they can.
The truth is that with the advent of self-publishing anyone can become a published author. All you need is an idea, some time and money. Apparently talent and creativity are optional.
Sadly the result is an overcrowded market where mediocrity is acceptable.
By now you are probably fuming, and if you have bothered to read this much, you are probably wondering what gives me the right to say all of this and why I'm saying it with so much certainty.
Simply put, I speak from experience. I (barely) make a living as a freelance proofreader and editor, so I spend a lot of time reviewing manuscripts. Occasionally the copy is fairly clean when I get it. There may be a few mistakes and the language has to be tightened up a little bit. But the plot and characters are well-developed; the story makes sense. It is a pleasure to read these manuscripts, and I know the authors will be successful.
Most of the copy I get is a mess. Grammatical and spelling errors are the rule, not the exception. In some cases there isn't a sentence that doesn't need to be revised. The plots are muddled, the characters aren't believable... I could go on, but I won't.
Some of you may think I've been too harsh, and perhaps I have. Perhaps I just take too much for granted, or perhaps I expect too much.
By the time I wrote my memoir, I'd spent years honing my writing skills as a journalist at daily and weekly newspapers in three states. From the beginning, my editors set ridiculously high standards and expected me to meet them.
I held myself to the same standards when I wrote "Truth." That's not to say my first draft was perfect; it certainly wasn't. Neither was the second or the third. So I took my editor's advice and finally crafted what turned out to be an award-winning book.
Yes, anyone can write a book. But only a few can do it well.
Until next time, "That's life..."

I must admit...

As a lot of you know, there aren't too many things I miss about being a reporter.
I don't miss the 18-hour days. I don't miss the tight deadlines. I don't miss the stress and aggravation. I don't miss self-important public officials or arrogant cops.
I don't miss standing around crime scenes for hours or rushing to cover a plane crash at three in the morning.
I don't miss working for what amounted to less than minimum wage and I certainly don't miss office politics.
To be perfectly frank I'm much better off without most of the people I worked with (although I do miss a few).
I must admit there are some other things that I do miss though. I miss the communities that I covered. I miss the readers whose lives I touched. I miss the fun assignments that editors dismissed as unimportant, like this one I did in The Plains, Va., back in 2011.
No reporter will ever win a Pulitzer for covering a village scarecrow contest... unless the judges were on the take or someone stuffed a dead body into one of the costumes... Call me cynical, but stranger things have happened.
But at the end of the day, these were the stories that people loved the most. These were the "feel good stories," the stories that touched their hearts and made them laugh. These were the stories that took their minds off all the troubles in the world -- at least for a little while. These were the stories that helped them take a little bit of pride in their communities. I know all of this it's because the readers told me.
So I'll let other reporters tell the world about Isis and Ebola and the economy.
I'll let them have the satisfaction of spreading the word about the upcoming elections and I'll let them have the glory they all think that they deserve.
I've been there, done that and gotten the awards to show for it.
I take pride in those awards. But at the end of the day, I made people smile. I made them laugh. Perhaps I even made them feel a bit better about the world.
I'll always take pride in that.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Enough is enough

Blogger's note: I am taking a huge risk by writing this. I know some people will find it controversial and some may be offended. If that's the case, so be it. I'm fed up with hearing people moan about income inequality and I've kept my mouth shut long enough.
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Those of you who know me personally or have read my memoir know quite a bit about me.
You already know that I have a fantastic geographic pedigree. I was born in Bronxville, N.Y., an affluent New York City suburb and grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, which has long had a reputation for being one of the wealthiest communities in the United States of America.
I got a world-class education and graduated from a private, all-girl Catholic School in Greenwich. I have traveled extensively. In other words, I have had an extremely privileged life.
But before you start hating on me, let's get a couple of things perfectly straight right here and now. My parents were not rich, but they worked hard and sacrificed a lot so I could begin traveling at a young age and have that world-class education.
I am extremely fortunate, but I am not rich. After graduating from college and working at a daily newspaper for a few years, I made a conscious decision to devote myself to a career in community journalism. Although I was extremely successful, in more than 20 years in that field, I never once made $30,000 per year. And just for the record, I'm not exactly making millions as an author and freelance writer/editor, either.
In other words, I'm just like millions of other people. I'm definitely one of the "99 percent."
But unlike many 99-percenters, I absolutely, positively refuse to vilify, malign or begrudge the so-called 1 percent of exceedingly wealthy people for what they have. Frankly I don't have the time or energy to resent them; I am too busy trying to survive.
Here's what I do resent. I resent people who constantly moan and cry about how unfair life is, or more accurately, how unfair it is that others are so much better off than they are. Most of us learned that life is unfair during playground fights in preschool. Grow up and get over it.
I deeply resent the fact that the same people who denounce the 1 percent are probably wiling to invest a lot of discretionary income in the purchase of mega-lottery tickets. Let's face it: Every single person who has ever purchased a multi-state lottery ticket wants to join the 1 percent club.
I resent politicians who denounce income inequality and corporate greed after they've amassed their own fortunes as private citizens and happily taken corporate donations to fund their campaigns.
I deeply resent the fact that so many people are so incapable of critical, independent thought that they can't see these politicians for the hypocrites they really are. Here's a news-flash: No one can hold a high political office unless they have personal wealth or wealthy campaign donors. Here's another news-flash: Most politicians will do or say anything to get your vote.
I resent the self-important, self-aggrandizing Hollywood elite who denounce capitalism and income inequality while they make millions for a single movie.
I deeply resent the fact that so many people are so incapable of critical, independent thought that they can't see these pithy entertainers for the hypocrites they really are.
I resent the fact that the guide on the Circle Line cruise that I took around Manhattan last weekend felt it necessary to moan about income inequality in New York City for more than two hours.
I really, really resent the fact that author Emily Giffin felt a need to take a backhanded stab the wealthy in her novel Love the One You're With saying,"To Suzanne every 'rich' person (a term she used derisively) were the same: soft, selfish, and likely 'a lying snake of a Republican.'"
Finally, I resent anyone, in any socioeconomic bracket, who has a sense of entitlement. Here's a news-flash for you: The world doesn't owe you a thing.
Until next time, "That's life..."

There's no place like home

I've got big plans this weekend. They're just not the plans I usually have.
You see, my schedule for the third weekend in October has revolved around the running of the International Gold Cup steeplechase races in The Plains, Va., for nearly a decade. I attended my first fall classic as a reporter for what was then the Fauquier Times-Democrat in 2004 and I haven't missed one since. Or more accurately, until now.

But honestly I had no desire to go this year. I didn't want to deal with the hassle of what to wear and where to stay. I didn't want to deal with a 300 mile drive (one way). Most importantly I didn't want to deal with fake people -- specifically the people who were nice enough to me while I lived and worked in Virginia but who haven't bothered to keep in touch since I left.
So while my alleged friends in Virginia law enforcement will be spending their Saturday dealing with drunken idiots, I'll be spending my day in New York City. In fact I'll be on the Circle Line cruising around Manhattan taking more photographs for my upcoming exhibit in March.
I'm sure I'll have a great time. After all, they say home is where the heart is. And my heart belongs to New York.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Hello?

So here I sit. It's 6:30 p.m. on Thursday and I'm desperately trying to dream up a creative, insightful, entertaining topic for this week's blog. And I'm failing miserably. It's infuriating.
But I've got to come up with something. I mean, I can't not do a blog post this week.
Or can I? I mean, I've done more than 70 posts and I don't want to break my streak. And what would happen to my brand? I mean the book marketing pundits and the gurus and the experts all say that every self-published or Indie author worth their salt has to have a blog. Blogging at least once a week is recommended -- blogging two or three times a week is essential. It's one of the best ways to set yourself apart as an author, allow your current and prospective readers to get to know you and develop a following, or a fan base. Or so they say.
By the way, has anyone figured out who they are? When you do, please drop me a note and let me know. I've been dying to find out.
In the meantime, I'll keep debating whether or not to follow their advice, but it will probably take a while. I mean, there's advice about blogging, the use of social media, book reviews, book contests, book trailers, book launches (although I'm kind of past that point) book signings (I've never done one but I would love to) book fairs, e-books, audio books... I think you've got the point.
There's good advice, bad advice and contradictory advice. They say the worst thing any author can do is scream, "buy my book" but let's be honest, isn't that exactly what we all end up doing? We're all finding creative ways of screaming for attention and patting ourselves on the back when we achieve even a modicum of success. Hell, I've even resorted to the deliberate use of double negatives to set myself apart.
After spending two years (and thousands of dollars) trying to sell my memoir, I'm broke, I'm tired, I'm frustrated... and yes, I am screaming.
Is anybody listening?
Until next time, "That's life..."

Childhood revisited

Not too long ago, I shared one of my biggest regrets with you. If you recall, I bemoaned the loss of my favorite childhood books. More specifically, I bemoaned my decision to let my mother sell my collection of Hardy Boys® and Nancy Drew® mysteries.
Today I am happy to report that I am once again the proud owner of two dozen Nancy Drew® books. I am also happy to say that I got them for free and came by them honestly.
It happened as I was leaving the animal shelter where I volunteer on Tuesday afternoons. In a never-ending quest to find homes for all of the books donated to the organization, the director asked me if I wanted to have a look through the crates in the front room. As I had in the past, I happily said yes. And I was immediately glad that I did.
It took less than a minute to spot the hardcover books with the bright yellow spines, and I couldn't hide my delight when I realized what I'd found. When I explained why I was so excited, the director agreed to let me have the books. As a bonus, she threw in the crate, along with a few Bobbsey Twins® books and one of the Harry Potter® books that were already in it for good measure.
So just why was this acquisition such a big deal? No, it's not that I think the books are worth a great deal; in fact only a few are older editions. But to me they have tremendous nostalgic and sentimental value. I have no doubt that rereading these classics will take me back to my childhood; a time that wasn't perfect, but was pretty damn good.
It was a time when reading offered escape and opened my imagination. It was a time when I smuggled a flashlight under my sheets so I could stay up past my bedtime and read under the covers. It was a time when I spent countless winter days curled up with a good book, and countless summer afternoons reading at the beach.
Of course I didn't know it back then but it was also a time when reading sparked the interests and helped me develop the skills that ultimately made me a successful journalist and an award-winning author.
It was a time I'll cherish forever.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Live and learn

I can hardly believe it. It's been a little over two years since I gave birth to my first child -- or more accurately, the 174-page, 9.6-ounce bundle of joy known to millions (okay, maybe a few hundred thousand) as my memoir, Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey.
Like all new "parents" I've read a lot and gotten quite a bit of advice about how to raise a child (or in my case, how to market a book). Some of it has been good, some of it has been bad and most of it has been worthless.
Suffice it to say I've learned a lot the hard way and discovered that, well, I've still got a lot to learn.
In hindsight, one of the biggest mistakes I made was heeding my publisher's advice not to engage in any marketing activities prior to publication. Truthfully I don't know why they insisted that I wait, and although I could probably hazard a few guesses, this is neither the time nor the place for pointless speculation. After all, what's done is done.
I made another big mistake by deciding not to have an e-book created at the same time the paperback was published. I had my reasons at the time. Although I made my book available to the general public, I initially targeted educators and gender and women's study groups as my primary audience. While appealing to such a specific niche, I did not see a pressing need to make my memoir available in an electronic format.
I also feared that by making the book available in two formats (one of which would theoretically be less expensive) I would be competing against myself. To be honest, cost was also a factor.
The good news is, I can now remedy all of that. Or at least I can try. Back in August, I finally bit the bullet and spent the money to have Truth turned into an e-book. It was released in various formats earlier this month and is now available for your Kindle, Nook and other tablets and e-readers. I also hope to make it available here on goodreads as well.
No matter which format the book is in, however, one thing hasn't changed. I have an unusual, compelling and important story to share. I hope you'll be generous enough to read it, and that if you do, that you enjoy it. More importantly, I hope you'll learn a thing or two.
I have.
Until next time, "That's life..."

Cataloging Eli's favorite books

This week, I'm taking a page out of Eli's book. After all, there's nothing that he loves more than curling up with his favorite person (me) and and some good reading material. Don't believe me? Just look at him! Anyhow, in the interest of lightening things up a bit, with tongue in cheek, I hereby present Eli's all-time favorite books...
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10. The Cat in the Hat
9. Stuart Little
8. James Herriot's Cat Stories
7. Diary of a Cat
6. Dear Tabby: Feline Advice on Love,
Life and the Pursuit of Mice
5. Everything Here is Mine: An
Unhelpful Guide to Cat Behavior
4. All I Need to Know I Learned from
my Cat
3. The New Yorker Book of Cat Cartoons
2. How to Talk to Your Cat
1. The Intelligent Cat

...Oh, Eli also loves classical music. His favorite composer is Johann Strauss and his favorite operetta is "Die Fleder-Meows!" (Cue groan and rimshot...)
Until next time, "That's life..."

Never forget

Author's/blogger's note: Today we remember and pay tribute to those who perished in the terrorist attacks on the United States of America 13 years ago and in the aftermath. We are eternally grateful for those who survived, and grieve with those who suffered unimaginable loss.
The following is an excerpt from my memoir, Truth Be Told: Adam Becomes Audrey. In this particular chapter, I document my own experience as a journalist living and working in the New York City suburbs on 9/11.
I am sharing it not to call attention to myself, but to serve as yet another reminder that we must never forget. Never, ever forget.
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It happened on a Tuesday -- on a warm, sunny kind of early September morning when college students lobby for class on the quad, high school seniors contemplate skipping class altogether and adults are tempted to play hooky from work.
Doing that wasn’t an option for me. I got up, changed, worked out and, with a few minutes to relax, turned my attention to the television in my bedroom. There was nothing interesting on any of the home shopping channels, or on any of the other channels, for that matter. It was almost nine o’clock, and with limited options I turned to one of the morning news shows. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“A plane has just hit one of the World Trade Center buildings,” a tense news anchor reported.
As live footage of the smoking building rolled, another plane slammed into the second tower.
“Oh, my God!” I screamed. “What the hell is going on? Oh my God! No! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
I lunged for the phone and called my mom at work. “Do you have any idea what is going on?” I shouted when she finally answered. “Turn on the television, now! Two planes just hit the World Trade Center!”
American Airlines Flight 11, en route from Boston to Los Angeles, had slammed into the North Tower around 8:46 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175, also bound for L.A., barreled into the South Tower less than twenty minutes later. Smoke poured from the buildings. Firefighters and police continued to rush towards them to try to help the people trapped inside. Even as they did, some victims jumped to their deaths while panicked New Yorkers screamed in horror and disbelief.
Chaos reigned. At 9:37 a.m., another hijacked airliner -- American Airlines Flight 77-- hit the Pentagon. United Airlines Flight 93, a fourth hijacked jet destined to cause even more carnage in Washington, D.C., crashed in a Pennsylvania field at 10:03 a.m., after the passengers learned about the earlier incidents and fought back.
Then the Twin Towers fell.
Deeply shaken and unable to understand fully the magnitude of what had happened, I only knew I had to do my job. I went straight to the Rye Police Department. The atmosphere there was unbelievable. From the lobby, I could hear occasional radio chatter and news reports on the television near the front desk. Other than that, it was quiet -- too quiet.
My hands shook as I silently accepted the police log from a secretary and began to take notes. I leafed through the pages without seeing the words, knowing the contents paled in comparison to mass murder.
“You seem to be really affected by all this. Do you know anyone who works in the Towers?”
Startled, I looked up to find the Rye police commissioner, a former New York City cop, standing in a nearby doorway.
“No,” I replied.
But for the second time in less than two years, unexpected events shattered my sense of safety and security, turning my world upside down.
I knew one of Lisa’s best friends worked on Wall Street. Not all that long ago, Adam had worked for a federal government agency with offices in the heart of the Big Apple’s financial district. I thought his dad still worked somewhere in the five boroughs, and hoped it wasn’t anywhere near lower Manhattan.
Everyone’s fine, I kept telling myself. Everyone is fine.
Our phone didn’t stop ringing that night. Relatives around the world called to talk about the terrorist attacks and ask if we were okay. As much as I appreciated their concern, I quickly
tired of answering the same questions over and over again. After all, I still had unanswered questions of my own.
Between calls, I tried to reach Lisa out on the Island, but I couldn’t get through. I was just about to try again when the phone trilled for what seemed like the trillionth time. Without Caller ID, I had no idea who was on the line. I answered anyhow.
“Hi, Alex, it’s Adam.”
“Hi. I am so glad you called. Is your dad okay? Was he in the City?”
“Yes, he’s okay. It took him forever to get home, but he’s fine.”
“I can’t believe what happened,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“Look, I’d love to talk but I’ve got to try and get a hold of Lisa. I’ve been trying all day and haven’t gotten through.” “Okay, I understand,” Adam said. “Take care.”
“You too.”
Lisa finally called me a few hours later. Her friend who worked on Wall Street and her mom, who managed a Manhattan hotel, were both safe.
I went to bed finally knowing that all of my friends and their families were okay, but the world would never be the same.
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Until next time, "That's life..."

Once upon a time...

Author's/Blogger's Note: The following is dedicated to rabid sports fans around the world.
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Once upon a time, there was a little girl who grew up in the New York City suburbs. Although she was raised in a multicultural household, she quickly developed an appreciation for anything American... especially baseball.
She fell in love with the New York Yankees at the tender age of seven and by the time she finished elementary school, she had amassed a bigger baseball card collection than any of the boys had. She also had a crush on catcher Rick Cerone.
Sadly, one thing led to another and her passion for baseball waned. But all was not lost. As a teenager, she fell in love with ice hockey and developed a whole new passion -- this time for the New York Islanders. By the time she jumped on the bandwagon, the team was in its glory, having won the Stanley Cup three straight times. The teenage girl adored brash young goalie Billy Smith, and feisty Bobby Nystrom. But ultimately a big, rugged winger named Clark Gillies won her heart.
Around the same time, the girl realized she could write fairly well, and with the help of her freshman English teacher, started covering high school sports for the local newspaper. Her dream at the time was to become a beat writer for Newsday and -- you guessed it -- cover professional ice hockey.
In fact she was so vocal about her passion for the sport -- and her favorite team -- that her classmates named her "Class Islander" in the senior yearbook. Her classmates also decided that any girl who could write so well would be found working at Sports Illustrated within 10 years after graduation.
As it turned out, our heroine's dreams came true much sooner than anyone predicted. Soon after graduating from college, she started going to New York Islanders practices. There, she met her best friend, a young talented photographer. And together, they began covering minor league and professional ice hockey.
In their 20s, they were living every sports fan's dreams. They knew all the players and had locker room access. Life couldn't have possibly been any better. Or could it?
Along the way, something happened to our heroine. She no longer idolized the athletes she once adored. She realized that professional sports aren't all they're cracked up to be, and that the men who make a living playing games don't deserve the blind adulation society showers upon them.
Oh, some of the players she knew were phenomenal athletes. Some were even good people. Others weren't so good. For better or worse, all were human. Not gods. Not superheroes. Not even heroes. Just men blessed with skill, talent and good luck that allowed them to reach the highest level of their chosen profession. Nothing more, nothing less.
As soon as that reality set in, the "little girl" grew up, and the sports fan she once was disappeared for good.
Yes, you guessed it. I was that little girl. And I have no regrets.
Until next time, "That's life..."