Victoria Noe's Blog, page 9

Headshots for Writers: To Smile or Not to Smile?

Mary Engelbreit

I hate having my picture taken.

I can count on one hand the photos of myself that I like. Either there’s glare from my glasses, or my hair is a mess, or I look like my grandmother. There are no bad pictures of my husband: the camera loves him. It just doesn’t love me.

So when writers say they just want to stay home and write, I understand. Even with a master’s degree in theatre, I don’t seek the spotlight. That’s why I became a stage manager and director. I’m comfortable on stage, at a podium, on a panel. But I don’t crave the attention.

I was overdue for a new, professional head shot. I’m appearing at some events in the next couple of months, and the organizers were asking for photos. So I called a friend I hadn’t seen in a very long time, a photographer I’d used a lot in past careers, and set up an appointment.

As always, we enjoyed a lively conversation during the photo shoot. I went home with dozens of proofs to sort through. I sat at the dining room table, flipping pages…totally confused.

Who am I?

Yes, I was having an identity crisis.

An author’s photo tells you a lot about them. Not just the obvious gender/race/age. It also tells you a little about their personality and maybe about their books.

What I write about is serious: six books about grieving the death of a friend; one book about straight women in the AIDS community. No one would fault me for having a photo that looks deadly serious. If I’m smiling in my head shot, does that mean I’m not professional? That I’m not to be taken seriously?

A few years ago, Porter Anderson described me as “so fond of laughing that you’d never dream her book deals with death and grief”.  That’s true. I do like to laugh. When people ask if my books are depressing, I always say no: sad and funny and but not depressing. I realize now that including humor was deliberate.

I say all of this because I was initially resistant to having a head shot where I was smiling. I’d sent out a few proofs to trusted friends: men and women I’ve known a long time who will not hesitate to tell me the truth. And they did. They liked it.

It’s funny, isn’t it, how shocked we are when the image of ourselves in our minds doesn’t appear in a photograph or the mirror? It’s like the drawing above: it’s not really her reflection, but it’s how she sees herself.

 

Now I just have to get used to it.

 

 

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Who Cares About Your Story?

“I can’t believe anyone cares about this.”

That was the response from a woman who will be in my next book, Fag Hags, Divas and Moms: The Legacy of Straight Women in the AIDS Community. I was on a panel with another writer, who mentioned that her sister-in-law’s involvement in the AIDS community during the dark days of the epidemic might be of interest to me. Her story – which will be in the book – is not just interesting: it’s unique and powerful and almost completely unknown, even among those who have been involved in the cause for decades.

Her reaction to being asked permission to include her in my book was not unusual. Many of the people I’ve interviewed – for this book and the Friend Grief series – were surprised I was interested in hearing their story. A few are known locally. Others are known by a small group of people in a specific field. Some are virtually unknown to anyone except those close to them.

We put a lot of stock in celebrity. We judge a person’s worth by how powerful, rich or visible they are. Sometimes talent plays a role, but mostly it’s based on how often we see them on TV or in  films, in magazines or newspapers, online. If we were honest, we’d agree that their celebrity is some combination of great public relations and luck.

We confuse celebrity with importance. If someone is popular, they must be important. But also more often than not, we know how wrong that is. Because no one is important all on their own.

Hamilton may be the brainchild of Lin-Manuel Miranda, but he didn’t create it alone. First he was inspired by Ron Chernow’s book. Alex Lacamoire created the orchestrations. Tommy Kail directed the show. Then there were the crews who built and ran the show’s sets, lights and costumes. The performers. The musicians.  The Public Theatre gave them a place to succeed or fail. As talented as he is, Miranda represents hundreds of talented people whose names are unknown.

The woman who was surprised I wanted to tell her story did something that was being done elsewhere in the US at that time. But she tweaked the idea into something so unique that when I’ve shared it with a few people their mouths drop open. It succeeded in part because of its audacity. She had a vision, like Miranda, and it worked. But her story, like I said, is almost completely unknown.

I think a lot of people will care. Her story – and the others in the book – deserve to be told. The women who have accomplished so much since the beginning of the AIDS epidemic deserve recognition for their commitment.

I’ve been a little – maybe more than a little – obsessed with telling their stories. And I realized finally that it’s not just because their stories deserve to be told. It’s because everyone has a story that deserves to be told.

They do.

I do.

You do.

Find a way: oral history, blog, journal, whatever. Tell your story. Share your story. Don’t wait for someone else to tell it.

Because if I’ve learned anything in my writing career, you don’t have to be famous for your story to make all the difference in someone else’s life.

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Rebooting My Writing Career at a Writing Conference

There comes a point in every writing conference when you feel like your brain is mush. You’ve had dozens of conversations with other writers, sat in on multiple workshops, taken notes, asked questions, had a few drinks. You’re there to be a sponge: to soak up as much information as possible to help your writing, both craft and business. Usually for me, this happens late Saturday afternoon, the end of the second of three days. I know Sunday will be a shorter schedule, but seriously, can my brain handle any more information?

Last week at Writer’s Digest Conference I was in a different place than I had been in previous years. The first year I knew nothing. After that, I was progressing on my journey. Maybe not as fast as I’d like, but I could see a definite progression. This year that feeling was gone.

About the time of last year’s conference, crises began to pop up in my personal life. Life happens, right? And I can normally handle a lot as long as one part of my life is thriving. Health issues of family members surged to the front of the line. My latest book seemed invisible to the world. Then I broke my writing hand: one dislocated finger, four broken bones, emergency surgery to insert five pins that would remain in my hand for over a month, 29 sessions of physical therapy. Then the bills rolled in. My writing activity almost completely stopped.

By now it was spring, and though my hand was mostly healed and others’ health issues were improving, I was starting to realize how much ground I’d lost on my next book. Despite spending most of May doing research and interviewing women for it, I was slipping farther and farther behind my schedule. I pushed back the publication date from December, 2017 to March, 2018.

Most of the sessions I attended at WDC were marketing-related. Some were reviews of best practices. Others introduced new strategies. But I sat in the lounge on Saturday morning after the first session and all I could think of was “I’m doomed.” (Actually, that’s not the word, but this one’s a little more family-friendly.)

It hadn’t taken me long on Friday to realize how much ground I’d lost. I already knew my sales were down – way down – since the previous summer. But now I recognized how I’d contributed to that. Like I said earlier, life happens. There are times when personal issues take precedence and that’s all right. But I had not recovered from dealing with them. I hadn’t put the systems back into place that had helped me before. I hadn’t reached out to schedule events or write freelance articles or promote my public speaking. I had zero consistency in anything I was doing. And though I’ve stopped beating myself up about losing ground when my hand was broken, this was different. For a brief moment, I considered leaving the conference. I mean, why waste any more time?

Luckily, my friends were there to rescue me. A spirited lunch on Saturday with two of my closest friends and a new one pulled me back from the edge of despair. Admitting my feelings at dinner that night brought me the encouragement I needed to keep going.

By the time the conference ended on Sunday I felt marginally better. I had dinner that night with a friend who wasn’t at the conference. As it turned out, we both needed it. Those two hours got me out of myself.

I spent the next morning in lower Manhattan, taking pictures and picking up materials to update my presentation on “The Lost Stories of 9/11: Beyond Families and Firefighters”. Cucumber sandwiches and chai scones with clotted cream at my favorite tea parlor in the West Village didn’t hurt.

Now a couple days later, I know what I need to do and have a clearer understanding of how to do it. The despair is gone. I knew that for sure on Monday night. I got two emails that evening: one postponing a presentation and other wondering if another presentation should be cancelled.

Had I received those emails on Saturday I would’ve felt they were further confirmation that I was a failure, that my business was a failure. Instead I crafted responses: one to narrow possible dates and clarify the content of the presentation; the other to point out that it was much too early to consider cancellation and there were things we could do to encourage registrations. I took control by presenting my position clearly and offering options. I can do that now.

So it’s back to work today. I wouldn’t say I feel great, but my brain is less mushy. I feel more focused and determined than I did last week. My detour to Wall Street on Monday morning to take this picture felt silly at the time. But now I look at Fearless Girl and think,

“Oh, hell, yes.”

 

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Inspired by a Friend’s Death

It’s a great feature, isn’t it, when Facebook reminds you of a friend’s birthday? We all get caught up in our daily lives and sometimes we forget, so I’m all for anything that helps.  It didn’t feel so great last week, though, when it reminded me of Jo Stewart’s birthday. Jo died last year.

Jo was the leader of my first writing group: poet, creative writing professor, force of nature. The group grew out of a life-story writing class because we got along and didn’t want to stop meeting. It lasted six years, until Penny died. The rest of us didn’t feel like meeting without her. The last time I saw Jo, at a holiday lunch for the second group she led, I had the horrible feeling that I’d never see her again. A few weeks later, she was dead.

I wrote about her memorial service here. I gave Alice, one of the other original group members, a ride to the service. We promised to keep in touch. And then…we didn’t. I sent her a copy of the last book in the Friend Grief series, but heard nothing back. I sent a Christmas card. No response. Well, she must be all right, I reasoned, because the mail wasn’t returned. Though I was often near the retirement community where she lives, I never stopped by. Then I got the reminder about Jo’s birthday.

Oh, what the hell? I walked up to the front desk and asked if Alice still lived there. Yes, she was just finishing lunch. They’d let her know I was there.

I was relieved, to put it mildly. Alice was as lively and alert as usual. I apologized for not keeping in touch and told her that I was reminded that Jo’s birthday was that day. “Really?” she asked. “It seems like she’s been gone so long.” I didn’t disagree.

We caught up while Alice gave me a tour of the gorgeous place where she lives: fitness center, formal and informal dining rooms, library, beauty parlor, lap pool, art studio, community garden. Anyone of any age would love to live there. She has transportation to shopping and events, with guest speakers presenting on site daily. Her daughter lives nearby, but Alice is fully engaged in this beautiful place.

Alice is lucky. Her physical health is remarkably good for 92. She had the resources to be able to live in a high-end retirement community. She was considering turning down an invitation to go to Arizona in October for her 93rd birthday because “the weather’s not as good as it is in February. I’d rather go then.”

When we parted, we exchanged phone numbers again. I promised to call next week when I’m back in town so we can schedule lunch or dinner.

As I drove away, I was grateful I’d finally faced my embarrassment so I could see Alice again. And I thought to myself, “Thanks, Facebook. Thanks, Jo.”

 

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Setting Your Goals for a Writing Conference

        My first Pitch Slam

Yesterday I told my daughter, “I need to get my shit together about this trip.” The trip I leave for in a week is to New York. I wasn’t referring to packing. What I need to get together are my goals for part of that trip.

I’ll be there about a week, with interviews scheduled for my next book (Fag Hags, Divas and Moms: The Legacy of Straight Women in the AIDS Community). These will be some of my last face-to-face interviews before I settle down to start writing. I’ve already sat down with about thirty women, so I’m not worried about a lot of preparation for these. It’s the conference.

I don’t mean deciding whether to bring business cards (duh) or Googling where the closest Starbucks is located (across 6th Avenue from the hotel) or even hoping the Mister Softee truck is still parked on the corner (please, God).  I mean the conference itself.

Writer’s Digest is one of the only writing conferences I attend. It was the first one I went to in 2011, when I knew less than nothing about writing or publishing. I go back partly to reconnect with friends, but mostly to learn.

Every year I have different goals. Sometimes I go to the Pitch Slam (once only to get feedback on a book I was considering writing). Sometimes I need to focus on marketing. Okay, I always need to focus on marketing because it’s an ongoing part of my business. Once I took a chance and attended a fiction workshop on developing characters. It turned out to be the most valuable session of the weekend. Now I recommend to everyone that they choose a workshop that’s (seemingly) unrelated to what they’re doing because I got so much out of it. Writing, after all, is writing, no matter the genre.

When I registered for this year’s conference, I chose workshops from the list of those being offered. You’re not obligated to attend those sessions; it’s to give the organizers a sense of room assignments and how many handouts they need. The workshops are tracked, but I didn’t stay within any one particular track. As I studied the list, I had to ask myself “why are you signing up for that?”

My reasons change from year to year, though “to learn” is always part of any decision. Two years ago, when I went to the session on developing characters, I wanted to up my game. My books are about real people and I want the reader to identify with their stories. The suggestions offered helped me, I think, more effectively achieve that goal.

Do I want to expand my freelance work? Then I go to workshops on pitching magazines and websites. Do I need to refine my marketing plan? Then I go to workshops that will help me do that. But that’s me, not you.

Ask yourself “why am I going?” Be honest about it. There are friends I always see at Writer’s Digest, so that’s part of the attraction. It’s in New York, so I take advantage of that, too: the night before the conference I’m seeing Hamlet at the Public Theatre. The night after I’ll probably be at the weekly ACT UP meeting. All of that’s unrelated to the conference, of course, but it’s part of the draw.

There are hundreds of writing conferences held every year in big cities, isolated resorts and on college campuses. They focus on specific genres, craft and publishing. Some are academic, most are not. Some are local or regional, others are international. There really is something for everyone.

So, sit yourself down with your conference schedule and ask:

 

“What do I need to learn?”

“What’s the most important thing I need to focus on in my writing business right now?

“Who are the people there who can help me achieve my goals?”

“Am I resistant to any aspect of my business (such as marketing), and if so, how do I get past that?” In other words, “Am I open to suggestions?”

“How will this conference make me a better writer?”

 

Being clear on your goals before you ever pick up your badge at registration is a thousand times more important than choosing your wardrobe (that’s a whole different discussion) or practicing your elevator pitch.

Maybe I’ll see you at Writer’s Digest Conference next week. We can share our goals for the weekend. And get a hot fudge sundae from Mister Softee.

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Facebook and Friend Grief

They seem to come in waves, don’t they? Sometimes it feels like all your friends are getting married or having babies. Your calendar is filled with shopping, christenings, weddings and showers. And then there are the times when it feels like your friends are all dying.

Facebook has always been a good news/bad news kind of social media site. One day you love it for connecting you with long-lost friends or keeping you up to date on the latest in their lives. Other days you hate it for the annoying humble bragging posts that set your teeth on edge.

So far this summer two friends of mine have died. Both were women I worked with long ago, in two different professions, from two different parts of the country. Both were self-employed dynamos, who were talented and respected by all who had the pleasure to work with them. One I hadn’t seen for years, but we stayed connected, mostly on Facebook. The other I last saw about a year ago.

They used Facebook to keep in touch, particularly over the past year or so as their health challenges mounted. Though both were upfront about their diagnoses, neither talked about dying, preferring to post about normal events. They shared pictures of lunches with friends and family, wished others a happy birthday. Occasionally they’d report about a sudden hospitalization without admitting that it was an indication of their decline.

One was only silent online for about a week before her brother announced her death. Despite knowing her health was failing, it was still a bit of a shock.

The other’s silence was longer; in fact, so unusually long that I checked her page. There I found tributes from friends and family. She was still alive. They posted in the hopes that she would see the declarations of love from people too far away to visit. I posted, too, with that same hope, because not long ago she told me how much I inspired her.

Like I said: two this summer. Hopefully no more, though I have too many friends with challenges right now: COPD, cancer, lupus, MS. The death of actor/playwright Sam Shepard brought to mind one of my healthiest friends. But as we all know, good health can be gone in an instant.

What to do?

Should I be paranoid about my friends? Should I check Facebook constantly for news about them? You know, Facebook is enough of a time drain without that level of anxiety.

For now I’m going to cross my fingers and knock wood and say a prayer that I won’t lose a third friend this summer. When I see them they’re going to get hugs: big hugs, hugs that go on forever. I’ll tell them how I feel about them now: not at their funeral, but now while they can hear it and tell me to stop being silly because they already know how I feel.

Your friends probably know how you feel about them, too. But you know what? Tell them anyway. Because everyone deserves to know that they’re loved.

 

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The People in My Books

Brooke Russell Astor Reading Room – New York Public Library

While writing the Friend Grief series and now while writing Fag Hags, Divas and Moms: The Legacy of Straight Women in the AIDS Community, a lot of people have asked how I go about finding the people who wind up in my books.

I wish I could say I had a well thought out plan that follows a logical step-by-step process. But I don’t. I may give the appearance of being super-organized, but most of the time I feel like I’m in the eye of the hurricane.

I’m not going to lie: my least favorite class in grad school was Introduction to Graduate Research. I hated it because it was three days a week at 8:00am. I spent that entire semester in production, so I was either in rehearsal or performance until a couple weeks before the end of the term. Still, despite being half-awake most mornings, I must have retained something from those days besides how to insert a footnote.

Okay, but how do I find the people in the books?

Some of them are people I know: friends, colleagues, friends of friends. Others are people whose story I’d already heard. I set up a few Google alerts to notify me when articles pop up on the internet related to specific topics. From those I’ve found many people I would’ve never found otherwise.

For the new book, I posted a request in the AIDS-related Facebook groups I belong to: “Do you have any suggestions of women to interview or archives to access?” Within five minutes I was getting text messages with names and contact information from around the world. Many of those recommendations came from people I’ve never met. But they trusted me with the leads.

I think the most important part for any writer – certainly any nonfiction writer who needs to research – is a willingness to leave the ego behind. I decided at the very beginning of this writing journey that I would not be afraid to ask for help. I knew so little, I didn’t even know the right questions to ask! But eventually I did.

I asked on Facebook and Twitter, on my blog and at conferences. I sent out emails to friends and colleagues and in my weekly newsletter. It helps to be specific. It also helps to actually participate in groups – online and in real life – rather than just using them to find contacts.

When I interview someone I ask if they have any suggestions for me. When I talk to research librarians, I ask if they have any ideas. And if people like what you’re writing about, they’re going to help. Case in point: I emailed the director of the women’s history center at the New-York Historical Society. I’d done research there before and was familiar with their online archives, but hadn’t found anything relevant to my new book. I asked if she knew of anything in their non-digitized collection that might help me. She referred my question to one of their research fellows and about a week later I received an email. A remarkably detailed email, it listed about twenty women I should contact, with emails or phone numbers for some of them.

Could I have found all those women on my own? Maybe; it would’ve taken months and there’s no guarantee I would’ve been successful. Would I have found most of the women already being included in the book without the help of others? I doubt it. Some of the most powerful stories have come from a casual mention during a conversation.

“I can’t believe anyone’s interested in this,” one woman wrote to me. Her sister-in-law had mentioned her work in the South during the early days of the AIDS epidemic. And though her sister-in-law had the details scrambled, the true story was a thousand times more powerful. And it’s in the book.

This month I’m sorting through the women I’ve already researched and interviewed, assigning chapters so I could determine where the gaps are. That will direct the remainder of my research and interviews scheduled for August and September.

I don’t have to worry about filling up the book. I already have at least 80 women to include and may wind up with another 70. I have more than can fit in one reasonably sized book and they represent a tiny fraction of the women who have made a difference for thirty-five years.

So my book will not be “definitive”. I hope it gives other women permission to tell their stories. That’s what research is all about to me: finding stories, finding people, finding meaning. I didn’t know what I’d find when I started writing any of my books. Much of it has been surprising and it’s all good. But none of it would be possible if I hadn’t been willing to ask:

“Can you help me?”

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Writer with a To-Do List

I’m sitting here at Panera, breakfast sandwich eaten, ice tea at hand. My computer’s on, my to-do list is front of me.

And I’m paralyzed.

Not literally (no pun intended). I can move. My brain just can’t decide what to do.

Should I follow up on that article that a website requested? Should I pitch a presentation to a library? Should I invite someone to lunch to pick their brain about a marketing idea? Should I score the essays I read for the contest I’m judging?

No?

Well, then, should I finish one of the six books I’m reading for research on my next book? Should I schedule tweets and Facebook posts? Should I reach out to someone on another continent on collaborating? Should I try to nail down two interviews while I’m in NYC next month?

No?

Should I just forget about it and go home to finish my filing? Do the laundry? Eat ice cream?

No matter how you publish, the life of a writer is very different than it was just a few years ago. Your writing is part of your business, but not the only part. And it IS a business, make no mistake about that. You’re the one ultimately responsible: it’s your name on the book cover, your words inside, your face in front of the audience at a public event.

There’s a lot to do. Always. You can’t catch up because there’s always something else to do. It’s exhausting.

I’ve been self-employed most of my adult life. I like it that way. I’m enough of a control freak to be happy with that choice. But there are days…like today…when it’s hard to focus, hard to prioritize. Days when I wish I had minions or a cabana boy or a staff to delegate to. That makes me just like many – probably most – writers.

Still, not much is getting done, is it? This to-do list isn’t to-doing itself.

I get up and walk around a little, if for no other reason than to refill my ice tea. Normally I drink green tea, but when faced with a lot to do I switch to black. This is my second black ice tea after one green one and it’s only 10:30.

I look at my to-do list again. A few things are time-sensitive, like the scoring on the essays. I assign numbers or dates to the important ones. I set arbitrary but not unimportant deadlines on a few more. If the past is any indication, I’ll meet most of those deadlines. I add followups to earlier tasks, also with dates assigned, to avoid those “oh, shit, I forgot to…” moments.

On the last page of my 2017 planner I’ve started putting in dates of events in 2018. There will be more, many more, as I draw closer to the publication of my next book in March. That in itself is enough to bring on panic: I’ll never get it done and even if I do it’ll be awful.

But I turn back to my to-do list. It’s never done, you know. I just fill up a page and when every line is scratched off I tear it off and start another page. There’s always something to do: comment on a fellow writer’s blog post, sign up for an online class, visit with the local librarian. It’s daunting and challenging and sometimes life gets in the way and blows everything to hell.

This is, however, the life I chose. Well, my friend Delle chose it for me, but that’s another story. For now, though, I’ll put away my to-do list and do what makes all those tasks necessary and important: write.

PS – The ice cream was really good.

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Do Writers Take Summer Vacation?

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ebooks4writers.com

Remember summer vacation?

Back in the days when I was a fundraising consultant, the period from Thanksgiving to mid-January was my slow time. End of the year direct mail appears had already gone out, events were wrapped up, grant proposal deadlines met. I don’t remember taking time off, though. I used those weeks to create my marketing plan for the coming year and try to get my paperwork in order for taxes. Just how long that down time lasted depended on how good a year my clients had:  the worse their end-of-year numbers, the earlier they called me in January.

Now that I’m writing, I don’t have a clear down time. There are a lot of writing conferences, festival and residencies during the summer. I guess the assumption is that without the packed school year calendar, writers have more free time. One friend is teaching at the Iowa Summer Writers Festival. Another is doing a residency at SUNY Stonybrook. I’m going to Writer’s Digest Conference in New York. Many writers fill up their summers selling books at outdoor festivals, but books about grief are not in big demand when people are walking around in shorts and tank tops. That’s okay; other places are more appropriate.

I still tend to look at my ‘year’ as a school year rather than a calendar year. So while I’m technically on summer break, I’m gearing up for the fall. My time is being split between marketing and working on the next book. 

In order to figure out where I am in the research part of that book, I’ve been reading more and organizing the research already done. Like the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, I’m assigning women to different chapters. By the end of the month, I’ll know where the gaps are. While I do that, I’m also reaching out to find marketing opportunities for all of my books. That includes networking more with local writers’ organizations and online groups.

I’m spending more time promoting the public speaking side of my business. I made several presentations in May, and that inspired me to schedule more. Here’s a link to the topics. With an eye towards 2018, I’m already confirming events through May.

I’m even serving as a judge for the Christopher Hewitt Award for Creative Nonfiction, an award I won in 2015. This is a first for me and I’m looking forward to reading the entries.

So, no, it doesn’t really sound like a vacation, does it? But as I wrote a few weeks ago about self-care for writers, I do my best to take breaks to relax and recharge. The past week, because of my birthday, that has included a significant number of red velvet cupcakes.

Do I miss summer vacations, the way they were when I was a kid? Sure, who doesn’t? I remember reading a lot, checking out the maximum number of books from the library every time. I remember catching lightning bugs in the backyard and toasting marshmallows after my father barbecued.

I still check out a lot of library books (I have six right now that I’m reading). I watch the lightning bugs instead of trapping them in glass jars. So not that much has changed.

 

But toasting marshmallows…that’s something that needs my immediate attention.

 

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How This Writer Found Her Street Team

writingforward.com

I knew next to nothing when I seriously committed to writing. An impulsive idea – to write a book about people grieving their friends – led to a series of six small books. The writers I knew all wrote romance or historical fiction, not nonfiction. I had no contacts. So I did what I’d done in my previous careers: I researched online and off. I attended my first writing conference. I took online courses. I joined a writing group. And all of that helped. But the thing that helped the most was not deliberate, not part of any grandiose career plan: I built a street team.

I had to push any ego aside, which was easier than I expected. I had to ask for help. I don’t mean “Will you buy my book?” We’ve all seen those annoying, desperate posts on Facebook and other sites. I mean, “I’m looking for X. Can you help me?”

Despite all the vitriol in the world today, people really are eager to help. Maybe the request appeals to their own ego. Maybe what you’re doing speaks to them on a very deep, emotional level. That was certainly true of the the Friend Grief series. One woman I interviewed told a friend and he asked to be interviewed. Others volunteered when they heard about my book. They wanted to tell their stories, sure. But they also wanted to contribute to the success of the books.

The book that I’ve been working on for almost two years (Fag Hags, Divas and Moms: The Legacy of Straight Women in the AIDS Community) takes that street team concept to a whole new level.

The idea originally came to me in April 2014. I was winding down the Friend Grief series, considering what I was going to do next. Another book – a bigger, more complicated, more important book – was not on the list. I was sure such a book had already been written So I set out to prove to myself I didn’t need to act on the idea that wouldn’t leave my brain.

I was wrong.

In September 2015, I finally committed to writing this book. Late one night I posted on Facebook, in some of the AIDS groups I belong to: “I’m thinking about writing this book. Do you have any ideas about women to interview or archives to research?” Within five minutes my phone was chiming with private messages. Some came from friends; most came from strangers in the US, Canada, Ireland, the UK. All came with enthusiastic recommendations.

That has become the story of this book: the willingness of people to help. But first, I had to ask for that help. I had to risk looking stupid or unknowledgeable or just out of touch. And though there was a lot I already knew, there was 100 times more I did not know.

Almost every day since then, someone has asked, “Have you talked to X yet?” During interviews, women have recommended other women to interview. The enthusiasm is not limited to people in the community.

I’d done some research previously at the New-York Historical Society but I found very little in their online archives. I emailed the head of their new Women’s History Center, asking if she knew of anything in the non-digitized archives that would be of help. A week later, I received a very long, incredibly detailed email from one of their doctoral fellows with a list of about 20 women to interview – and why – along with an offer of further assistance. It must have taken her many hours to accumulate all the information. Almost all of the names were new to me.

Now, could I have found those people myself? Perhaps, in another universe, with unlimited time and resources. But instead, I found them by asking for help. My street team is invested – though not financially – in the success of my book. They want to see it published, they want to see these stories brought to light. They want to help.

They’ve already helped so much I could write five books. I could never fit all of these women – and I’m not finished researching and interviewing – into one manageable book. Even adding them all to my Pinterest boards isn’t enough. So I’ll have a website to honor all of them and those I expect will come forward once the book is published.

That’s what we all need: a street team, a posse, a support group, a fan base. But how do you get it?

It’s easy. And hard. And sometimes embarrassing.

You have to ask for help. Not in that desperate way I described. Remember, you’re not even asking for money (though you may be doing that, too, at some point) or a major time commitment. You’re giving them the opportunity to contribute to the success of something that will last: your book.

You may not believe that what you’re writing is important, whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, memoir or fantasy. But to someone – probably a lot of someones – it is.

Let them be a part of it.

 

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