Susan Hunter's Blog, page 8

Welcome to my world …

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Downtown Himmel, Wisconsin
drawn by Melanie Lewis

After some time away from it, I’m now immersed in writing the fourth novel in the Leah Nash Mysteries series. In fact, I’m so involved with my characters and the felonious happenings in their fictional world that when one of my sisters called me last week and asked what I was doing, I answered without thinking: “I’m arranging my murders.”

She was taken aback for a second, having expected “I’m arranging” to be followed by “my closet” or “my spice shelf”—not “my murders.”

It’s easy for me to get lost in the world of my characters, but it’s really fun when I hear that a reader has engaged enough with the people and settings of my stories to follow up after the last page of the book is read.

Recently someone wanted to know how I came up with the name of the town where the characters in my Leah Nash Mysteries live: Himmel, Wisconsin. The inspiration actually came from my immigrant grandmother, Susannah Andrews. She spoke English to my six siblings and me most of the time. But when we had driven her to distraction with our antics, she would shout “Mein Gott im Himmel!” [My God in Heaven]. It was the signal that we’d pushed just a little too far and repercussions were about to happen. So, the name of my fictional town, in one way, is a bit of an homage to my grandmother. But the choice of name was also intended to be a little more layered.

Himmel, with its shrinking population, abandoned stores and declining economic base, seems pretty far from heaven to Leah Nash, the main character in the series when she returns home. But the more she learns about herself and what matters most to her, the closer the name becomes to describing how she feels about her imperfect, struggling hometown and its inhabitants.

Another frequent question is whether or not Himmel is meant to be my own small town. It isn’t. For one thing, it’s considerably larger, and there’s a lot more homicide going on. For another, it’s in Wisconsin—although to be honest, having spent quite a bit of time in both places, I think of Wisconsin as Michigan with cheese. Lots of cheese. I will admit though that I sometimes transplant landmarks or variations on them from my hometown to Leah’s.

Readers often wonder if the characters in my books are drawn from people in my life. The answer is no, in the strictest sense of the disclaimer you sometimes see in the front pages of works of fiction: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

But that’s not to say that I don’t draw inspiration from people I’ve met, or observed—or avoided. I try not to use the name of anyone that I know, to prevent having people in my own town try to match fictional characters with real life counterparts—an exercise I feel has the potential to end badly.

However, it’s inevitable that I’ll sometimes unintentionally create characters whose names belong to actual people. Not long ago, I received a very nice email from a reader to that effect. She wrote that she had really enjoyed one of my books, but jokingly said that she felt kind of bad that she and the murderer shared a somewhat uncommon first name.

To make it up to her, I’m including a minor character in my next book whose first and last names are a match for the reader’s. And like her real-life namesake, the character is a very nice person, who I’m sure would never kill anyone.

I hear you …

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Sometimes, after repeatedly telling us to clear the table, or unload the groceries, or fold the clothes, my mother would shout in frustration, “Do you hear me?” To which the answer might be a whispered response meant only for another sibling’s ears, “We hear you, Mom. We’re just not listening.”

I thought of that rejoinder the other day, only in reverse: “I’m listening. I just don’t hear you.” As the people around me get older — I, myself, am ageless–

Only Connect …

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“Only connect …” E.M. Forster

Over the last few years, I’ve read quite a few articles about the isolation of the modern age, the faux friendships of Facebook, the lack of human contact that seems to be the result of this digital age we live in. I have sometimes nodded in sad and perhaps slightly smug agreement with the lament for the loss of “real” communication, the absence of true connection between people.

But as so often happens to my reflexively held but ill-thought-out beliefs, circumstances have forced me to adjust my biases over the past month or so.  I understand a little better now what it can mean to be part of an online social network, how it can amplify the feeling of connectedness and care that immediate family and close-by friends provide. The magic of the online world is that it can bring to you messages of support, contact from long-ago friends, and even the solidarity of strangers at times when you need it most.

I’m immensely grateful for all the outreach from people I know well, but I’ve also been cheered by FB posts and private messages and comments on my blog from those I know only slightly, and in some cases, not at all. When you’re hurting, connection of any kind means a lot. In the wee small hours of the morning, it can be surprisingly comforting to read a line of encouragement from a stranger, to know that someone you’ve never met is wishing you well, to feel, if just for an instant, what all humans long for (yes, even introverts) a sense of connection. Social media provides a conduit for that caring,

Of course I’m still aware of, and horrified by, the ability of social media to spread hatred and lies, to wound instead of comfort, to divide instead of connect.  But when I track back the source (once a reporter, always a reporter — I always check the source)  of some of the kindest messages I’ve received, I often find evidence of a person who holds cultural and social views diametrically opposed to my own. Someone with whom I would not expect to have much in common, and from whom I would not expect empathy.  And yet there it is.

Everybody hurts. None of us escape this life without losing someone or something we love. And when we hurt, we need to connect, to share the pain, to help diffuse it into something manageable, and our better instincts are to reach out, regardless of differences, to someone suffering.

It’s true that social media can isolate us, lure us into walled off areas of like-minded people, block us off from other points of view, bolster flagging self-esteem with mindless “likes” and support the illusion of friendship built on a list of strangers’ names. And yet. Division and isolation are one side of the social media coin, community and connection is the other. I hope when you toss the coin, it comes up connection for you.

“What are we here for, if not to make life less difficult to each other?” George Eliot.

 

 

 

The best laid schemes of mice and men …

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Though nothing can bring back the hour …

I haven’t posted anything in the last few weeks, and this blog is going to be a somewhat disjointed explanation of why. Two pretty difficult things have happened recently, and writing this is part of me decoupling from the alluring idea that wishful thinking, constant vigilance and pointless anxiety can in any way control the bad things that happen in our own lives and those of the people we love.

First, a couple of weeks ago on a quite ordinary Saturday morning, Kevin, the charming, warm-hearted, funny and kind man my youngest daughter has loved and lived with for seven years died. The pain of any death, expected or not, is hard to bear. In the case of sudden death, the grief is accompanied by the twin assaults of incomprehension and denial. How could this be happening? He just texted me a few days ago. This isn’t real. But, of course, it is.

My husband and I left for New Jersey, where our daughter Brenna lives, within the hour. Once there, we struggled to find ways to make the unbearable bearable for her. It was tremendously hard to leave her a week later, but as much as she had needed us to be there, now she needed us to go.

As parents, we have an irrevocable instinct to care for our children, even as we want them to grow into people who can take care of themselves. It was somewhat amazing, and infinitely comforting, to witness the degree to which our daughter is able to draw from a well of inner strength to cope with her sorrow. The courage and grace with which she is facing her loss helped us to find the courage to let her be.

The other, equally comforting thing that sent us on our way was the knowledge that she is surrounded by friends ready to help in any way they can. Everyone was very kind, but one friend in particular, Janet, embodied the meaning of the word friendship. On that terrible first day when we were hours and hours away, and Brenna was alone, Janet showed up. She was there that day, and every day after. She cried with Brenna, and laughed with her and did her laundry and cooked meals, and most importantly of all, she was present. And she has been present for Brenna in some way through all the days since. Everybody needs a friend like Janet, though not everyone is blessed to have one. I am so glad our daughter is.

We thought we were through with sudden trauma as we traveled back to Michigan. Kevin’s death had been a major, devastating failure in my carefully orchestrated plan to protect everyone I know. But I was ready to resume control. Until I realized that the bothersome blind spot in my peripheral vision that I first noticed the day of the funeral was not going away, and was, in fact, becoming worse.

We then entered the next phase of forced loss of control. Upon arriving home after a 12-hour drive, we started on another odyssey. This one led us through a tour of several emergency rooms that culminated in surgery for a partially detached retina. Post-surgery care then required me to spend the next seven days in a face-down position for 50 minutes of every hour. Thus allowing plenty of time to reflect on the illusion of control in our lives. This week I received the OK to cut way back on the down time – an hour upright, then an hour face down. Which seems like quite a luxury now. Next week I’ll be able to remain upright all the time. My vision is still blurry, but the prognosis is reasonably good.

The point of this post is to reiterate for myself, and possibly others, something that I have a hard time keeping hold of. It’s not possible to control anything in life, except our own responses to what life throws at us. Everything is transitory. Life can change in an instant, without regard to our plans or desires. The only thing I can even try to control (and once a control freak, always a control freak) is my ability to accept that truth. To work on letting go of the little worries, petty irritations, small resentments and futile attempts to organize the world to my liking that power much of my day.

I can be truly present. I can strive to be the kind of friend that I want to be. I can try to internalize the five rules of happiness:

Don’t Hate
Don’t Worry
Give More
Expect Less
Live Simply

Right now, my external hourly alarm is ringing, telling me it’s time to assume the position for another hour. Three weeks ago, this routine would have seemed like torture. Today it seems like freedom. Nothing stays the same,

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Dark Clouds and Silver Linings

The following post was written by my daughter, Sara who has Bipolar 2 disorder. The first time I had to say out loud that my beautiful, smart, funny, daughter has a mental illness, I struggled to get the words out — far more than I would have if I were sharing news of a physical ailment. I don’t struggle anymore, because I know that mental illness, in its various forms, is a heartbreaking disorder that affects one in five American adults — that’s 43 million people. And that number doesn’t include the families and friends who love them, and also feel the impact. I asked Sara’s permission to post this, because it might bring a little hope and comfort to those who need it. 

[image error]Today is World Bipolar Day, I’m waiting for the world’s longest iUpdate to download, and as such I felt like I wanted to write a little something about my ongoing journey having the diagnosis of Bipolar 2 Disorder.

It’s been a little over 2 years since I was formally diagnosed, though looking back on my life I can say that I’ve probably had this illness for a lot longer than that. I think that no one really knew what to look for, and being naturally free-spirited I think that a lot of my more “adventurous” choices were chalked up to my “airy-fairy Aquarius” tendencies.

That being said, while I certainly wouldn’t wish for a replay of the series of events that ultimately led me to seek out psychiatric help, and I definitely could do without all the credit card debt I incurred during that time, I’m glad that it happened. Because finally I knew why I was feeling the way I did, and I was able to gain some sense of control in my (at that time) chaotic life.

At first,  the notion that I had this mental disorder that I’d only read about in psychology classes was really, well, daunting.  After all, how does one, buried in the shambles they’ve made of their life, get a shocking diagnosis (I do have a tendency for the dramatic, but I was somewhat shocked to learn that I did indeed have Bipolar 2), and then try to pick up and move forward?

I will say that in the initial phases, I felt extremely betrayed by those I was close to. I mean, the bare bones of some really bad choices had been exposed to the people I was doing my best to keep it from (my parents, who have been nothing but supportive and encouraging), and now I was being confronted with the reality of what those choices could lead to. And it was my parents who were the most involved. I desperately didn’t want them involved in any aspect of what was going on at the time.  And yet there they were, ambushing me after a late shift at my former job, and giving me a huge dose of reality, and laying out the next steps I needed to take to start getting myself back on track. The worst and first of which was calling the mental health clinic and saying I needed help. Fast.

It’s worth mentioning here that even with insurance, I was only able to get in quickly because, by a small miracle, the person who picked up my call was someone I knew. He got me in right away, but that’s not what usually happens. It often takes a suicide attempt before you can get past the 6-8 week waiting list. And that’s a strong statement on the failings of the healthcare system here in the US. Every day I’m thankful that I was one of the lucky ones — I had the insurance to give me access to the care I needed, and I had the friend who got me an immediate appointment.  But getting mental health care when you need it shouldn’t be a matter of luck.

Anyway. I’ve been thinking about my life now, and how different it is from two years ago, and all I feel is a profound sense of gratitude. I’m thankful for the lessons this illness has taught me. I’m thankful for this vast safety net/support network I have around me; that’s been the really crazy/great thing: people I’ve never met have reached out to offer support, to thank me for being so open and willing to talk about my experiences, or even to tell me that somehow I’ve helped them.

Somehow, in my darkest times, I’ve helped someone who has helped me. That still blows my mind, but I’m glad I could. I’m thankful that despite the early period of time when I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone, I’ve come around and realized that keeping people at arm’s length doesn’t really help anything, and it certainly doesn’t help them help you when you need it.

I think the biggest difference in my life now, versus how it was then, is that despite a few bouts of depression, I’ve never felt better. I used to think it was so weird to not feel super emotionally about things, but now I know that it’s just my new normal. Taking medication every day has been my new normal for the past two years.

*Sidenote on medication: I don’t know what I’d do without my meds. Well, I know what I’d do, and I don’t want to go down that path again. That said, if you ever find yourself in a position where you’re being advised to take meds to help you get through depression, anxiety, or whatever, TAKE THE MEDS. Seriously. Sometimes we all need a little help. No shame in that.*

The main change, however, has been that I am fully committed to listening to my heart and my mind and doing what I need to do to take care of myself. Granted, this has led to a fairly nonexistent social life (except for little bursts of activity every now and then), but honestly I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love being in my home, in my space, doing yoga (or not), exercising (or not), meditating, reading, playing with my cats, napping, writing, enjoying silence…all of it. Being on medication has definitely helped curb that restless energy I used to have, and while I used to miss all my nonstop creativity, I find that I’m more apt to actually follow through and finish my creative endeavors now, which is extremely satisfying.

I think I’ll bring this to a close by saying this: I have Bipolar 2 Disorder, but I am not defined by my disease. In ways that I think only I understand sometimes, I’m thankful to be on this journey, because I’ve learned more about myself and life in the past two years than I have most of my life. As Patty Duke, a fellow person who was living with Bipolar Disorder and who died of unrelated causes, said, “My recovery from manic depression has been an evolution, not a sudden miracle.”

I feel the same way. Exactly.

 

Candy is dandy …

[image error]Many authors have found alcohol a comfort when the words won’t come, the plot refuses to unfold and the Muse has departed.  Ernest Hemingway, Raymond Chandler, Dorothy Parker come to mind. I’ve never felt the pull of a fifth of Jack Daniels, myself. Perhaps because I fall in the yeoman class, not the nobility, when it comes to writing.

Nevertheless, I well know the siren song of a Snickers bar, the clarion call of a Kit Kat, the dark promise of Dove chocolate. I’m not sure if I have a serious sweet tooth because alcoholism runs in my family, as some studies suggest, or because candy was a rare and highly prized treat in my childhood, or just because I love me some sugar. I do know given a choice between a bottle of wine or a bag of chocolate, I’m going for the chocolate.

I get that the surge of affection I feel toward a box of Godiva chocolates is hard for people who can pass by a bulk candy counter unmoved, to comprehend. Once, years ago, my sister’s husband brought her horehound drops in answer to her request for candy. For those unfamiliar with that medicinal concoction masquerading as a treat, horehound is to real candy as vinegar is to vintage wine. My sister’s response brings the term “shock and awe” to mind. Her husband remained baffled, and it was only a matter of time before that relationship had to come to an end.

It’s not that I don’t like food that’s good for me. I love fruits and vegetables and whole grains … just not as much as I love candy. I understand this is neither wise nor helpful for long-term health. So, I make regular attempts to wean myself from the influence of a really fresh box of Junior Mints, and sometimes succeed for long periods.

But when I return to my wayward ways, I take a little comfort in knowing that the consequences for this particular craving are largely confined to me. I have yet to hear of anyone who wrecked their car while driving under the influence of a Crunch bar, or failed to show up at a school play because they were holed up with some Hershey bars, or missed an important meeting because they were passed out in the candy aisle.

I’m thinking so much about candy because I’m in the thick of writing my next book, a time always of great fun, fear and frustration. I careen from days when I churn out multiple chapters, to those when hours pass with nothing happening except a few lines typed, then deleted, then the process repeated. Candy can be very comforting.

But, because the after effects of a sugar overdose are neither healthy nor happy, over the next few months I’ll be trying to reach for the carrots and celery instead of the candy. But oh, the struggle is real.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

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The unkindest cut

This is not a blog of much import. I think I should make that clear up front.  But I feel compelled to write it, because I’ve discovered through recent conversations that there are a number of women who wrestle with the same trivial dilemma that has plagued me for years.  There may, indeed, be “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,” but I’ve come to believe that there are far fewer options for women to leave their hair stylist.

Having a person with whom you are not romantically involved literally run his or her fingers through your hair is a level of intimacy that isn’t present in most client/provider exchanges. Your hair stylist can become privy not only to your desire for a haircut that makes you look like Jennifer Anniston or Tina Fey, but also to confidences about your childhood, your co-workers, or that time when you thought it would be a good idea to have a frank and open family discussion at grandma’s birthday party. Which it wasn’t. For an hour or two, every four to six weeks, you may have a very close and personal relationship with your stylist.

Yet, as sometimes happens in relationships, one person can gradually begin to feel the other is taking her for granted–that her ideas are not listened to, her desire for an exciting new look is ignored, or her decision to grow her hair out is not supported. In short, the client/hairstylist relationship can deteriorate to frustration and dull routine. Commonsense would say that at this point, a woman should simply tell her stylist she’s unhappy with her hair and move on.

Yet most don’t, for the same reasons they go on with unhappy personal relationships in their lives. Sometimes, it’s because it seems unkind, or impolite, to criticize another’s efforts, and women are well schooled in being polite. Or because they’re reluctant to leave the devil they know, for the devil they don’t. The comfort of the familiar is strong, particularly when pitted against the proposition of bouncing from one bad quick cut to another, searching for a good match they may never find. But mostly, it appears to me, breaking up with your hair stylist is hard to do precisely because of the faux intimacy that the personal nature of the work can create. It feels like you’re leaving a close relationship, not just switching service providers.

My own go-to solution, after finally accepting that things aren’t working anymore, is simply walking away and avoiding an unwanted, uncomfortable conversation. Then hoping I’ll never run into the stylist again. The last time I needed to make a switch, however, I was thwarted in my usual cowardly strategy. The new stylist I wanted to see worked in the same salon as the one I wanted to leave.  I had no choice but to tell my stylist why I was dropping him. I found myself offering up an awkward, stammering version of an actual break-up. And yes, it’s true,  the phrase “It’s not you, it’s me,” was used.

Oddly enough, after it was over, he said that typically when clients leave, he doesn’t know why, and he appreciated my honesty. We were thus able to nod cordially, whenever we ran into each other at the salon. That was more than eight years ago, and since then I’ve been very happy with the stylist I left him for, who is a better fit for me. She’s not only gifted in the art of hair styling, but also excellent at listening, and skilled at steering me away from potential hair disasters.

Therein, I think is a lesson. If you’re unhappy with your hair, or your job or your relationship, it’s OK to leave. Breaking up is hard to do, but sometimes it’s the best thing to do.

 

 

Bob’s your uncle

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Bob

Probably all families have a store of  catch phrases–familiar “in house” sayings that serve as shorthand for getting a point across, or calling up a common memory.  Some are universal, like “Don’t make me come up there,” or, “Do you want me to stop the car?”

But others are particular to an individual family’s experience. My mother would often put an end to a litany of our desires for things that weren’t going to happen– I wish I was an only child; I wish I didn’t have to do the dishes; I wish I had my own room–with the proverb “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” And my siblings and I still say it, with a smile and a nod to Mom.

Recently  my daughter mentioned that she’d wrapped up an explanation on how to complete a task with the words, “And Bob’s your uncle.” She was met with a puzzled stare. The phrase is old-fashioned British slang, meaning “you’re all set.” It caught my fancy years ago. The first time I said it to my young children, the words sent them into fits of giggles because of our dog, Bob. The thought of dog as uncle was quite hilarious to them (did I say they were quite young?). They  picked up the term and used it, until it became part of our store of particular, and perhaps peculiar, family expressions.

Other adages we use that others probably do not,  developed out of specific family situations. On an afternoon that had been filled with petty arguments and tears, I sternly told my children that I didn’t want to hear another fight that day. About half an hour later, my youngest daughter, Brenna, wailed in frustration, “Sara is silent fighting with me!”

She then proceeded to demonstrate the loophole her older sister had found in my edict. By mouthing words without sound, accompanied by fierce expressions and menacing hand gestures, Sara proved it was possible to tease and annoy without breaking silence.  The phrase “silent fighting” thus came into general family use.

Another go-to family aphorism is the phrase, “I would prefer not to.” It comes from the Herman Melville story “Bartleby the Scrivener,” wherein the title character refuses all requests with that simple, but implacable, response. I had always liked the subtle insubordination of it, and used the decree both in jest and for real, depending on the circumstance. I didn’t realize Brenna had adopted it until at age 5, she answered a request from her teacher with the words, “I would prefer not to.” Which I correctly read as a harbinger of the quiet, but steely, force of will lurking beneath her blue-eyed, curly-haired angelic demeanor.

In the eighth grade, her older sister Sara made another contribution to the family lexicon, when she chose an ambitious topic for her first research paper, the Watergate scandal. The concluding line of her paper revealed both her boredom with the topic and her hope that an abrupt ending would be attributed to forces beyond her control. “Nobody knows what happened to the Watergate Seven.”

To which I had to answer, “Yes, Sara, yes they do. Quite a few people know exactly what happened to them, and I think you need to find out, too.” She completed her assignment, received a respectable grade, and added another axiom to our family. It’s still our go-to phrase for any half-formed effort or ill-conceived project that dies aborning, as in “Nobody knows what happened to … Susan’s 6 weeks to fitness challenge.”

The language of families is a strange and wonderful thing. Rejoice in yours.

 

 

Preventable Moments

This post first appeared in February, 2015. I’m running it again today because, sadly for me, the content is still completely reflective of my life, and because I’m in the middle of working out a tricky plot point for my next book, and don’t want to stop and lose the thread.   

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A typical Preventable Moment

Recently, while working on my next book with a very full cup of hot tea sitting very close to my computer, I had a near brush with disaster. Both my computer and the tea survived. Sadly, such unnerving experiences are not rare in my life. But now I understand why they happen, thanks to a friend who labeled such disasters Preventable Moments.

It’s easier to illustrate by example than to explain.

So, the oatmeal is in a big, cylindrical Quaker Oats box on the top shelf of the cupboard. I stretch really far and can just touch the bottom of it with my fingertips. Do I think, “Oh, wait, I’ll get the step stool, so I can reach it easily and get a good grip on it?”

 No. I poke at the box with my fingers. I tap and claw at it, trying to jiggle it to the edge where it will tilt forward and I can catch it as it falls. That does not happen. I tip the container, but it tilts forward so fast I can’t grab it. The box plummets to the floor, the top flies off and oatmeal spews on the tile, under the refrigerator, under the dishwasher and basically into every hard-to-get-to-place in the kitchen.

That, my friends, is a preventable moment. Had I just taken the extra five seconds to get the stool, I would have saved 15 minutes of kitchen cleanup and a big dose of frustration. I could have prevented the moment that led to disaster.

Though I understand the concept, I know I haven’t truly embraced it, because I just bought a purse with a shoulder strap. Experience tells me shoulder bags are fraught with danger for me. Shoulder straps hook on doorknobs as you are leaving a room. They catch on drawer handles and yank you unceremoniously back into your chair. And if you are in a hurry and hold your bag like a clutch purse, trailing the strap behind you, they can be deadly. Another illustration from my case files.

I am late for a meeting. I grab my purse and dash through the office, the shoulder strap hanging down and bouncing on the floor as I swing my arms to gain speed. Somehow, my heel catches in the looping strap. I do a lurching hopscotch across the office, trying to free my foot, flailing my arms for balance and flinging the contents of my purse hither and yon. A combination of profanity and pleading seems to work, and I do not land on my butt, but my dignity is badly damaged. Happily, there are no witnesses. But I know what I have done. I have ignored the principle of the preventable moment.

Why do I keep doing this? Because sometimes it works. Sometimes I climb the stairs carrying a full glass of iced tea in one hand, balancing a stack of books anchored by my chin in my other arm, while dangling a heavy plastic grocery bag painfully off my little finger. And nothing falls or spills, nor do I land sprawling in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. That one positive reinforcement of my poor judgment is enough to bring out the optimist in me. Buoyed by success, I gamble that I can beat the odds again and ignore the next dozen preventable moments with predictably bad results.

Will I ever stop positioning my beverage too close to my computer, stacking books higher than gravity allows, overestimating my ability to avoid tripping on bottom drawers I’ve left open? Probably not. But at least I’ll know that I’m not a victim of random bad luck. It’s all about the preventable moment.

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Nothing ventured …

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Can you see me now?

With more than 49 million books available for sale on Amazon worldwide, it’s a little hard for an author to get noticed. I’ve written before about stumbling and bumbling my way through the stages of book production and promotion. It was nightmarish with my first book, very difficult with my second, and still hard with my third. And despite my best efforts, my audience of readers, while highly prized, is still pretty small.

The prospect of growing that audience while working on a new book is daunting. I’ve discovered that the more books I write, the more marketing tasks I’m required to juggle. My tiny mind is already having a hard time tracking promotion, for example, because each book in the series has different eligibility dates for advertising under Amazon rules. To add to the fun, each online advertising site I use has its own restrictions on the number of times a book can be offered: some have no limitations at all, some are once a month, others once every three months, and some are every six months.

Keeping track of Amazon dates and multiple advertising site dates for one book is challenging. Multiply that by three books, and things get really interesting—if by interesting I mean migraine-inducing, and I do. So, when I came across a marketing service that specializes in ebook promotion for mysteries, and handles all of the things I do so badly or not at all—search engine optimization, HTML coding, selecting appropriate categories and keywords, writing book blurbs, creating covers, and scheduling advertising, I thought Sign me up.

But then, after having paid for the expertise of a group of professionals who have successfully done exactly what I hope to do—expand readership and increase sales, I found myself reluctant to accept their advice. Instead, I advocated for some version of the status quo. It was karma, I suppose. I spent a lot of years directing advertising and promotion for a local university. Often clients argued for personal taste in terms of art work and advertising copy. It could get frustrating, trying to convince them that their personal preferences wouldn’t achieve their goals. When I talked about my reaction to the new materials with a friend, she asked me a few pointed questions. It came as a bit of a shock when I realized that this time, I was the recalcitrant client, not the rational professional.

And so, although the covers are in a different style than I’ve used before, and the copy is pretty…high octane…I have decided I should follow Elsa’s advice. I’ve done a trust fall into the arms of professional expertise, and I’m letting it go. Though not usually so eager to abandon my opinions, over the next six months or so, I’ll be thrilled to discover that letting go can be exactly the right thing to do. Meanwhile, the ebooks with their new covers and copy are available for viewing—and purchase, of course—on Amazon.  I’m interested to know what you think.

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