The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
FEBRUARY 08
Tuesday February 26 - The thing that scares me
I was stumbling through life, minding my own business today, when, oh,
serendipity, I almost fell ass over tits on a box of advance copies of Dear
Rita, which had been delivered unbeknownst to me, and which were just sitting
there waiting for their Mommy.
The feel and smell of your latest book in your hands? Better than sex. Even sex with another person. Triple bonus points if your cover is as tremendous as this one.
So I twittered and twatted about, showing off to my friends and calling my muddah, and generally enjoyed that first blush of young love. Within a couple of hours, though, it had worn off, and in its place was a sense of dread, because though a new book might mean vindication of all those hours spent, maternal love and pride, and a huge self-administered pat on the back, it also means that that book's gonna have to be sold. And it better be sold by the hundred's and thousands, because publishers ain't in it for the love of the game, ya know what I mean?
And that's the part that scares me; the only way to sell is to promote. It scares me till I get a knot in my stomach that can only be described as Gordian. I hate self-promotion. I haven't a clue how to do it, or where to start. (This from a seasoned PR professional!) Who do I talk to? Do I do emails? A newsletter? Phone calls? Letters? Do I take off my clothes and flash everyone on You Tube? And what if they don't like me? What if I send off review copies and everybody says it sucks green donkey dick?
I need to write like I need to breathe. Promotion? That's the thing that makes writing profitable. And that's the thing I need to learn to stomach if I'm going to make it. So, into the fray I go.
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Friday February 22 - Don't Panic
Remember how the cover of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (upon Douglas be peace) was emblazoned with the words "Don't Panic"?
I just set that up as my screen saver, so whenever I look away for a bit and come back, it'll be there to reassure me.
I'm coming down to the end of my first month as an unsalaried person, first, that is, since I was about 23. Some time next week, if I was still living on planet Earth rather than in some alternate universe where I could actually make a living as a writer, a tidy little sum would have appeared in my bank account, all glittering with magic fairy dust. It wasn't what you'd call untold wealth, but the bank wasn't leaving threatening calls on my machine, either.
Now, this month, I will go to the bank and - oh, horror - withdraw money from my savings account. Not for emergency purposes. Not for a vacation. But to do all the mundane things a savings account was not created for: to pay my life insurance installment and to buy juice.
All to keep me and my kids alive and under a roof until those fantastic publishing contracts come down in a deluge, you understand. Ya know it's gonna happen. But in the meantime I'm racing from supermarket to supermarket with my little notebook writing down the cost per kilo of beef here as opposed to there, who has the best deal on diapers, and who takes those stupid client loyalty cards that we all know are a rip off but every three months there's a voucher in the mail all the same, and said voucher can be exchanged for food....
And from time to time, I get a little scared. What, am I crazy? Am I really having long, soul-searching debates about whether I can shower with shampoo for another few days until I start my next budget cycle, when it'll be all right to go ahead and buy myself another bottle of body wash?
Breath in. Breathe out. Don't panic, Ros, don't panic.
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Monday February 18 - Romance in Color review up
Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that my review of Kayla Perrin'a Single Mama Drama is online at Romance in Color. Whyn't you mosey on over and check it out?
Then mosey on back here and comment on my comments. Then I'll comment on your comment on my comments. Then you can...oh, bugger.
Tuesday February 12 - Patience, jackass, patience
When I was young and thought I was funny I used to tell a joke about a man, a donkey and a well. The punchline was "Patience, jackass, patience." It's sort of long-winded and not as funny as I thought it was at age 11, so I'll spare you the details. It does sum up what I need to tell myself now, though.
I'm done with the edit of The Lying Game, so I've started on the first draft of what I hope will be my next Kimani (haven't got a contract yet, so I'm high on hope and pretty much nothing else). But the weird phenomenon is the speed at which I'm working. I've yearned for so long to have more time on my hands to write, and now that I do, I'm writing like gangbusters. 15 pages yesterday. 6 today (Don't look at me, I gave up halfway and went to bed - I have the flu.) But you get the picture. I'm writing pretty damn fast.
But pretty damn fast doesn't necessarily mean pretty damn good. Even as my fingers are flying I'm telling myself; slow down! Take your time! Is this how you really see the scene happening? Is this your best? But I feel driven to fill the time I prayed for. To work, work, work until the bell rings for a time out.
That's not necessarily all good. I need to slooooo dooowwwnnnnn.....
Friday February 8 - Zen and the art of vegetable gardening
I've learned a few things since I took up gardening again. The first is that plants are like animals. In the same way that I can't shrug and say "I'll give the dog some fresh water later", I can't slack on watering the plants. I tried it over the carnival weekend, when I was too lazy and too busy to water them first thing in the morning, as I usually do.
The result? Toasted plants. It's the dry season, after all. The sun is enough to fry ants on the sidewalk. I was so remorseful when I saw all those limp, frazzled leaves I promised my little darlings that Mommy would never be so careless again.
The second lesson I learned is that wild birds have one hell of an appetite. I bought myself a bird feeder as a birthday present, along with a pound and a half of birdseed, imagining to my foolish self that it'd last them at least two weeks. Try five days. Where do they put all that stuff?
I'd splurged on the gourmet seed, because it was so pretty. Ha. Next time, I'm getting the cheap stuff, without the sunflower seeds and the little bready things. But I have to say, nothing like pausing from my writing and gazing out the window to see birds flocking my garden. It's almost like feeding them is the same as feeding my muse.
Tuesday February 5 - One month down...how we doin'?
Well, Carnival's over, so I guess it's time to get serious again. And one month has passed since I've been all on my lonesome; what, exactly have I achieved? Well, let's see:
Websites launched: 1 (Not bad, even if I say so. It took more than two weeks out of said month just to build the damn thing.)
PO Bags bought and paid for: 1 (Good. Now I can do business while keeping my home address out of it.)
85,000 word novels trimmed down to a measly 70,000 words: 1/2. (I'm working on it! I'm working on it!)
Money earned: $0. (But who's counting?)
Friday February 1 - Queasy birthday coincidence
This is a weird one. I was at my birthday dinner last night - the pork was like shoe leather, but that's not part of the story - when something oddly Twilight Zoneish happened.
A couple sat down behind us, with the man at my back. Somewhere along the way, I caught a glimpse of his face - and discovered that it was a man I was terribly bessotted with once upon a time, and who had hurt me very badly 16 years ago...on my birthday.
I'm proud of myself for finishing dinner without scooting backwards a little and asking him, in front of his little chickie, if he remembered me, what day it was, or what an asshole he'd been on said date all those years ago. What he did to me is pretty routine, as far as men and their stupid, selfish little games go, but I was pretty cut up then, and the feeling has never left me. I even draw on it whenever I have to write about characters who've been screwed over and are taking it really hard. And no, I'm not going to tell you about it here, but you can bet I'll write about it one day. At least I'll make a little money off the sumbitch.
Whether he spotted me is a mystery, because he never turned around or glanced in my direction. So I finished dinner with my current sweetheart, with my chair backed up against his predecessor's. Pondering over the mysterious coincidences of life. And gloating over the fact that he's now losing his hair. Bwa ha ha ha!
