Is self-publishing the worst, or is it fun?

There's still a fair amount of disdain out there for Indie Writers like me.  Many circles don't consider you legitimate unless you've won over the gatekeepers of the publishing world: the literary agents. 

Here's how to get an agent.  1.  Be famous.  2.  Have a famous friend who will write a forward for your book. 

Do I sound cynical?  The other way to get an agent is to write a killer query letter that will land, with hundreds of others, in a liteary agent's slush pile.  Most agents get less than 5% of their authors from the slush pile so the odds are...not in your favor.  Most agents live in New York.  I'm from New York but I live in Omaha, Neb.  Call me paranoid, but I often wondered if my return address lowered my chances even more. 

I spent more than ten years getting rejected by agents so when I found out I could self-publish on Amazon, I leapt at the chance to bypass those gatekeepers.  In ten months my book,  The Truth About Dating (The Quinn Malone series) had sold more than 25,000 copies.

Rejection cuts more than I think it should.  I'm ashamed to say that ten years of rejections had made me decide to never write again.  Selling twenty-five thousand copies of my book changed all that.  I immediately wrote another book, a mystery set in my old Brooklyn neighborhood, Clinton Hill.  Murder Beyond Words (A Ruby Neptune Mystery)  Last year, that book sold 20,000 copies.    I wrote a sequel, Murder with Art (Ruby Neptune Mysteries).  Self-publishing is fun!

But then I tried to get some vibrant, wonderful bookstores in the Clinton Hill area of Brooklyn to carry my mysteries.  My books sell well online and both have an average review of 4-stars on Amazon, but local bookstores didn't want to carry them.  Why?  My paperbacks are made by an Amazon affilate, and they don't give brick and mortar bookstores a good deal.  I could sell them by consignment, but that's a lot of extra work for the stores.  These reasons make sense.  But an underlying commentary was this: self-published writers suck.  They can't write.  That's why they couldn't get published traditionally. 

This is the prevailing belief among critics and booksellers even as many self-published authors sell really well.  Sell thousands more books than me.  Sometimes it seems like the only ones who didn't like their books were the gatekeepers who first rejected them.

I just read this article on Salon.com by Ted Heller: The Future is no fun: Self-publishing is the worst..  Mr. Heller describes his odessy from successful, traditionally published author to author-with-brilliant-book-that-no-one-wants-to-buy, to self-published-author-that-no-one-respects-because-he's-self-published.  It's an interesting read.  Frankly, it was a relief to see a traditionally published writer vent his frustration with how hard the writing life is for everyone, be they traditional or indie.

I don't have the bitter taste of success ripped from me like Mr. Heller, so I'm still grateful for self-publishing.  Parts are bad, but (I'm starting to learn) no worse than negatives of being traditionally published. 

Here's why self-publishing is bad:
1.  I hate marketing myself.  It takes up too much of my time and I'm not good at it.

Here's why self-publishing is good:
1.  I write what I want.  No one phones me to ask how many chapters I've written this week. 
2.  I do what I want.  When I wanted to put a link at the end of one book recommending that my readers read Nicolas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn's book Half the Sky, no one said, "That book's with a different publisher so we can't promote it in yours."  Or other stupid things like that. 

Here's the irony of self-publishing:
1.  I love libraries and bookstores.  I hate Amazon's scorched earth policy on the competition, yet I owe all my success to Amazon, and the stores I want to support won't take my book because I'm part of Amazon.  This, even though I set my Amazon paperback prices to match the price of my book at my local bookstore in Omaha (which was happy to sell my books).  That's the other fun thing about self-publishing: I can sell my books for any price I like.  You'll never find my paperbacks cheaper on Amazon than in the bookstore because I want to support our local bookstores.

In Tragedy, Taking A Break From Trash Talk and News Cycles

When tragedy strikes, people need time to mourn.  Grief is a powerful antidote to the ills of the world.  Grief allows us to process our pain, to mourn for our losses, and ultimately, to move forward with our new lives.   

Yet our country moves from grief to justice in lighting speed.  Within minutes reporters and people on the street were tossing out lines like, “we will not be cowed by terrorists!” and “they picked the wrong city!”  My favorite reporters deluged me with talk.  Rather than covering events, they seemed to be processing their own feelings aloud and on air.  Nicholas Kristoff rubbernecked for all of his “friends” on Facebook, posting horrifying pictures of injured people and bloody sidewalks; Tom Ashbrook from On Point devoted the next day’s show to the event, even though all he could really talk about was how little we know; ThomasFriedman’s column two days later suggested we defy terrorists by leaving no memories of the attack and that we schedule another Boston Marathon as soon as possible. 

Me?  My head is spinning.  The move from shock to grief to erasing all traces and counting on the resilience of Bostonians to carry on is going much too fast.  September 11th dragged on interminably but Boston is going to be sewn up before the week is out. 

So I’m watching as little of the news cycle as possible.  The weeks after 9/11 taught me that empty-headed news stories make me too numb to grieve.  The imperative, “Never forget!” is going around like it did after 9/11.  I feel insulted every time I hear that expression.  As if any of us would ever forget.  What I’d prefer is more quiet.  Time to reflect and feel bad without watching horrible scenes, like the one that Kristoff and later The New York Times showed of the father finding his dead son.  That scene was terrible, useless, unnecessary.  (I didn’t actually watch it).  That father asked for privacy.  We don’t need to overdose on his grief when we could be focusing on our own. 

For my five-year old, a tragedy is that she can’t wear rain boots on a sunny day.  When she keels over, sobbing about minor events, I usually urge her to move on, but sometimes I let her bawl her eyes out.  I hold her in my arms and let her experience grief.  I want her to learn that crying can help move the sadness out.  I want her to learn how to feel sad without jumping straight into retribution. 

I understand the desire for justice and I agree there is a time for vengeance.  But I don’t want to hurry past my pain just to show those terrorists that they didn’t get me down.  They did.  I’m devastated.  Part of me will always be devastated.  Our nation’s leap into trash-talking-avenger mode makes me worry about the well-being of the American psyche.  I almost wrote, “great” in front of American.  But then I realized I don’t need to say so.  Just as we know we’ll never forget, we know we’re a great people.  We don’t have to broadcast it non-stop in the face of a national tragedy. We’d be even greater if we could sing, pray, or ponder quietly while we all hold hands, one nation, helping each other.

Are Art Galleries Fading From New York City?

When I attended Pratt Institute in the late 1980s, I was intimidated by shows at art galleries.  I went to lots of them, but I always had the impression that gallery owners weren’t happy to see young students like me wander through the door.  I’ve never been very eloquent about discussing art; I feel like I’m shoveling out a lot of BS.  So when I graduated with a bachelor’s in Painting, I was deeply intimated by the process of asking gallery owners to represent me. 

That was decades ago.  I still paint, my art continues to develop, but I don’t bother trying to get shows. I replaced that desire with the goal of snagging a literary agent.  By the time I’d written my first book, I no longer lived in New York City.  I’ve often thought that my Omaha, Neb address was part of the reason I couldn’t get the literary agents to read my books (most live in NYC).  But thanks to Amazon, it now no longer matters that I don't have an agent.  Epublishing has served me well; I've sold well over 50,000 copies of my self-published books in just a couple of years.  So I'm a fan of online sales.

Today I read art critic Jerry Saltz’s article, “The Death of the Gallery Show,” in New York Magazine where he laments the rise of online art auctions because the public never gets the chance to wander through an exhibition of that artist, to see the artist’s works juxtaposed together.  Mr. Saltz says he goes to 1,560 NYC gallery shows a year.  A year.  That is incredible. 

Reading his article brought me back to my school days, and to the research I did while writing my second mystery novel, which begins with a death in a Williamsburg art gallery (Murder with Art (Ruby Neptune Mysteries)).  And as I read Saltz’s defense of art galleries, in spite of the fact that poor artists might not get to NYC to see the art, I started to think the art world was following in the footsteps of the publishing world:  both had NYC as their center and a small tribe of New Yorkers decided who was in and who was out.

But after mulling over his argument for a few hours, I’ve decided that what’s lost by art galleries disappearing from Chelsea is what’s gained for Indie writers like me.  In online art galleries, even non-represented artists get to sell their art, so it sounds like the democratization of the art world.  But only for the artists.  For art lovers, the opposite is happening.  As Saltz points out, auctions keep art away from everyone except the collector.  Even though I felt intimidated going to art galleries as a young student, I still went.  I got to see some amazing art.  I couldn’t buy the art, but I could still be influenced by what I saw on those walls.  Jerry Saltz goes to 1,560 shows a year, but he's not buying something at each show (at least, I assume he's not, on an art critic's salary.)  He's just looking and enjoying.

There’s no doubt that Amazon, for all its many flaws, has democratized the publishing world for writers like me.  But readers, too, get to read more books.  Books that literary agents didn't think they would like.  I may not make my living off my books (yet), but I'm still a success.  Without an agent or publisher and with a marketing budget of less than $200, the first book in my mystery series (Murder Beyond Words (A Ruby Neptune Mystery)) sold 20,000 copies last year.  Murder with Art sales are steady, too.
 

Living outside the city has its disadvantages for agent-less novelists.  Besides the obvious one, (not living in the city), some bookstores only carry consignment books for local authors, and though I’m from New York I no longer count as local.  An art gallery would let me show from afar, but of course they have years of experience working with out-of-town artists.  I imagine bookstores will get there eventually.  More than anything, Saltz’s article made me feel my absence from my favorite city in the world.  He made me miss living on campus at Pratt.  He made me want to gallery hop.  He made me worry that one of the defining traits of the city, art galleries, might be an endangered species.  Let’s hope he’s wrong. 

When will the Catholic Church step into this century?

It’s Easter morning, and instead of pinning corsages to my children’s fancy clothes and heading to church, I’m watching my kids’ hunt Easter eggs in our yard.  My neighbors on three sides are driving off in Easter bonnets, but I left the church in my late teens.  My kids are squealing with glee and I’m thinking about my second grade CCD teacher who told my class she always saw sunbeams on Easter - no small feat, since New York Easters can be blustery, cold, and rainy.  Her name was Sandy Shoefelt and I adored her.  She loved God and wanted to share that love with us.  In second grade, I thought God and church were one in the same.  I loved them both.  But as the years passed, my relationship with my church changed.  I left the Catholic Church because their treatment of women and gays is immoral.  I never dreamed I wouldn’t be return by now.  Just as soon as the Catholic hierarchy cleaned up its act I expected to be back, teaching CCD, watching my kids receive their first communion, and the like.   

Instead, I’ve watched from afar as the church regresses even further from Christ’s teachings.   They no longer allow gay men to become priests.  They are pushing an anti-birth control agenda on the rest of the country, even on non-Catholics who work at Catholic institutions.  They are persecuting nuns who publically disagree with political agendas that hurt the poor in general and women in particular.  They’ve protected priests who rape children and let them rape again, and again, and again.  The last pope lived in luxury, dressing in ridiculously over the top designer clothes.  He revived a long-faded tradition of wearing red shoes like he was some kind of rock star. 

When he washed priests’ feet on Holy Thursday, he used a gold urn.  The priests were decked out in their finest.  This was how Benedict practiced  humility, by washing twenty-four feet that were undoubtedly manicured before he even dropped to his knees.    

 

 

So while I’m not hopeful about the new pope, who is anti-birth control and anti-gay marriage, I’m mildly interested to hear that he washed the feet of women and prisoners last week and that he lives in building with other priests instead of in the pope’s palatial quarters.  Some church officials are outraged.  Not because he washed prisoners’ feet, but because he washed women’s.  So, yes, the Catholic Church is still living in medieval times.  Witch burning times.  In this atmosphere, even small changes seem big.  Pope Francis is not going to bring me back to the fold, but I hope his actions bring shame to the cardinals who seem more interested in pomp and circumstance than in serving people in need or in saving souls.  Actually, a lot of them probably need their own souls saved.
 

I talked to my 73-year old father on Easter Sunday.  He was taught by nuns, who gave him a great education.  I mentioned my disgust at the Church’s stance on birth control.  My father’s reponse?  That he was equally upset that the church won’t allow women to become priests.  I shook my head in bewilderment.  Women priests?  That is so far off my radar.  I just want celibate men to stay out of the birth control debate unless they can offer something better than another baby every 12-18 months.  I want women to have control over how many children they have.  I want the church to stop saying that gays are destroying the fabric of our families.  I want the church to stop teaching that gays are sinners.  I feel like I’ve fallen out of a lifeboat and my father is calling overboard to ask me if I want a cheese or egg salad sandwich for lunch.  I can’t think about lunch.  I’m thinking about getting a life jacket.  And I want the church to throw a life preserver to the ex-Catholics they’ve driven away. 

 
Until then, women priests feels like such a luxury.  Okay, not a red Prada shoes kind of luxury.  Not even close.  And I have to applaud my father.  He wants it all.  I think I should be asking for it all too, instead of settling for crumbs that should already be self-evident. 

Nine Reasons I Might Fire Facebook

Nine Reasons I Might Fire Facebook



"Just sitting here waiting for Facebook to go away."

This cartoon by Bruce Eric Kaplan ran in the New Yorker long before I even knew what Facebook was.  I wasn’t part of the Facebook nation.  I’d heard of it, much like I’ve heard of Twitter.  I joined FB to promote my book, which had reached the quarterfinals of Amazon’s BreakthroughNovel Award.  I stayed because I enjoy catching up with old friends through their brief moments in time postings and pictures. 

But I'm getting sick of Facebook

Especially after reading Nick Bilton's New York Times article about FB sending “sponsored” posts to the top of my newsfeed.  Hiding posts I chose to follow is just another in a long line of bad choices by a company that seems bent on driving its users away.  

 

Not to mention all the noise from my FBFs (Facebook friends).  So while you mull over the way FB keeps raiding your privacy and choice, here is my list of pet peeves, not from Mark Zuckerberg, but from my newsfeed buddies.   

My Facebook Newsfeed Pet Peeves

1. People who play video games on FB.  Do you realize we all know when you play?  Get back to work!  
2. Spouses who make nitpicky comments on my friends’ postings.  I always wonder if they’re sitting in the same room with their wife as they type?
3. People who “like” products to get freebies.  I’m fine with an occasional plug for a computer or something, but is it really worth clogging up your friends’ newsfeeds to win a meatball sandwich?
4. Lurkers.  I’m fine with you never posting.  But couldn’t you do an occasional “like”?  Never giving feedback on FB (but mentioning to me later that you saw such-and-such a post) is the equivalent of never giving me a smile or other friendly facial expressions when we talk to each other.  
5. Cat pictures.  Sunset picture.  Excessive kid pictures.  Actually, I like seeing these, but in small quantities.  When you post ten pictures of your kid (instead of putting them in an album), I get irritated.  
6. People who post the minutia of their own life, but never “like” anything that other people say.  Give us a little love, too for goodness sakes.  
7. Trolls.  I thought we were friends, but when you write snotty comments under my posts you seem more like a belligerant drunk who's about to urinate on my yard.  I don't mind that you don't agree with me, but remember the line about how if you can't say something nice...?
8. Cryptic posts.  “Not good.”  “Whoops.”  “Next time it’s blue.”  You can be interesting without being annoying.  We want to hear about you, so help us by communicating clearly.  
9. Posts like this: “Mothers are the best people in the world.  Share this if you love your mother.”    Or this: “Children with cancer are the bravest people in the world.  Put this in your newsfeed if you agree.”  Or this: “Puppies are cute.  Most of you won’t be brave enough to do this, because you have no soul, but if you believe that puppies truly are cute, repost this for the rest of the day.”
10. People who thank their trainers for a killer work out.  Really?  Do they give you a discount for doing that?  If not, get your masochistic muscular butt off my feed

What are your pet peeves?  Comment below and I'll add the best ones to my list.