July 14, 2020. My last post before today’s update. So much has happened in the world since then. The pandemic is worse. Death tolls are climbing. Hospitals are at full capacity. Then there’s the election. Results were contested. Rioters stormed the capitol. Now, an impeachment. Friends telling friends to take a flying leap because their world views are no longer navigable.
For my family, this tumultuous time made our state’s dismal educational offerings even more glaringly obvious. As the new school year approached and the realization that nothing was going to improve, we sold our home and moved. As many of you have probably experienced, moving can be highly stressful. It ranks right up there with divorce, death, and public speaking. Thankfully, although we nearly came to blows during the move, my husband and I are still married, and so far, friends and family are still alive and kicking. As far as public speaking, well, no one’s doing much of that these days.
Although the above events are topics for a blog other than mine, it’s my explanation (and excuse) for going AWOL. There just was too much shit going on. I used to be a great multitasker but now I’m lucky if I can start, much less finish, the one thing in front of me. Something had to give.
Fortunately, the one thing I did plug away at was my book.
When my editor and I first met over Zoom in late July, she suggested I send her my manuscript. “Before we attempt to work on the proposal,” she told me, “I really need to understand what your book is about.” I emailed it to her and during August and the beginning of September, she read and edited. The day the movers arrived, I received the edited version. Page after page was marked and highlighted, showing her cuts, edits and suggestions. Now, it was my turn. I had to take the first nine scrapped chapters and insert all of the pertinent back story throughout the rest of the book. IN OTHER WORDS, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.
As the movers worked around me, I wrote. Driving to our new state, I wrote. In-between cooking, cleaning, and laundry, I wrote. Trying to find a new house, I wrote. Moving into our new house, I wrote. In-between buying, wrapping, and sending Christmas gifts, I wrote. Every moment I could scrounge and claim as my own, I wrote. Finally, on December 31st, I hit the “send” button on my computer.
Who knows what’s in store for this coming year, but I hope you’ll stick it out with me. My goal, especially with this blog, has been to offer you a ride in the passenger’s seat as I drive blind-folded, careening around curves and flying over hills, in pursuit of a dream. While I can’t sway anyone to think differently about politics or religion or whatever else is on their mind, I sure hope to hell (or heaven) you enjoy the ride.
My mother affectionately called me her “Wednesday’s child,” which lent a subtle informing to my young self that because I’d been born on that fateful day my woeful and dark perspective of life was to be expected. It never occurred to me that one could, like the Monty Python song, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
Imagine my surprise when, during the writing of my memoir, I discovered my mother’s poor recall! Instead of fulfilling a legacy “full of woe,” I was really a Friday’s child–born to a life “full of loving and giving.” To think that I could have been embracing Eric Idle’s tune all these years, smiling and laughing and slugging down a half-full pint of life. Was it too late after all this time to rid myself of a half-empty attitude and roll back the cynicism acquired after decades living as a hardcore New Yorker?
I’d exchanged it all for a relaxed, beachside Florida lifestyle four years ago where, frankly, with miles of white sand and blue ocean and tropical breezes, it’s difficult to be anything but happy.
I was on track to delete my hard-wired world view until the Voldemort of viruses descended on the sunshine state, pitting wizard against muggle (you decide who’s who) in a struggle over fact and fiction.
Until that plays out, with each side attempting to discount the other, I’ve decided to maintain my status quo. Full of woe, I awake, dress, and reluctantly hop on my beach bike and peddle in the dark to catch the morning sunrise.
“To you your father should be as a god.” (1.1.47 A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare)
Today is Father’s Day and there will be a constant stream of posts on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, videos on YouTube, and even dance routines on TicTok, all celebrating the great dads of the world.
This post is for those whose dads were less than stellar.
It’s a celebration of sorts to show that even though our fathers fell far short of the claims that others will be making throughout the day–as their hero, loving Pop, first love, patient dad, funny patriarch, wise sage, best father ever–we can honor and pay tribute to ourselves for having grown up without a father’s warm and protective embrace. It’s made us strong and resilient and fearless. So for that, I say thank you, Dad.
This week, more than just my celebratory martini was “shaken, not stirred.” While my desire has been to share my book journey toward publishing with as much transparency as possible–including detailing and revealing every success or failure–the roller coaster of events that played out almost daily this past week gave me pause for thought. Last Friday evening, after weeks of revisions, I submitted my proposal to my agent. Celebrating with my cocktail of choice, I settled back to enjoy my weekend and the satisfaction of a job well done. Or so I thought.
The death knell sounded on Sunday afternoon when I received an email from my agent, who three months ago, before the world changed, was broadcasting how great my story was and how it was not only going be bought by publishers but also bought as a film or series to one of the networks. Funny how a little pandemic can change everything.
In less than 30 seconds, it all vanished when I read the words, “This new market condition forces me to withdraw from representing you . . . ” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream or cry, so I did both . . . at the same time. It was not a pretty picture.
Now, I could continue this thread by reporting I fell into a pool of despair, railing against the world, and vowing never to write again, but who wants to read about that, especially in today’s world where there are far more pressing and important issues.
Instead, it was time to put on my big-girl pants and figure out my next step.
Taking my now ex-agent up on his offer to help me (short of representation!), I set up a call for the next day. My goal was twofold: To find out why my proposal failed to light the necessary fire my agent said he needed in order to pitch my book and to have him recommend an editor for hire.
“I do have someone in mind, but she’s expensive,” he said. When he told me how much, I wondered if I could scrape up enough cash among the three credit cards that weren’t maxed out. “She’ll bring your proposal up to the standard you need to compete with established, professional authors like Tara Westover.”
“Done,” I replied. Considering I’d been admonished for originally pitching my book as Educated on a boat, unaware the publishing world considered Westover’s memoir as a tour de force literary masterpiece, it seemed like a tall order to fill. Either that or this editor had super powers.
“I’ll have to give her your proposal and see if she’ll even work with you,” he added. Nothing like kicking you when you’re down, I thought. Thank god I spent thirty years as a model and actor, toughening up with industry clients who were as mean as snakes.
“I really appreciate you doing this for me,” I said and added, “because whatever happens, I’m determined to get my book published.”
“If she decides to take you on and your final proposal gets the punch-up it needs, I’ll pitch the book in September.”
Say what??? Will wonders never cease! Guess he didn’t tear up my contract, after all. One more one-eighty along my journey.
Yesterday, after signing a work-for-hire contract to protect my intellectual property, I sent off my check, plunging me further in debt, but in turn landing me a real live editor.
Tonight, I’m having another martini, but this time, stirred.
Which social platform should you choose to find your peeps?
One requirement that is now standard when writing your book proposal is to state the depth and width of your social media reach. God help you if you don’t have an Instagram or a YouTube account, never mind the now démodé, boomer-favorite, Facebook. Personally, I’ve set my sights on TikTok but my fourteen-year-old has informed me that under no uncertain terms am I to open an account. “TikTok is for kids!” she admonishes, and the cronies that are on it should get off, adding, with a toss of her glorious teenage mane, “They all look ridiculous.” My thinking is, if Maye Musk (Elon’s seventy-two-year-old mom) can shake her booty on it, so can I!
Putting my TikTok dreams aside, I needed to focus on the remaining platforms. I was mostly a lurker on Facebook, my Instagram account was pathetic, my YouTube presence lasted all but a nanosecond, my attempt at Twitter was a few feeble tweets, and my boards on Pinterest were filled with things I liked but couldn’t afford.
At a certain point, I just gave up, thinking, who the hell is interested in me or the things I like anyway? Then I wrote my book and found out writers– individuals who spend most of their time interacting with a screen–are required by publishers to have a large, interactive, social media presence. Yes, you heard it right. Publishers might buy your book, but they want a guaranteed readership from your side.
Overwhelmed, I turned to my loved ones for help. My Generation Z kid who can navigate the internet and post to social media like a whirling dervish, informed me that she had no time to explain something “like five times” before I actually “got it.” And my husband, an avowed social media recluse, responded to my pleas with, “I wish I still had my flip phone.”
I was in trouble and figured the best place to look for help would be from someone who had grown up in the digital age. As I was doing my nightly lurking on FB, an ad popped up on my feed, advertising a course that guaranteed to teach me everything I needed to know about social media. A sucker for sticking to the path of least resistance, I signed up and paid for a year’s membership. Enough time to figure this all out, I thought, before my book was (fingers crossed) published and ready for market.
One of the first questions the course asks you to answer honestlyis who are you and what makes you who you are because you stand a better chance of success by presenting your authentic, true self. But most of us, including myself, are afraid to present our real selves and our messy lives, preferring instead to show the world a gussied-up version. Before I continue, let me be clear that by authentic, I don’t mean ranting and raving about extremely polarized topics such as politics and religion (although if this is who you are, by all means, go for it), but rather, as a means to a starting point as you begin to create your community. It’s the gate through which all your peeps will gladly walk through. When you really know who you are, you’ll attract those who recognize your value. It’s not about “likes” or “follows” or posting pictures of what we perceive as the perfect life. That’s okay too, if that’s what you want but what I’m writing about here is how to discover and find those people who want to celebrate with you. As I learn how to create my own community, I want to share anything that will possibly make it easier for you. I try to always remember when I’m writing, “If only someone had told me that back then.”
My two Millennial Gurus are showing me that it doesn’t have to be overwhelming but can, instead, be an exhilarating and fun and extremely satisfying ride. It’s great to write a book or paint a painting or fabricate a piece of jewelry for the pure pleasure of creating, but it’s even more rewarding when someone reads your book, owns your painting, and wears your jewelry. And, how’s that going to happen if no one ever sees your work?
So, I thought a lot about who I was and what I wanted. While I liked scrolling through Facebook and knew it was where most of my fellow boomers hung out, I felt freer expressing myself on Instagram where I could share my view of the world visually. And since I like to write more than a few sentences, blogging was appealing. The two complemented one another. I could keep Pinterest as a hobby, YouTube on the back-burner, and Twitter…Well, Twitter is supposed to be a great platform for writers, but frankly, I don’t understand it and in the words of Warren Buffet who has said he never invests in companies he doesn’t understand, I’ll stick with his sage advice.
What platform or platforms resonate with you? Because whichever one it is, as long as you remain aligned to your true self, it’ll be the right one.
In light of what has been happening these past weeks, I felt I needed a short break to help out some of my friends in New York, where the virus was taking on the bizarre proportions of a science fiction film, with bodies stacking up like cord wood, hospitals overrun with patients on ventilators, surgeons using week-old masks and gloves, and nurses donning garbage bags in place of proper PPE.
With a dearth of equipment, and the little that could be scrounged and rounded up for health care personnel and first responders, N-95 masks were all but nonexistent for the rest of the city’s residents. When I saw that friends of mine were venturing out for groceries and other essential trips without any face protection, I hauled out my rusty sewing machine from my closet. And fortunately, due to a “hoarding” gene I inherited from Mom’s side of the family, I located the scrap material I had intended to donate but couldn’t bear to part with in one of the many plastic bins I’d stored in the garage.
I’d forgotten how soothing the ritual of sewing can be. There’s something comforting about the sound your scissors make as they cut through a piece of fabric and the hum of the machine as you join material together. While my sewing skills will never win any prizes, I was able to get the job done. Using up my last bit of elastic and strips of cloth for ties and material scraps for the masks, I made almost fifty.
Rising from my chair, though, after spending four days bent over was another story. Ever read the story, The Hunchback of Notre Dame? You get the picture.
The next day I mailed my packages to various friends, wondering if they’d shake their heads over some of the crazy patterned material I’d used–bright green and orange bird-of-paradise, Pepto-Bismol pink designs that eerily resembled giant-sized coronaviruses, and white dragonflies buzzing on a palette of bright blue. I’d also sewn in tiny pockets on the inside of every mask where I’d inserted a felt circle infused with essential oils. Breathing in the scent of lavender or vanilla is known to provide a sense of calmness and relaxation. Anything to help reduce stress, I figured, was worth trying.
What I didn’t expect was the response I received when I posted the photo (above) of my finished project on Facebook. I felt embarrassed that people thought I had charged for masks and, even worse, that they nonetheless were requesting them. That meant that there were a lot more people out there who desperately needed them.
When I received a private message from a woman who worked at a nursing home in SC where they had no protective equipment for some of the staff, I knew where the remaining masks I’d made had to go. I thought about my mom, who’d spent the last four years of her life in a skilled nursing facility near my upstate home in NY (which, by the way, had its first coronavirus case) and all the staff who cared for her, and experienced a profound sense of appreciation and gratitude toward this woman and the personal risk she and her fellow staff members were taking by caring for our nation’s most vulnerable.
Cutting through politics and finger pointing, isolation and sickness, and sorrow and grief, I find that people remain full of grace and gratitude, which leads me to believe that through all of our challenges, we will continue to press on and get through this.
I live in Florida. Need I say more? While New York City hospitals were being inundated with hundreds of patients a day, Spring Break and Biker Week were in full swing, with college kids and motorcyclists crowding the beaches and bars on both coasts. That’s about as political as I’m going to get because this is not a blog about politics but about writing. You can catch up on the pandemic on whatever news channel fits your partisan leaning. I learned the hard way about showing my hand from a single Facebook post I wrote expressing my concern over a particular incident. I didn’t slam the other side or insist my view was the “truth,” but, none-the-less, received death threats couched in colloquially colorful language, describing the exact method of torture befitting a “biyatch” like me.
I’ve been described as a scrappy kind of gal, but I have to admit this degree of hostility unnerved me. Fortunately, my social savvy teenager showed me how to block the trolls from my page. Now, I only post videos of cute kittens and talking dogs.
I thought about all this as I lay flat on my back in bed worrying whether I was suffering from the flu or Covid-19. Writing a proposal was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to stop coughing.
I glanced at the pile of comp books on my night stand. Grabbing the one on top, I skimmed its book jacket for a description. Jeez, some nice, light bedside reading, I thought. Here was a story about a girl forced to spend her adolescence covering-up her mother’s extramarital affair. I grabbed the rest of the books, dumped them next to me on the bed, and read their book jackets. Another story of a girl who spends her childhood grappling with a bipolar mother. Another one, who escapes a life with her homeless parents. Two more stories about young women who engage in solo adventures, one along the Pacific Crest Trail, the other sailing up the Atlantic coast. And finally, two dysfunctional families, one which buys a run-down zoo and one which buys a dream in the jungle.
The degree to which the protagonists will rise above and learn from their mistakes, I will discover, will vary. But as I read and judge the characters’ motivations and behaviors, I wonder how different or similar they are to the individuals in my story and what makes my otherwise tragic tale different from all of the above? I make the wry observation to my husband over morning coffee that while characters who possess a little bit of knowledge can be dangerous, ones with a whole lot of ignorance can make you laugh. We certainly had plenty of that.
Yeah, that’s me smiling. Happy that I wrote my book. Happy that I signed with a great agent. But completely oblivious to the work ahead. “I’m gonna sell your book on your proposal.” MY WHAT? I thought that was what you wrote BEFORE you wrote your book! Well, that’s true. I happened to do it backwards. So, in case you are thinking of sitting down and finally writing the story of your life, save yourself a lot of grief by writing a proposal first. All memoirs fall into the non-fiction category and all non-fiction is sold using a proposal. (This, btw, pertains to first-time authors and not seasoned ones who’ve proven the salability of their craft). By doing this, you will find out whether there is any interest in what you plan to write about before giving up a few years of your life staring at a computer screen, pecking at the keyboard with your permanently curled carpal-tunnel fingers.
I liken a proposal to a long, extended pitch, where you try as hard as you can to persuade publishers your book is so fabulous, unique, and on trend that they willingly hand over as much moolah as possible–in some cases engaging in frenzied bidding wars–in exchange for exclusive rights to your book. Sounds doable? Here’s the rub. They keep a death grip on their cash until they’re absolutely convinced that what you’ve written will not only give them their initial investment back but plenty more. They are in the money-making business. It’s your job to convey and convince them that your book is publish-worthy and that’s by writing the perfect proposal–distilling the gist of your story in a few paragraphs, who will buy it, how you’ll market it, comparing and contrasting similar books that have been critically and financially successful, the size and reach of your social media, why you want to write this particular story (or in my case, why I wrote this story) and your qualifications. And finally, a detailed outline of each proposed chapter. In other words, as involved as a grad paper but way more compelling. In show biz terms, your opening line better have pizzazz.
“Here’s a list of books I’m suggesting you read for your comps,” my agent said. “Got a pen and paper, ’cause I need you to write down exactly how I want you to write the proposal.” Comps, if you’re not familiar with the vernacular, are books published within the past three to five years that have sold well (made money for the publishers), fall within your genre, and offer a similar theme or story line. Not too similar, mind you, because then who’d want to buy or read the same book? But it has to be similar enough for the money-people in publishing to say, “Yeah, that will sell, cause it’s just like such and such that sold a million copies, except that now the story takes place on a submarine, or a ranch, or an iceberg.” You get the point. The same but not the same.
As soon as I hung up with my agent, I ordered my list of books from Amazon Prime and even found a few more that I thought I might be able to use. He also recommended I purchase Michael Larsen’s classic, How to Write a Book Proposal. I ordered both 4th and 5th editions. The next afternoon my books arrived. The day after, Covid-19 dominated the news. The day after that, I caught what I hoped was just a nasty bug from my teenaged daughter. Whatever it was, I was down for the count.
View from writers workshop in St. Augustine, Florida
While the view outside was serene, the ten writers, including myself, were getting a good thrashing inside by our mentor, who, after listening intently to our unrehearsed pitches, proceeded to eviscerate our work. “That’s already been done. Change the ending. You need a dead body on the first page. Decide your genre. Where’s your voice?” Initially relieved that the woman on the opposite side of the room had volunteered to be the first casualty, thus leaving me at number nine, I quickly realized after listening to each writer’s pitch, that what I’d imagined as my story’s pitch was not a pitch at all. As the writers took their turns, I scribbled in my notebook, hoping by the time I was called upon, I’d come up with something. Anything.
My turn. Deep breath. “I am pitching my memoir titled….”
“Too long. Story begins in the middle. Get rid of the rest. Cut the ending.” BUT, BUT, BUT . . . I could feel myself doing exactly what I’d promised I wouldn’t. I was resisting, pushing back, and feeling defensive. I felt ten years old again and wishing I could lob a spitball at the hateful teacher.
Relax. You didn’t put all that money on your credit card not to listen, I told myself. Take it in. If you feel she’s full of shit after this is all over, then fine. But for the next four days, just listen and learn. At the end of the day, I learned I was not alone as I see-sawed between revenge and despair. Without exception, everyone was dismayed over their individual critiques. I didn’t know about anyone else, but I was ordering a big, fat martini before dinner.
Three days fly by. Bonding. Laughing. Working hard. Perfecting the original three-page pitch down to fifty words. The moment is here. We have exactly ten minutes on the phone to pitch to a big-time editor of a big-time New York publishing house. Our mentor gives us our final instructions. “Say your pitch, shut up, and let her speak.” I mouth it as I wait in line, adopting it as my new mantra, sayyourpitch,shutyourmouth, sayyourpitch,shutyourmouth, sayyourpitch,shutyourmouth.
Only the editor doesn’t follow the rules. She asks me question after question. I answer again and again. I need to shut up but I can’t. Ten minutes is over. The door bursts open and my mentor barks, “Times up!” I have to cut this big-time editor off mid-sentence. I stumble from the room, shell shocked. It did not go well.
I have to pull myself together because I have to pitch again. This time, it’s a big-time literary agent who’s flown in from New York for the day. He’s sitting outside on the deck, interviewing one of the writers. Two people are waiting in front of me. That gives me thirty minutes to figure out what went wrong with my first interview and not repeat it with this guy.
I pace around the living room, look out the window, and finally take a walk out on the boardwalk to the ocean. I stare at the waves. Fuck it. I can’t figure out what to do. I’m too old to try and second guess people. I’ll just be who I am. It can’t be any worse than what just happened on the phone call with the editor. At least I’ll be able to look him in the eye.
I introduce myself and shake his hand (this is pre Covid-19). He’s open and friendly. I pitch my story. He nods his head and smiles. We talk about New York, where I lived for most of my life before I exchanged it for a life of sand and sun. He asks, “I’m curious, how old are you?” In the past, I would have bristled over such a question, but now, writing this story has freed me. I have nothing to hide. I’ve written a memoir that is set in the sixties. Do the math, I tell him. He responds with another question. “What took you so long?’ Have you got a year, I answer. After a few minutes, he offers me representation. I accept. His specialty is book-to-film adaptation. A perfect fit for my story.