Sometimes things go Sideways

If you’ve been to my buy pages recently, you’ll probably notice that they don’t work. My three novels have been taken down by my publisher, Curiosity Quills. The publisher is in the process of reorganizing their business, and we are currently in the process of rights reversion.

So what does this mean for me and my books?

Right now this means you can’t buy my books. (Sorry!) It means I am taking a crash course in self publishing because I have an irrational need to finish things. Acne has a sequel. It has two, possible three, and I want to make sure the whole story gets told. This means drafting, editing, formatting, cover art and marketing plan. This is not minor. On the plus side, the first sequel has already been written, but there’s a lot of production even when a book is 100% ready to go, and it isn’t there yet.

But Rena, you say, What about Acne, Asthma, And Other Signs You Might Be Half Dragon? I haven’t bought my copy of that book yet! And I want it!

Yeah, for the books that were already finished, there’s a different problem. There are some paperback copies going out into the world still, but that’s a limited supply. There are no e copies. There were never audio copies.

As of right now, it’s going to be a while before ebooks are available again, and they will be. My plan is to re-release Acne and Prom as soon as I solve the problem of formatting, cover art, and final typo fixes (an issue we had with the previous books).

So I have a lot of work on my plate, and much sooner than I’d planned!

On the plus side, this gives me the opportunity to have more control of the direction these books take. I have loved being a Literary Marauder, but now I get to shred the skies with my own flag—just as soon as I figure out how to rig this spinnaker so it doesn’t flip my ship.

The least life could do is Wave as it passes: an IWSG

Yeah, publishing takes forever. For those of you who are very patient, this might work well for you. For those of you who are not patient (like me), publishing in all its forms will drive a writer to fits of the crazies. Publishers can go months at a time without any word. Agents? Just as long. I’ve had a project that sat in someone’s in box for nine months before being read and have a revise and resubmit requested.

Then the project sat for another six months. UGH!

And during that time, we writers are constantly aware of the fact that the market is shifting. The readers are leaving (or if you write YA, Growing UP!) And pretty much each tick of the clock might as well be the death knell of your writing career. Projects that were awesome a year ago, two years ago, four years ago—well, they aren’t awesome anymore.

I’ve watched this. The only condolence I can give is that while we’re watching the clock tick by, some things will cycle back around. People couldn’t give away paranormal romance a few years ago, and now I’m starting to see those move (slowly, but WAY more than the nothing from two years ago).

So that’s the first advice—it all comes in cycles.

Dystopians were huge. Now they’re dead. Everyone expected Sci Fi to take off, it’s still very hit or miss. And largely, YA fiction has this feeling that if it could just find the thing that got people excited again… Alas. No new Harry Potters (did you read Cursed Child too?). No new Katniss Everdeen. And it’s not like there aren’t Amazing books out there, it’s just that they aren’t getting traction.

And then there’s the feeling that no matter what the category or genre, I’m missing the boat. It’s a really hard feeling to shake. I’ve been sitting on a novel that needed a few edits before it would be ready for submission for months. I needed to write a different book first because the two tie in, but months. I’ve been waiting for months, and it’s still not ready. Even if it was ready tomorrow, I’d have to wait more months before I got any sort of word. RRRRRRGH! So yeah, sometimes, when I’m in the middle of the publishing cycle, I get caught up in how slow I’m going and how fast the rest of the world is going. I’ve got no good answers, but I can say this: never turn in shoddy work.

Ever.

Ask for more deadline time. Figure something out—bribe people. Nothing but your best will suffice later when you look back at your works. Nothing.

Now, off to go turn in a lousy start to NaNoWriMo (I think I participate so I can watch myself fall behind).

Don't forget to visit ninja captain Alex, hop on the linky, and say hi to the cohosts: Joylene Novell Butler, Jen Chandler, Mary Aalgaard, Lisa Buie Collard, Tamara Narayan, Tyrean Martinson, and Christine Rains!

I’m so happy for you! Don’t mind the green, it’s a seaweed wrap

Sometimes, in my youth, I imagined that one day, all of my dreams would come true, and I would get a sort of ticker tape parade where everyone honored me and my accomplishments. As I got older, the confetti parade morphed into the book deal and the signing with an agent and all the trappings of success in publishing. Obviously, this is all some sort of dream. It’s not like confetti launches when you sign a contract (how cool would that be?).

To make things somewhat worse, right after signing, not only is there no confetti parade, there are no great lights blinking over your head to let everyone around you suddenly know that you’re a signed writer and your really, real book will be out in the world (soon—okay, soon by some very lengthy scales). There’s nothing to see, and for many writers, there won’t be a thing to even hold in your hand for a year, so it doesn’t feel real.

And then, to make it worse, all around people are having what looks like the Confetti parade. They have the Signed With AWESOME AGENT posts; the I SIGNED A 6Figure Contract; The MY BOOK LANDED ON THE NYT Bestseller list. Oh, it’s exhausting sometimes to hold your little candle of success up in the world so noisy and filled with blowtorches of success—and wishing your little candle was more like a Hollywood special effect. But it isn’t (well, not yet you tell yourself, but there’s this feeling that it might never come true). And then after being inundated by all this noise, all this bluster threatening to blow out your little candle of success, there comes One More Person with GREAT News.

Oh, dear folks, I will tell you jealousy is an emotion you are not supposed to have. It’s not supposed to exist. I’m supposed to be a gracious and magnanimous person. And I am—most of the time. Right after I signed, I suffered from this emotion I’m not supposed to feel. I’d been taught that jealousy is bad. I’m supposed to ignore it. I’m supposed to be able to “just get over it.” So there it is, jealousy in all its hideous—shameful—presence. And the book that lands on the bestseller list is a fan fic of a fan fic, widely panned by critics as the worst stinking pile of poo ever, and it’s selling 100,000 copies a day.

UGH.

And I’m jealous of that pile of poo, an unenviable position to begin with, but the very act of being jealous is also shameful. AAAAGH!!!

There is only one response: grin and bear it. If I can’t manage that, then I’ve got to find a way to at least make sure that there is no evidence I ever suffered from that shameful emotion. So it’s time to crawl into a hole, or become a smiling automaton.

This is what society has dictated, and, if you’ve been watching social media, any other responses are absolutely skewered in the public view. So writers with contracts drop out of the race. They hide. They take the shameful emotion and hide the fact that they ever had it. Because we aren’t supposed to be jealous—we’re supposed to be happy.

I know, it’s not very original, but it’s the truth, sometimes, the emotions are hard to deal with. And if you're wondering, this might be among the reasons a writer drops off the radar.

Congratulations! You’ve signed a contract! Welcome to Imposterville, Population 1

Pretty much the first set of feelings I had as a “really, real” writer was imposter syndrome. I felt like a fake. Worse I felt like the acquisitions editor was “just being nice.”

This is laughable.

It’s not that acquisitions editors sit around drinking scotch and smoking cigars—I mean, that’s a lovely pastime, but sometimes there’s real work to be done—but they certainly aren’t the evil overlords looking to destroy the world and crush the hopes and dreams of writers. Well, not today at least. So yeah, the idea that the person trying to acquire my book was just being nice rather than being a professional trying to convince me to sign a contract is, in retrospect, kind of naïve.

But there it is, I felt like I’d somehow bamboozled my way through the gate. Largely, this was because I didn’t know what to expect or that there were even people in the world who might like my book. I had over 200 letters telling me that my books weren’t what people were looking for, that in this crowded market, they weren’t likely to stand out, and that the premise seemed engaging but the actual book was in the unenviable position of not having been fallen in love with (It’s okay, poor book, there’s a special lobster for your too).

So I thought I was a fake. And if I’m a fake, so is the contract.

That’s right, I deluded myself into believing that the whole book getting published thing wouldn’t happen, and that all of this was just a big joke. Lucky for all parties involved, I decided that I wouldn’t be the first to break and call it a joke, and that I would follow all of my contractual obligations leading up to the release of my book. In my head, it became some sort of complicated game of chicken.

You might ask why it was that I was so convinced of this was fake. There are some precedents in my life where I’d been led along like something was real and had the rug ripped out from under me, but for the most part, those were little events—right up until it was a thing I’d been working on for a decade. When that fell through, I sort of lost faith in the Universe. (Sorry Universe, it’s me not you? No wait, that time it was you.)

But I had to look at myself and accept a few things: I had some signs of classic depression, and more than a little bit of clinical anxiety. Depression and anxiety were the ones telling me that my writing had sucked and that my work wasn’t worth anyone’s time and effort. All those rejection letters had just given my anxiety the words it needed to really hunker down and make some logical sense. My anxiety and depression had convinced me that other people, the ones saying nice things about my book—the ones offering me contracts for my book!—were lying about liking it.

Clearly, they weren’t. The book got published—much to my surprise—and now there are a bunch of copies out in the world. And it’s sort of amazing and wonderful, and more than anything, I’m glad I decided to follow along and jump through the hoops to get my book published, because, I like my book. I never expected to be in a place to admit that I love my own books, but I do, and that one in particular.

So pretty much this goes down as a learn from my fail. I wasted a ton of head space and time thinking they were going to pull the plug. And pulling the plug does happen in Publishing, NONE of the signs were there. Literally none.

I’ve talked to a ton of writers and this isn’t an isolated incident. Mine might have been stronger than many, (mine might have been actually a weak case all things considered, I just like to build mountains out of mole hills) but it’s not an isolated feeling. Imposter syndrome is real, and it will warp your mind.

Insecure Writer's Support Group, An Open Ear

How? HOW is it already March? One way or another, that means it's time for an installment of Insecure Writer's Support Group. It's led by The Ninja Captain Alex, and his host of co-hosts: Lauren Hennessy, Lisa Buie-Collard, Lidy, Christine Rains, and Mary Aalgaard!

Yes, I am insecure, but I'm going to do something wild: I'm going to take a deep breath and move on. I'm in a place right this second where I can do that. I don't expect this place to last for too long, so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.

Writing is hard. It's hard on the soul. It's hard on the family, and it's hard on the personal life. Publishing is like being on a roller coaster, except you're the car and there are no tracks, but you're desperately trying to get all the passengers back to the station safe and sound while dropping them from twenty stories, and doing loopty-loops.

So, instead of venting my frustrations with writing and the world in general, I'm going to take a pass. But my passing today doesn't mean others don't need something, and right now, I don't need to vent. Maybe you do. Today, I'm offering a spot, a limited time spot, to vent your insecurities and frustrations. I know we are all encouraged to be happy go lucky when it comes to queries, submissions and publishing, but sometimes it isn't all roses. If you want to share your woes and have them acknowledged, today is the day. Leave your comments, and I'll respond to everything, because sometimes it's nice to know that someone out in the world heard you. I hear you.

Good luck out there, and keep on keeping on, whether that's writing, publishing, life, or other forms of chasing dreams. 

On the road again: Part IV of the road to publishing

This is part IV of All Roads Lead to Publishing (maybe). Part I, Part II, and Part III

There I was, part of the blog hop that felt like winning the lottery just to get on the ticket. Everyone was twitterpated about the contest, and by that I mean all the judges were on twitter. I joined twitter on the spot, following their every tweet, but that wasn’t enough to quell my obsession of Who Was Going To Be Picked. I read through every tweet hint, then I read through them all again. Then I read every entry on the whole list, all 200 of them.

When people tell me they have a hard time with writing queries, I tell them to go read as many query contest entries as possible. It definitely helps you get a feel for query writing. The good ones are clear and have a sort of pep to them. The bad ones are awkward and hard to read. I only mention this as part of my road to publishing because this moment, more than any other, was a major marker in my writing. I learned so much just by reading through all the other queries.

But, as had always happened to me, up until that point, other people were getting picked. I quietly sat on the sidelines encouraging my friends, but it was looking pretty grim. I made peace with not getting picked: I had already won because I'd learned so much, and I knew there was a ton of work left on my novel.

Then the unthinkable happened: my story was picked as an alternate by Monica!

I jumped and did the happy dance and laughed because someone else finally said they had seen something in my writing, something that was worthwhile. It was amazing to hear that from someone who wasn't my mother. As part of the contest, she edited my first page and it was a miracle. It was amazing. I'd already learned so much from that contest, and now I had personalized feedback on my writing. Hint: good editing makes you sound more like you. Bad editing makes you sound more like your editor. In the case of Monica, she was a great editor. Her suggestions helped me get the writing out of the way of the story, a gift of craft I have carried through every novel since.

Things went live, and... crickets. I did get a lonely partial request, but nothing like the other amazing writers who were making everything look flawless and amazing. (bonus hint: Don’t compare your journey to anyone else’s; your journey is as unique as you are so don’t get caught up in the “I GOT AN AGENT IN TWO DAYS” hype).

So I started querying the old fashioned way. I got requests here and there, more than previously, but they all ended in no. Sorry, but no. Your writing is great, but it’s me. The story isn’t quite what’s selling now, or my personal favorite “Your pages made me laugh a couple times, but ultimately the story didn’t grab me.” I took all of those rejections and I gave them a home in my heart next to where this novel lived, and―sad to be sure―I moved on to the next story, because I’m a writer and that’s what you do. It’s not about one book. It’s about all the books. It’s the next book. It’s the book after that, and if this wasn’t going to be The One, then I was going to put my best foot forward with my next book.

That’s right, I gave up on this novel not once but twice. On the other hand, I still had a lot to learn. And I’ll be talking about that next time.

Aren't you a little old for insecurities?

It's time for another installment of Insecure Writer's Support Group. If you're so inclined visit the linky page here, and say hi to Ninja Captain Alex (tell him The Doctor sent you). This month's co-hosts are L.G. Keltner, Denise Covey, Sheri Larsen, J.Q. Rose, Chemist Ken, and Michelle Wallace!

I’d like to think that at some point along the journey of my life, I would have outgrown insecurities. It’s not that I ever made it my goal, but when I was a kid, all the adults seemed to have it together. None of them seemed like the world was eating them from the inside out with everything from “will they like my book” to “Oh, god, I hope no one figures out I’m a complete fraud.”

Because of that, I sort of assumed there must be something wrong with me since I continued to feel the insecurities. I thought they were something we would outgrow with age. I’d hoped that at some point I’d “get there,” and I wouldn’t still wonder how long it would take before people realized I was just a sheep in wolf’s clothing. I remember buying my first house and wondering when the people were going to show up and say “Nope, sorry ma’am, only grownups get to do that.”

It’s because I’ve never felt the way my mom looked when I was a kid. She was always so confident and in charge of everything.

Turns out it was all a big fake.

My mom confessed to me how worried she was all the time when we were kids. She told me about how she felt judged by people, how she could never seem to get things right, how she decided that having clean butts was better than having clean clothes on more than one occasion. She worried that she’d be fired from her job. She worried that everything she did would turn out for nothing. She worried about the bills.

And all that time, she swung through life like a wrecking ball, obliterating obstacles dumb enough to get in her way. To give you an example: she once chain-sawed a house in half, loaded it onto two flatbeds, drove it forty miles, poured a foundation around it and rented it out for years and years.

Yeah, she poured the foundation when I was still in a playpen. That’s not the kind of woman you expect to be haggard by self doubt. And yet, she was.

So yeah, I’d hoped to outgrow this self doubt, but the real key is to keep going. You’re the only one who sees the insecurities. The people around you see how you sawed that house in half and put it back together. (And to be honest, sometimes, they're worried you might be looking for something else to cut in half and load onto a truck to get it the heck out of your way)