What About Self Publishing?

by Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

On one of my loops there has been for some time a very spirited discussion about self-publishing – some correspondents are very outspoken that it should just ‘go away and let real publishing take over again.’ Some admit to being confused or uninformed. Some – including me – are quite vocal that self pubbing is not only here to stay, but that it should be. Because I feel so strongly about this, I have taken my response to this somewhat contentious thread and put it here.

For all those who think that ‘self publishing should just go away and let real publishing take over again’ I ask... Why? Self publishing IS real publishing, with the added benefits of freedom and due rewards for the writer. It gets the story from the writer's mind into the reader's hand, and that's the rock-bottom basis of publishing. For centuries writers have been treated as at best the red-headed-stepchildren of the publishing industry, at worst nothing more than a necessary evil. While there are the mega-bestsellers who receive fantastic amounts, the majority of writers are paid least and last, which is egregiously illogical as without them the publishing industry would not exist. Trad publishers are notorious for keeping authors in the dark about sales figures and give them little or no input into covers, marketing (when any marketing is done at all) and basically tell writers "Give us the books we will accept, allow us to shape them, take what we give you without any questions and go away."

Self publishing has changed all that. The author is now in charge and is finally getting paid in proportion to their contribution. It's more work for them, but the rewards are worth it. Is there dreck in self-publishing? Of course. Freedom is always messy, but that's no reason to condemn a new process when there are so many benefits. Self-publishing is the essence of freedom - let the market, ie the reader, decide what they want.

If self pubbing were not good for the writer, why would so many trad pubbed writers be switching? They want commensurate rewards for their work. They want control. They want to know what is happening and be able to try new things. In return, every real writer I know puts more care into their self pubbed books than most traditional publishers. Check a trad pubbed book (especially one of the Big 5) against a professional writer's self pubbed one. I’ll bet you there are more mistakes - typo, formatting, etc. - in the trad pubbed. The professional self pubbing writers I know hire editors, formatters and artists, many of whom have quit the big houses and gone into freelancing. They too want to make more money. And what is wrong with that?

Should everyone self publish? Obviously not. But - ! Every writer should have the freedom to choose whether they want to self publish or not.

Self pubbing is also good for the reader. Self pubbing gives readers the freedom to choose what kind of books they want. Niche publishing flourishes with self pubbing. Specialized stories or cross-genre books, each pulling too small an audience to interest the big boys are now available. Readers can now choose the specific type of stories they want to read and not be forced to choose from just what is profitable for the trad publishers or acceptable to their gatekeepers. The reader is now in control, just as is the writer.

It's too late to put things back the way they were, even if the trad houses were suddenly to wise up and do everything right. The genie is out of the bottle. If Amazon - the 600 lb gorilla of self-publishing - were to decide to stop putting out books for self pubbed authors or to change their payment schedules some other profit-minded entrepreneur would step in.

And what about the dreck, the garbage books? There have always been garbage books, even under the big trad pubbing umbrella. Yes, there are more now, but that will pass. Millions of people have always thought they could write a book better than the one they're reading, and a very few of them were right. Many try and most never even finish their manuscript. Of those who do many go right on to publication, ready or not. In the old days pre-self pubbing, these tyros were mainly caught by the gatekeepers. They either quit writing or learned to write well - and to conform to the Procrustean bed of the trad pubbers. Now they can string together as many words as they like, call it a book, put it out and then be shocked when it doesn't bring them instant success and fortune. Then they either quit writing or buckle down and learn to write.

Is the system perfect? No, of course not. No system ever is, but with the option of self pubbing, the new gatekeepers are the writers and the readers themselves. And that's the way it should be.

Trapped

                                                TRAPPED

I always wondered how I would deal with being trapped in a small space or held prisoner. The part that worried me the most, strange as it might seem, was what I do to pass the time--with nothing to look at, nothing to read. 

If you’re stuck somewhere but can control your environment you’ve brought a book. If you’ve got your phone you can check out Facebook and read your emails.  If all else fails, you can find some paper in your purse and write a paragraph for the book you’re working on or even compose the first scene of a new one.  If nothing else, there’s always a grocery or errand list that can be composed.  But what if you couldn’t do any of those things?  What if you were trapped with no outside stimulation? And you’re not allowed to move?

A number of years ago I had an MRI.  It was long enough ago that it was in an enclosed tube with a small opening where you slid in.  That MRI gave me the opportunity to learn how I would handle such a situation, deprived of all outside stimulation and unable (or in this case, not allowed) to move.   I never thought of myself as claustrophobic, but as those of you who’ve had MRIs know—at least if it was twenty-five years ago—it’s cramped and scary inside that tube. On the bright side, it was an opportunity to see how I would deal with being forced to remain motionless, sightless and alone with my thoughts for what seemed like an endless stretch of time.

I’d read stories about prisoners who recited poetry.  Unfortunately, I only know a few poems by heart, all learned in grammar school, so as I lay there, in an increasing state of panic, I nixed that idea.  Reciting Joyce Kilmer’s “Tree” wouldn’t work. 

Instead, I tried doing something that I was confident about: directions. I pictured myself driving to my aunt’s house in New Rochelle, New York from my house in Maplewood, New Jersey and imagined the roads I would have to take. I would go from the Parkway, to the George Washington Bridge and so on.  But I was still anxious. Recalling directions was not going to be a good enough distraction.

That’s when I came up with recipes. I’m a cook.  Maybe not a great cook, certainly not a chef, but I know how to cook and enjoy it and like most mothers and wives, I’ve cooked many meals and know the recipes for my favorites. Beginning with pasta with broccoli, my family’s favorite, moving on to chicken piccata and risotto, I went through my regular inventory, picturing myself mastering each meal.  And the recipes almost saved me.  But not quite.  One of the technicians called out my name, asking me how I was doing, and I was back in the reality of the dark tunnel. 

My recollection, it was about 25 years ago, is that I then proceeded to think about song lyrics and got through a few Broadway tunes before my name was called again, only this time, happily I was finished and on my way out of the tube.

But back to that question, what would I do if?  I write romances, books with happy endings, but even in romances, it’s not a good story if there isn’t something for the protagonist and the reader to worry about.  Better yet, a challenge for our heroine to face, to defeat.   Which brings up that the question, what would my heroine do if I put her into a situation where she’s trapped and unable to escape?  Would she get hysterical and fall apart?  Or is she brave and resourceful intent on saving her dwindling resources for the next challenge?

Deborah Nolan is the author of SUDDENY LILY and CONFLICT OF INTEREST published by Montlake and SECOND ACT FOR CARRIE ARMSTRONG published by Desert Breeze Publishing. 

How I Spent My Spring Vacation

I’m sitting in my new black-and-white bathing suit beside the pool at The Intercontinental, San Juan, with five other similarly attired women. We are talking about books. It isn’t just the palm trees, sunshine, the warmth of the Caribbean sun (particularly after this winter), or the ocean breezes making this lush setting a paradise; it is the company and conversation. I feel alive, maybe even a bit smarter than I’ve felt in a long time. My daily reality and shortcomings have been suspended and I am one of the six accomplished people on this reunion.

Every year at this time I fly to Puerto Rico to spend time at a beach resort with my former college roommates. For at least a few hours before the wine starts pouring freely, I feel somehow a bit sharper than usual. We each grab our current reading material, both in hard cover and e-book formats, and gather around the pool, some in the sun and some under an umbrella and tree. We talk, read, snack, and take dunks in the pool when we get too warm.

The books we are reading are a big part of the conversation, along with what movies and shows we’ve seen, what our kids are doing, and some memories of the past.  Even when the subject of the books changes, someone will always bring it back up, whether because she has also read that book or has just seen someone else walk by carrying a book with a familiar title. The hot books of the year are in everyone’s hands and it’s sometimes funny to see someone reading WILD, when that was so two years ago. I was more current, since I had just finished ALL THE LIGHT YOU CANNOT SEE, and was starting THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN. I wanted to know what everyone else was reading as they lay on the chaises on the blue-and-white striped towels handed out along with a color-coded arm band to provide proof that we are paying guests.

I also wanted recommendations as to what book I should read next. One person was reading REDEPLOYMENT and suggested THE MUSEUM OF EXTRAORDINARY THINGS.  Another mentioned AMHERST as well as BLOOD FEUD.  Several highly recommended THE INTERESTINGS, especially since it struck a chord with some of the women. I also heard good things about KILL CHAIN, LOVING FRANK, HUSH, and THE THING AROUND YOUR NECK. I have a lot of reading ahead of me.

A few of the people who attended the reunion have been doing so for as long as fifteen years, some more sporadically. Depending on who attends, the sleeping arrangements can get interesting. One year I met a woman just as I was assigned to share a king-sized bed with her. Luckily, it all worked out, and we didn’t even wake each other up on our numerous nocturnal trips to the bathroom.

While there are several things to do in the surrounding area, we rarely do any of them, basically because we’ve been there, done that. The goals of the weekend might be different for each of us, some love the sun bathing, some the relaxing getaway from everyday life and the time to snooze and read, but talking to old friends is the part of the weekend that makes the memories. We make some new friends, too, as friends of friends are invited, and I discovered some people sitting near us who know one of my oldest friends from high school. We first met the woman last year because she was attracted by our poolside canasta playing and mah jongg games.

For a few moments every year a few of us head to the beach, often to take long walks, although not this year, as I had sprained my ankle on some ice a few weeks earlier. But the waves are wonderful to play in, even when they knock me down and my roommate from forty-five years ago has to pull me up. The bonus was that the jewelry lady who stands near the entryway had something I wanted on her table. The trinkets she sells are inexpensive but some look surprisingly good. I bought a nice necklace for only twenty dollars. I consider it a bargain, but for some reason my husband thinks it cost a lot more, because he adds in the cost of the trip.

This year we were only six people so it was much easier than in the past for us to squeeze into a taxi when we needed to go to a terrific tapas restaurant across from a lively casino where some of us even made a little money.

In recent years the trip has become a memorial to a woman who came every year. She and I went all through school together from elementary school through college. Oddly, her birthday and the anniversary of the day she died are both during the yearly trip to Puerto Rico weekend, and we always remember her and miss her.

I’m only home a day and glad to get back to my normal, if somewhat mundane, life. But our trip organizer is already encouraging us to make reservations for next year. I probably should—I know I can’t wait to go.

Spring Cleaning

There is more to the season than cleaning cobwebs from corners, although that is an excellent metaphor for what many of us are doing with regard to our personal and professional time at this time of year.

When my family lived in Maine, Spring weather arrived several weeks later than the rest of the country. As evidenced by this year’s snow fall on the ‘technical’ first day of Spring, the state of Maine, most northerly of the lower 48, has a long winter. Once in a while, that long winter can be from first snow in October to first thaw in April.

My home town under snow, a typical Maine winter.

In one such year, the house was closed up with snow covering the ground floor windows. The front path was dug out to the road and the snow piled six feet high on both sides. My elder brother used the surplus to build an igloo over the slope leading down to the sidewalk. He dug openings at the top and at the bottom where it opened to the road.

At that time of year, there was no real danger of any child ending up under the wheels of a passing car on Lincoln Street, but the thrill of shooting through the igloo and onto the icy road kept us outdoors and sledding for weeks. Since I was never keen on snow, this was a boon to my mother who preferred all  play to be restricted to the outside, no matter what the weather.

This particular winter, the back parlor had been used earlier for our Christmas celebrations. The wood-burning kitchen stove was used to heat the upstairs bedrooms through ducts into open grills in the floor.  Ducts were closed to the back parlor to keep other rooms warmer.

Spring cleaning meant that all the windows in the house could be opened as soon as the patches of grass were at least eight inches wide and more numerous than the piles of snow. Several doors to rooms on the ground floor had not been open since the first signs of winter and others had been closed since Christmas.

My mother began her cleaning and airing out from the attic. The kitchen was the center of family life and had already been cleaned but it was mid-April before she reached the back parlor. Our Christmas tree stood in the corner, all ornaments and lights intact, four months to the day after it had been decorated. Under the tree, instead of presents, was a thick pile of reddish brown needles.


My mother had better things to do with her time than cleaning house. 

Never too Late by Fran McNabb

 

            Springtime is a time of renewal and change. If you’ve been thinking about doing something

different, maybe this is the time to start.

            Maybe your job is at a dead end. Maybe you’d like to play a musical instrument or take art lessons. Maybe you have an idea for a book or a song. Whatever it is that you’d like to do, sometimes taking the first step is the hardest especially when you are aware that time is not on your side.

            But don’t give up hope. I am living proof that it’s never too late to take on a dream or even to reinvent your dreams!

            Right now I call myself an author, but that’s not how it always was. I wrote for years before I saw the fruits of my works published. I started writing in the 1980’s, got a few rejections, thought I was being silly to think I could get published, and put the dream of publication back in the far corner of my life—but I never stopped writing. If you’re a writer, you write. It’s that simple. I wrote, played around with stories, and one day I realized I had quite a few manuscripts in different stages of completion. One day, I told myself, I’ll do something with all of them.

           That day came earlier than I anticipated. Before I was ready, I had to take a medical retirement from teaching. Boredom immediately set in. One day I pulled out those boxes of old manuscripts (I didn’t own a computer then) and the writing bug bit me once again. I joined an RWA chapter, attended as many conferences and workshops as possible, and I eventually had my dream come true.  It was one day before my 58^th birthday that I received The Call.

Fifty-eight years old might seem ancient to those who are younger, but I think age depends on attitude. If you’re young enough to dream a dream, then you’re young enough to try to discover it. If you’re willing to do the work learning how something is done, then the world is open to you.

            I will have my seventh book published at the end of next month, and when it comes out I will smile and pat myself on the back because I didn’t lie down and quit when I had to find a new life. I’m enjoying my time in the publishing world, just as you can enjoy your time doing whatever it is you might want to do.

Even if you're not a "spring chicken," your dream can still come true because it's never too late to start fresh.

Fran McNabb taught high school English until she had to take an early medical retirement. Now she spends her time writing, reading, and enjoying the time she and her husband spend on the water. Her seventh book, SAVING THE CHILDREN, will be released on April 29. Visit her at  mcnabbf@bellsouth.net  or at www.FranMcNabb.com.

Beginning the adventure

Today marks the wedding anniversary for one of my best friends. Not coincidentally, it also marks the beginning of my adventures in romance.

Sue was married on a Thursday, not a convenient day for my parents (who both taught school) or for me (still in school). We had to take half a day off to drive the four hours to where she lived (where we used to live) and where she was being married. As soon as the festivities were at an end, we drove the four hours home to attend classes the next day. Suffice to say, my parents were not pleased.

The fun came when, just before we were to leave, two of the groom's men (each individually) invited me to stay and go with them to a post-celebration celebration. I woulda if I coulda, but the horses under the hood were already champing. I offered my apologies and left, showing up bleary-eyed at classes the next day.

Because Sue lived within blocks of both my grandmothers, we visited near her often. Whenever I planned to be there, I alerted her and she alerted the two young men (again, each individually.) For a time I dated both, though only a few times a year. I liked them both, but one ... oh my.

This isn't the place to detail how the relationship developed or how I lost him to another woman. I will only say that whenever I hear the old Association song, "Along Comes Mary," my associations are different from theirs. The point is, I fell in love. It was young and it was exciting and beautiful and intense--and real. Despite the fact I was little more than a kid, I've now been married long enough to know that I know what love is. I knew it then, too.

The newest man in my life is handsome Oliver Wright, born Thursday morning. He's a romantic hero in the making, and I confess I am smitten.

Winning at love is electrifying, ecstatic, elevating. Losing is the pits. Learning from both is what eventually led me to my lovely, lasting marriage and a beautiful family of my own. Although Sue's husband was military and mine a journalist, causing us both to live in varied places around the world, she and I are still friends, our homes hundreds of miles from where we grew up together and only eight miles apart.

Every March twenty-first, I think of her wedding and all that came after. The beginning of her marriage marked the start of my romantic life and taught me valuable lessons in what it means to love.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 13 published novels and has part in three boxed sets, all 16 titles available now. Mother to seven, she is "gramma" to 24. She lives in northern California with her husband of 44 years and the two spoiled cats they serve and she loves hearing from readers @SusanAylworth, at  www.susanaylworth.com, or susan.aylworth.author@gmail.com. You can also follow her on Pinterest and Instagram.