My mother was not a typical 1950s woman...you know what I mean, the Barbara Billingsley (Beaver Cleaver's Mom) type who did God knows what all day long wearing a dress, heels, and pearls. Instead, my Mom spent her afternoons teaching piano lessons in our living room, and her evenings (and later mornings, after my brother and I were in school) teaching literature classes at the local college. She also spent a good portion of my childhood earning two advanced degrees and being more or less the entire secretarial staff for my grandmother's real estate and insurance business. (I should add that my grandmother was also not the typical 1950s woman).
Thus this phrase ("go amuse yourself quietly") was frequently uttered in our home. And if the truth be known, my brother and I were pretty good at it...amusing ourselves quietly, I mean...unless you count the experiments we tried with the chemistry set he got for Christmas one year, or the bike horns my father gave us which sounded more or less like wounded geese as we raced our bikes up and down the street in front of the house.
I don't mean to imply that my childhood was one long series of being chased out of the room so my mother could fulfill her professional goals...in fact, I often wonder how she was able to find the energy to also leave me with memories of vast amounts of quality time we spent as a family.
But I also have to admit that somewhere in the early 1970s, I found myself also directing my own children to "go amuse themselves quietly," all the while having the distinct feeling I had heard this expression somewhere before. Being that it was the more permissive 70s, though, added to this directive was the promise that "if you play by yourself quietly for a little bit, then Mommy will play with you after."
"Quietly," however was the operative term. Between my son's Star Wars battles and the unruly "students" in my daughter's doll-populated "school" (one I was quite convinced could be accredited by the state of Connecticut), this was not really the prevailing atmosphere that followed my decree. But mostly the concept worked fairly well, especially with the added invention of color TV.
Because I had my children young, I spent a good portion of their early years in part time pursuit of my college degree and then continuing on to get my Master's. I also worked evenings as a newspaper reporter, and once the kids were in school, started my teaching career and became involved in local politics. Must be genetic. In my case, however, I was (and still am) far too easily distracted not to have ended up wandering down the hall to play with the so-called quietly amused kids, instead of doing my own work.
So here we are again...being asked by a higher authority to go and amuse ourselves quietly, with the promise that if we'll be able to make all the noise we want later on. As writers, of course, why not just think to ourselves, let's make all the noise we want right now...but in a creative way. Since we can't go to those proverbial "day jobs" everyone says not to quit, or use the first moment of writer's block as an excuse to go to the mall, or pretend that going out to dinner with a bunch of friends could be considered "research," why not settle back on your comfy couch (or wherever you like to write) with your trusty laptop and do exactly that...write.
Then write, and write some more, and write some more...cheerfully jumping back and forth between unrelated documents as if you could care less if they ever see the light of day on some editor's desk, or if your friends ever read what you've created, or if that pompous bookstore owner ever considers your work worth her front window display. Because who cares? You're making yourself happy in the way you always have (by writing) when lots of other people have never actually been able to do that...that is, go and amuse themselves quietly.
Thursday 26 March 2020
Monday 16 March 2020
Fame and Fortune
When we were kids, my best friend, Sue and I were always waiting to be "discovered;" you know, a la Lana Turner at the soda fountain. Never mind that we lived in a tiny suburban town nearly 3000 miles from Hollywood and even if I flashed my most endearing smile, there would be no disguising my pathetically crooked teeth. Somehow we just knew that one day, while we sat gently twirling back and forth on the soda fountain stools at "Bo-Bo's" a California talent scout would appear and beg us to accept roles in his newest block buster film. Nowadays, of course, should this occur, our pictures would be more likely to show up on the side of a milk carton than a theater poster, but back then it was every young girl's dream.
Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
"You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.
Needless to say, neither one of us (nor any of our friends, for that matter) were ever "discovered," and despite the fact most of us went on to have successful careers and raise happy families, the nagging sense that this opportunity somehow passed us by never truly goes away. Even now, when I read People magazine in the waiting room at the dentist, I can never quite convince myself that those celebrities "aren't truly happy." I'd even settle for being able to wear that tiny bikini, the heck with snagging the staring role in a major film.
But I do think that basic recognition, and the attainment thereof is a whole different thing, as well as one that is not always beyond our expectations. Why else would refrigerator magnets been invented, for example, if not with the idea that some A+ spelling quiz or "Student of the Week" certificate would need this item to display such achievements to anyone passing through the kitchen? And what mother doesn't have (tucked away in a drawer somewhere) the first (if not one and only) super-sentimental birthday card given to her by the least likely child to have purchased one?
Writers have that same need for acknowledgement, and it usually takes very little time before one who cheerfully plunges into this creative field to recognize this painful reality, as well as become familiar with the roller coaster of emotions that accompanies its arrival. This amusement park analogy ranges from the initial outpouring of support (and purchases) of your first published novel, to one of your once closest friends announcing he/she never reads fiction, to the email identifying one of your short stories as a semi-finalist in a literary contest, to discovering one of your novels (complete with a personalized "signing" inside the front cover) selling for fifty cents at the local church bazaar.
But of all the ego-busting, recognition struggling experiences for a writer, I would have to rank the bookstore consignment process at the top of the list. For those of you who have not yet entered this maelstrom of rejection, it is probably one of the most humbling experiences of what you may previously have considered your writing "career."
My first venture into the world of bookstore marketing began with a small local bookstore, with a strong connection to the school in which I used to teach. Not only did they offer teacher discounts, but also participated in the annual Parents' Association fundraising book sale. The owner, who appeared to be a kindly gentleman, welcomed me warmly, introduced me to his dog and then firmly refused to carry my books because they only purchased books through their "distributer," the reason being that then they could return unsold copies. This might have made more sense to me had I had not been standing there with a physical box of books (which could come or go as often he wished) and also had not just mentioned that I lived in the same town.
Ah well, onward, I thought, as I patted the dog's head and departed. My next stop was a larger bookstore in a popular local shopping complex. Here the owner spent considerable time touring me around the store in what appeared to be some sort of educational effort on her part, which would ultimately culminate in my understanding of how inferior my books were to the ones she carried. Then for some reason, she thought I should leave her one of my lame attempts at literature as a sample, keeping in mind of course, that she "has very little time for reading so probably won't" (read it, that is.)
Thinking that a more touristy locale might work better, I then drove to the Cape's most historically prestigious enclave of summer visitors and stopped by the main street's charming book seller. After working my way through several underlings whose main job seemed to be to cluster around the cash register and smile inanely, I was finally introduced to the manager. He examined my novels briefly, then smiled pleasantly and told me that even though he would not be stocking my books, I would be welcome to come and sit on the sidewalk outside the shop's front door and accost passersby in an effort to sell autographed copies of my work (provided I brought my own chair and card table, of course).
"You'll be surprised how many people stroll past here every day," he added encouragingly. It was currently mid-February and the temperature outside was a balmy 25 degrees.
I don't mean to suggest that all the responses to my marketing efforts were completely negative. For example, one book I wrote takes place in Northampton, a good three hour drive from where I live. Nonetheless, though, I thought it was worth the effort to try and sell it in one of that town's local bookstores...the fact that I even used this particular bookstore (in a rather complimentary way) as one of the settings in the novel itself, also made it seem like the proprietors might be interested. After immediately turning me down, they did, however, suggest that perhaps I could make a "poster" advertising my book and "drop it off the next time I was in the area"...which, as I previously pointed out, is three hours from where I live.
Then there was another Cape bookstore that cheerfully accepted my books as a "welcome addition" to their "local author section." Later I found out that in order to peruse this "special section" you had to be no more than three feet tall (as it is on the very bottom shelf next to the floor) and possibly bring a flashlight, (as it is located in the darkest corner of the back room). Nonetheless, they have sold some of my books, in particular one they displayed briefly in the front room, which was actually purchased the day after they moved it there. One would think this might be an incentive to try this approach again, but so far (based on my subsequent visits) this does not seemed to have occurred to them.
My work also was equally welcomed at another Cape bookstore, the owners of which were actually the parents of two of my students. "We love local authors!" they declared, and even suggested I might hold a reading and a book signing at their store, an event for which they would contact me "soon after the holidays." Perhaps I should have asked which holidays they were referring to, since a number of them have since passed since then and the only communication I have received is a recent form letter requesting me to come and pick up my books as they have been on the shelves "for more than six months" as their "space is limited." Keep in mind these books have been selling regularly and I have even been asked to bring replacements along the way.
So now, lest you think my attitude has become completely pessimistic regarding this marketing approach, here's my favorite thing to do on a sunny Cape Cod afternoon...drive to Orleans where in a relatively obscure shopping plaza there is an independent bookstore called The Booksmith. On the door is sign that notes how dogs are welcome and once inside, a spacious display of attractively arranged reading material of a variety of genres immediately appears...one that is frequently rearranged to highlight the store's diverse inventory. There is also a massive collection of music CDs on one side of the front room, and in a second room at the back of the store, an impressive collection of what is now known as "vinyl" (or what we aging hippies refer to as records). The rack of dog treats near the cash register is another added bonus.
And guess what? My books are here too, with the covers that all the above bookstores raved were "impressive" (after which the only part of the books they ever had facing outward were the spines) are, in fact, fully visible facing the customers. I sell a fair amount of books in this store, but as for fame and fortune, I have to admit I have yet to achieve that long awaited moment of "discovery" in Orleans, MA. What I can say, however, is that whenever I drop off more of my books at the Booksmith, the owner smiles at me and says "thank-you for allowing us to sell your books!" Eat your heart out, Lana Turner. This is what it's really all about.
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