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.
Monday, 16 March 2020
Monday, 17 February 2020
Truth or Dare
Back when we were kids (and later when my kids were kids), we (and then they) used to play a game called "Truth or Dare." As I recall, though, the rules of this game degenerated somewhat from the decidedly tame and inhibited 1950s and early 60s, once it was the 1980s. But the basic idea remained much the same. When it was your "turn," you had to decide whether you would tell the "truth" about something another player asked you, or whether you preferred to take "a dare" and do something they told you to do.
The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?
The more savvy players, of course, opted for the "truth" (because notoriously we lied, anyhow), as often the "dares" were far more undesirable. By the time I became a teacher, in fact, and this game often erupted on field trip buses, the "dares' could easily get you suspended, whereas the "truths," well, that depended on your individual level of naiveté (or perhaps more importantly, how good your poker face was).
I think about that game a lot, now that I've become a writer...or am trying to became one, at least. This is because I realize that I am not very daring...never was, and at my age, am likely never to become so. Many of my regrets, in fact, stem from times when I had the chance to to something impractical, outrageous, dangerous, or otherwise daring, and (sometimes at the very last second) turned down the opportunity.
As a parent, I would tell my children how wise that decision was, how proud I was of them, and so forth, and pat myself on the back for having raised them so well. But to be honest, I would also be secretly pleased that I didn't know about the all the daring things they did do, because (having survived these escapades, of course), these "dares" ultimately made them better, more experienced adults, who would eventually handle life ever so much better than I have.
But back to writing...again reminding myself that this is a blog in which I write about writing. I'm feeling like a lot of the weaknesses in my writing stem from the fact that I don't take enough risks..."dare," if you will, to tell the "truth" in my stories. What I mean is, that my books are very tame...i.e., they don't reach out and grab the reader with same startling realities as say, Lisa Genova in her harsh portrayals of brain disorders, or John Grisham in his gripping suspense-filled narratives, or even Stephen King in his bloody horror stories. And yet these are all books I love to read.
My characters tend to be real people, which I suppose is fine, living real lives with emotional dilemmas that many of us can relate to. Yet two of my favorite authors, Anne Tyler and Richard Russo also have these kinds of characters and are far more successful at weaving stories around them. So what is the difference that accounts for their success?
Okay, good agents and aggressive marketing aside (as well as a bit of just plain luck), I think it all goes back to "Truth or Dare." In other words, how much "truth" they "dare" to put into their writing. I always used to quote Hemingway to my students (and to myself, as well, I suppose), when his advice about writing was to "write about what you know." But is it what you "know" or what you "really know" that you should be putting into your work?
I am working on the final draft of a new novel called Reunion. Coincidentally, I started writing this right after (or perhaps, at least in my head, during) my own high school reunion, which I attended in 2018. And no, I'm not telling you which reunion it was; suffice it to say that enough time has gone by for a good many memories to be created and possibly surface in the process.
I started this project by creating a group of characters who were close friends and composites mostly of me, but also of some of my childhood acquaintances. It's impossible, by the way, for a writer not to put parts of him or herself in the characters he/she creates, which, in itself, tends to make one wonder about some of the lives of some of the best-selling authors we all know and love. It's also not possible to create a character that doesn't have at least some minor traits of other people the writer has encountered along the way. Otherwise, these characters would be incredibly flat and inspire little or no interest from the reader. In other words, if we can't relate to the characters in a novel, we don't care what happens to them.
This is where I think that my writing abilities diverge from those of truly talented writers. I care too much what happens to my characters; I'm happy to get them in trouble, or perhaps to behave poorly at times, but I can't seem to help but rescue them at the last minute, or imbue them with some totally redeeming (though perhaps briefly hidden) personal qualities that will allow the reader to forgive and truly admire them again. In other words, I don't "dare" leave them out there to deal with the "truths" of real life and its consequences.
Here's the other thing; I don't seem to mind creating villains...in fact, I can do that rather well (which often makes me wonder what that says about my own life). But more often than not, I then end up worrying about how harsh I have been in the creation of these "bad guys" and worse yet, how precisely they might resemble real life individuals I may have encountered along the way. Then, as my grandmother would have said, "what will people think?"
So imagine writing a book about a group of friends preparing for their 50th high school reunion. Sounds kind of boring until you actually start thinking how many memories these characters have amassed in this number of years, and thus how many ancient skeletons are rattling around in their respective closets. For those born after 1980, it might be a bit hard to imagine anything particularly steamy or regrettable that could have occurred back then. If this is the case, I suggest you watch "The Graduate" or perhaps a Woodstock documentary and broaden your perspective a bit.
Anyhow, suffice it to say that memories of the bad guys get worse over time, and the minor sins of the good guys become more embarrassing, and possibly more intensely regrettable. And, as a writer if you "dare" to put the "truth" out there about either or both, you could end up with a hell of a good book...but also a rapidly diminishing social circle. On the other hand, if you don't, then honestly, why bother? Because you just created 300 pages of bargain bin material, and don't have any more of a social life than you did before.
So... Good writing tip # 3,425,690: write about what you know, and don't be afraid to "dare" to tell the "truth." Especially since everyone knows that we writers are all notorious liars, right?
Friday, 24 January 2020
If a Tree Falls in the Forest...
...and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? Everyone who ever took a high school biology class, or for that matter, perhaps simply a walk in the woods, has pondered this question at some point. In fact, I can remember having a number of philosophical debates on the subject, back when I was young enough to actually have the time or inclination for such conversations.
In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?
In fact, in the midst of one such conversation, I can also recall a friend of mine throwing her hands up in the air, and saying, "of course it makes a sound! Because there's always someone there! How else would you know it fell?" At which point another friend smiled smugly and added, "ah, someone may have been there, but in order to hear it, they also had to be listening."
It struck me the other day that this is also very true of being a writer...or the attempt to be recognized as such, I suppose; the analogy being, of course, that you (the writer) are the tree and the sound of you falling over is the novel, story, poem, etc. that you have written. And by extension, does it actually exist if no one reads it...i.e., if no one experiences it; if no one, philosophically speaking, is listening.
Among other shocking discoveries I have made in the course of my brief literary journey is that the majority of acquaintances I understood to be readers (listeners, if you will, to keep with the analogy, that is), actually aren't. This is not to say they don't read anything at all, but that they follow a rather narrow path of selection when they do. I confess, of course, that I am much the same, in that I have my favorite authors...Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Lisa Genova, John Grisham, etc....but I also pride myself on being able to try someone new and different once in a while; i.e., as in take the road not taken, as Robert Frost so blithely insisted we do.
Granted, it's not always a successful path, at least as far as reading goes. Just as when one sets out on an unknown hiking trail, you never know how many obstacles there might be, or how steep or difficult the trail might become before you reach the end. On the other hand, if you don't make the trek, you might possibly never experience something truly special. Thus it is with reading; and I have now learned it may also be with writing, except as a writer, you are the trail they may or may not be willing to take, even if they are your friends and relatives, who you always thought trusted your judgment.
Okay, my first book was not that great. I mean, I actually thought it was a good story with great characters, but it definitely needed some more careful editing in terms of style and presentation. Eventually, I did so and put out a second edition. The first edition sold better than anything I've written since; the second new and improved one, hardly at all. And with my subsequent novels, the response also dwindled. This is because at first, everyone was startled to hear I'd actually written a novel, and did so perhaps out of sheer curiosity (and even hopefully, supportiveness). But then, because the first one had flaws, no one went back to read more of what I wrote after that. Meanwhile, the next five books became progressing better works, and it's frustrating that few have dared to try more...to continue on the trail, as it were, despite minor obstacles.
Returning to the aforementioned tree in the forest, this might be kind of like coming to a tree after it had already fallen and was lying there, beginning to decompose. In other words, the dramatic sound of it falling was past, so it now is largely ignored, when in truth, the next stage of its development (when perhaps small animals begin to inhabit its remains, or wildflowers and moss grow from its fallen trunk) is perhaps more fascinating or beautiful than the original tree was to begin with.
Okay, I admit it, it's a stretch. But if you write, you probably get it. You are on the road to that beautiful, unexpected view, or wildflower meadow or striking waterfall...or even to the perfect sound of a tree crashing to the forest floor, but everyone else decided to turn back...or worse yet, they stopped listening. After all, with so many trees falling out there, who really has the time?
Thursday, 9 January 2020
A Tisket, A Tasket
Okay, I admit it, I'm one of those people who loves Christmas letters...and Christmas cards with pictures. I don't know if it's because I love reading and writing, or if I simply need to get a life. Whatever the reason, I honestly look forward to getting these communications every year, despite all the jokes about "brag letters" and "is that really the best picture you have?" type comments. I even like getting these from my kids...what does that tell you, right? It isn't that my kids don't tell me about their lives, I just like getting the official version that everyone else hears as well.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
I also have to confess that I write my own Christmas letter every year, send pictures of my family, and then feel the necessity to add personal notes to each one, just so no one feels they are less important to me. It's not that my life is so exciting and I think everyone I know is dying to hear about it; it's more like if I know I'm going to write these letters every year, I subconsciously find myself putting additional energy into making my life more interesting.
Truthfully, though, this process can be a less than rewarding experience. My husband and I send out 40 some Christmas cards every year in three basic groupings: family (both of us have rather small ones), local friends and neighbors, and old friends we rarely see, but that we want to remind of our existence. The latter two categories occasionally overlap. Here are the categories we receive cards from: family, local friends and neighbors (many who, having heard from us, feel guilty and dig out and send one of the generic cards they've collected over the years), and old friends who, when reminded of our existence, also want to remind us of theirs.
Okay, these communications are all nice in their own way; regardless of my minor bouts of cynicism, I do feel that the intent behind sending them is genuine, and in a world where being "so busy" has become a badge of honor rather than a complaint, I have to appreciate the time and effort it took for those I know and love to celebrate the season in this way. Plus, it's just simply nice to get something in the mail besides offers to have my hearing tested "absolutely free of charge," invitations to retirement seminars, and weekly communication from the Pella Replacement Windows rep.
But what does all this have to do with writing, you may ask? (Since, after all, this is a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing). Actually, I think the reason I like getting Christmas letters so much is that it indicates the fine art of letter writing is not totally lost...and thus perhaps, neither is the art of writing itself (and by extension, reading, which is the one thing writers most hope for and cherish).
Despite the fact that I have been informed by their parents that my grandchildren prefer texts and/or very brief emails from me (as opposed to the longer newsy emails I persist in sending them in an effort to be more a part of their lives), I still find written communication rewarding. Unlike conversation, it can be revised, edited, and rephrased many times before the recipient actually hears it. This eliminates all the "I should have said" or "I wish I had just said" moments we are all the least proud of. And, at least as far as email goes, you have a copy of what you wrote, and should your recipient lose, delete, or interpret what you said inaccurately, you can always set the record straight.
I suppose writers feel this way in general about their work and this could be why we all try so hard to be published and, of course, widely read and appreciated. In other words, we are trying to be part of our readers' lives in some meaningful way, and at the same time we are sharing something about ourselves. Perhaps that's what makes the whole process so frustrating at times; i.e., here we are putting ourselves out there in the best way we know how, seeking to personally communicate, but often we can't get someone to read what we write and thus hear what we have to say; get to know who we really are, in other words.
My grandmother always used to recite silly nursery rhymes to me when I was a kid, even when I used to think I was way too old to be hearing them; but nowadays I realize that these little poems and songs were actually rather philosophic, as well as quite often applicable in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to writing, for example, I remember how sad I was to hear about that girl who put the "letter to her love" in a "green and yellow basket" but then "lost it" on her way to delivering it.
Of course, the older and more cynical I became (no doubt in my teenage years), I began to think this was more upsetting to the girl who lost the letter than the intended recipient. He, of course, never read the letter so had no idea what the girl thought and felt, nor with how much love it was written.
Saturday, 23 November 2019
The Infinite Expectation of the Dawn
I published my sixth novel last week and it was received with sensationally minimal fanfare and applaud. I don't mean to negate the enthusiastic response I did receive from the kinder members of my family and friends, but for those of you who spend many waking hours on your literary creations, I'm sure you know what I mean. The elation one feels at typing the last word, correcting the last error, rewriting the last awkward paragraph, and then making the grand announcement to everyone you know and love, can quickly fade away in the virtual silence that follows this triumph.
Okay, the truth is that I'm the world's worst marketer, so possibly this has something to do with the continuing turn of events regarding my so-called writing career. I'm not on Facebook for starters, a fact which my children continually remind me of by trying to chat with me concerning major family events and then adding, oh yeah, you don't know about that because you're not on Facebook! I used to claim it was because I was a teacher, but the truth is, like everything else technical, I'm simply afraid of trying to make it work.
It's also true that every time I go in a Bookstore and try to talk them into stocking my novels, I panic and run out the door as soon as they say no...or even, hmmm...I'm not sure if we can do that. My other response is to try and console them when they explain how hard it might be to carry my books. Suddenly I'm on their side and I don't understand why. Weren't these the same people who just a few minutes ago basically told me that a 60-something Indie writer is not worth their time or energy?
My personal favorite in response to my efforts are the old friends from my youth who tell me they never read fiction. Do they not recall the smutty novels we all passed around as teenagers? And what self-respecting, late 60s St. Lawrence University student never read the Electric Kool Aid Acid test?
And if you're a struggling writer like me, I'm sure you've also had a friend call and ask to drop by, then just happens to bring along an "edited" copy of one of your published novels to "help you out." Help you out with what? Expanding your already shattered ego?
Or the published mystery writer, whose books (even though you don't like mysteries) you bought and reviewed, hoping for some of the same in return, only to have said writer tell you they would, but they didn't want to pay for them. I've personally also read and reviewed glowingly five poetry books by old friends I haven't seen since the Bush era (the first Bush), but I'm pretty sure they don't have an Erni Johnson first edition of their very own.
Okay, this is the post-publication downer we all experience...at least the "all we" writers that I know and talk to (let's just say that neither John Grisham nor Anne Tyler have invited me to tea recently). It can be a bummer, right? But certainly not the end of the world, especially when one's world is, as mine is, pretty damn nice otherwise.
When I taught American Literature, I used to drag a fair amount of unsuspecting high school juniors through parts of Thoreau's Walden (I knew better than to assign the whole thing!) You know Thoreau, right? He's the guy who led the protest against paying government tax and then built a "rustic" cabin on his friend Emerson's property (for which Thoreau paid no taxes), and then walked home several nights a week to eat dinner with his mother (who also did his wash, by the way). But I have to admit, he was incredibly quotable. Okay, not the "simplicity, simplicity" stuff, but when he pointed out that true happiness lay in an "infinite expectation of the dawn."
I must confess, I am a sucker for that concept. But fortunately, equally so, for what Kurt Vonnegut noted in Slaughterhouse Five, when he wrote "and so it goes." Yup, it sure does.
Okay, the truth is that I'm the world's worst marketer, so possibly this has something to do with the continuing turn of events regarding my so-called writing career. I'm not on Facebook for starters, a fact which my children continually remind me of by trying to chat with me concerning major family events and then adding, oh yeah, you don't know about that because you're not on Facebook! I used to claim it was because I was a teacher, but the truth is, like everything else technical, I'm simply afraid of trying to make it work.
It's also true that every time I go in a Bookstore and try to talk them into stocking my novels, I panic and run out the door as soon as they say no...or even, hmmm...I'm not sure if we can do that. My other response is to try and console them when they explain how hard it might be to carry my books. Suddenly I'm on their side and I don't understand why. Weren't these the same people who just a few minutes ago basically told me that a 60-something Indie writer is not worth their time or energy?
My personal favorite in response to my efforts are the old friends from my youth who tell me they never read fiction. Do they not recall the smutty novels we all passed around as teenagers? And what self-respecting, late 60s St. Lawrence University student never read the Electric Kool Aid Acid test?
And if you're a struggling writer like me, I'm sure you've also had a friend call and ask to drop by, then just happens to bring along an "edited" copy of one of your published novels to "help you out." Help you out with what? Expanding your already shattered ego?
Or the published mystery writer, whose books (even though you don't like mysteries) you bought and reviewed, hoping for some of the same in return, only to have said writer tell you they would, but they didn't want to pay for them. I've personally also read and reviewed glowingly five poetry books by old friends I haven't seen since the Bush era (the first Bush), but I'm pretty sure they don't have an Erni Johnson first edition of their very own.
Okay, this is the post-publication downer we all experience...at least the "all we" writers that I know and talk to (let's just say that neither John Grisham nor Anne Tyler have invited me to tea recently). It can be a bummer, right? But certainly not the end of the world, especially when one's world is, as mine is, pretty damn nice otherwise.
When I taught American Literature, I used to drag a fair amount of unsuspecting high school juniors through parts of Thoreau's Walden (I knew better than to assign the whole thing!) You know Thoreau, right? He's the guy who led the protest against paying government tax and then built a "rustic" cabin on his friend Emerson's property (for which Thoreau paid no taxes), and then walked home several nights a week to eat dinner with his mother (who also did his wash, by the way). But I have to admit, he was incredibly quotable. Okay, not the "simplicity, simplicity" stuff, but when he pointed out that true happiness lay in an "infinite expectation of the dawn."
I must confess, I am a sucker for that concept. But fortunately, equally so, for what Kurt Vonnegut noted in Slaughterhouse Five, when he wrote "and so it goes." Yup, it sure does.
Sunday, 3 November 2019
Great Expectations
Recently, two close friends of mine became grandparents for the first time. Granted we just visited our first grandchild at college, and in two weeks our youngest grandchild will officially become a teenager; but I still remember the feeling when the first one arrived...and each successive one, for that matter, because that unfamiliar feeling of elation never changes, no matter how many come along (one of my friends is expecting grandchild #18...). Maybe it's because you've been "Mom" for so long (albeit spoken in various tones of voice over the years), that it startles you when, rather abruptly, you realize you will now be someone else as well. Even though it will be at least a year or so before someone actually calls you that, from that moment on, you have become Grandma (or Grammy, or Nona, or whatever has been decided your alter ego will be).
When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
When my oldest grandson, Evan, was about three and he was in the process of learning letters and numbers, I gave him a set of alphabet blocks. Turning over the "E" and handing it to him, I cheerfully pointed out that both our names began with the same letter. He looked at me with some confusion and then inquired, "Grandma begins with an E?" It was then I realized my transition to this new identity was complete. This was further emphasized when my next-in-line granddaughter, Brooke, at age four was beginning to sort out all her grandparents (she had nine at that point, including "Greats"). She looked at me rather quizzically one day, then asked, "what was your name before it was Grandma?"
Actually, the most interesting aspect of becoming a parent or grandparent is etymological; i.e., the way in which our society (or at least the English speaking part) has chosen to express the impending arrival of new offspring...we say that So-and-So is "expecting." This is followed by a chorus of oohs and aahs and occasionally hugs from people you would just as soon didn't.
I think my father expressed it most symbolically when, on hearing my brother and his wife (who already had two children, a boy and a girl) were "expecting" their third child remarked, "what are they expecting to get?" Of course, my brother and sister-in-law did go on to acquire three more kids, and I ended up with a third by default when said additional child was already 10. Interestingly, though, my parents...those staunch believers in the idea that everyone should simply have one boy and one girl, as they did...never stopped bragging about all nine of their grandchildren.
But "expecting" what? I want to ask in my most cynical moments. Eighteen years of sleepless nights up to and including when they are driving your car around in the dark or waiting tearfully by the mailbox for college acceptance letters? When you are "expecting," of course, none of the potential frustrations and downsides of parenthood (or grandparenthood) ever occur to you. For some unknown reason, in all your pre-baby daydreams, the weather is always perfect, everyone is always smiling and laughing, you receive endless declarations of love and appreciation, and no one ever has the flu.
So what does all this have to do with writing? (Because this is, after all, a blog in which I am supposed to be writing about writing...). There is actually a connection, believe it or not, and a rather strong one at that. While it's true that no one actually "decides" to become a writer (since most of us can't help ourselves), there still is a moment when one admits or maybe even announces to someone else that they officially are one...and then hopes for a response that meets one's expectations. Not unlike, if you think about it, becoming a grandparent.
For many years, I hand wrote my poems and stories, usually in old college notebooks, or on large yellow legal pads, when I sat in interminable faculty meetings pretending to be listening and taking notes. So for me, the first admission of truly being a writer came when I actually typed something and perhaps even let someone else read it. The latter, by the way, is an incredibly humbling (if not downright depressing) experience equivalent to the first time you try to put your grandchild in a modern car seat.
The next time I let it be known that I was an actual writer came when I submitted a story to a competition I felt sure I would win...and two days later received a cheerfully worded rejection letter encouraging me to try again another time (and pay another entry fee while I was at it). I equate this to buying six tickets for Disney on Ice with the expectation of taking your whole band of merry little grandchildren to this event (and thus winning Grandma of the year award); only to find out that they already went to see it with their other grandparents.
But the ultimate acceptance of my new identity (i.e., as an author) came when I began to publish my novels. Again, the feeling of seeing your name on the cover of an actual printed book is one of immediate euphoria: could this really be you? The woman who once had reams of unfinished stories and mediocre poetry stashed in a dozen cardboard boxes in the attic, now truly has something out there for everyone to read and admire?
The expectation, of course, is that your book will be a best seller, with any number of publishers and agents banging on your door and demanding more of the same. And the movie rights? To whom will you finally award this honor? Ron Howard? Hallmark? Spielberg? So many choices. The reality, of course is far different, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to anyone reading this blog who writes...and to those who are aspiring to...sorry, spoiler alert.
This is similar, actually to when your granddaughter sends you a homemade Valentine, even though she's 13 and this would be decidedly uncool if anyone found out, so you're not allowed to tell anyone. Or, when your grandson at age 10, informs you that you are his "favorite Grandma" even though you didn't even buy him anything recently, but you had no idea there would come a time when he'd live so far away that you wouldn't see him for two years. Euphoria, yes, but fulfilled expectations, not so much.
The bottom line, of course, is that we writers are a delightfully unrealistic breed. Otherwise, how would we survive in a vocation where one is supposed to be incredibly imaginative and creative, at the same time one is dealing with some of the most discouraging realities? Like one's children or grandchildren, an author's work is a source of love and pride, and frequently a sense of personal accomplishment that in the long run generally exceeds the not so rewarding moments. As for the rest of it? Well, what was I really expecting anyhow?
Monday, 14 October 2019
Between the Lines
I'm not sure when it was I started reading again...I mean really reading, not just reviewing what I had to teach the next day; e.g. the 25th time I reread The Great Gatsby or Death of a Salesman, searching for some inner meaning I might possibly have missed the first 24 times I read either one. What I'm talking about is actually going to the bookstore or the library and picking out something I just want to read.
I'm thinking now that it might have been right about the time I decided to finish writing my first novel...which I never did, by the way, or at least haven't yet, even though I did finish the second, third, fourth, and fifth ones I subsequently started. There is something about suddenly identifying oneself as a writer that, whether you like it or not, makes you part of the club; that club of semi-egotistical, semi-terrified, semi-disillusioned band of brothers (and sisters), who through some form of temporary insanity begin attempting literary recognition.
And as part of this club, one quickly recognizes that one must also read what the other members, past and present, have written. Granted having been an English major throughout some 11 years of college and graduate school (not to mention teaching the subject for over 30) did give me a leg up, so to speak, when it comes to consumption of literature. But if you ever think you are more than an average reader, all you have to do is walk through the tiniest local library or bookstore to realize how many books are out there that you haven't read.
I don't recommend this "test" by the way, if you have just recently begun to think of yourself as an author, because it will most certainly cause you to throw up your hands in despair over the possibility of ever being published. Still, you do find yourself doing simple math problems, like if I read a book every five days and there are approximately 5,000 books in the fiction section of the library I am walking through, then will take me 25,000 days to read them all, which is approximately 68 years, not including the library's other branches that might carry different books...oh never mind, it's time I simply don't have, regardless. Besides, the chances of me reading through eight shelves of Danielle Steele novels when I couldn't even get through one, is pretty minimal.
So what about the books one does decide to read? And how does one go about making that decision? They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but often the truth of that statement is not so quickly discerned. It wasn't until I was at least 40 years old and had been teaching for some time, that I learned the covers of most books are not actually chosen by their authors. In fact, a friend of mine in the publishing business informed me that this task is usually handed off to some young intern whom the editors assume will read the book, then search through a collection of templates for just the right artwork (electronically, of course) to attract the appropriate reader to his or her most enjoyable reading experience.
If you have ever taught teenagers, you will instantly recognize the obvious flaw in this approach. Let me give you a hint: it starts with "read the book," and ends somewhere between "artwork" and "electronic." Try to imagine, for example, what the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird might look like were said non-reading intern to have designed it, or worse yet, Lord of the Flies. "Look Mom," your eighth grade son says cheerfully, "here's the book we have to read this summer. Can we buy it?" You look at the cover, gasp in horror, then quickly drag your son out of the bookstore, vowing to attend the next school board meeting...or at least, to send your husband.
But let's just assume that the book you take off the library shelf does have a cover that at least partially suggests its contents. What next? The title, of course. As a teacher, I usually challenged my students to find the title within the text of what we were reading...okay, maybe more liked bribed them with the promise of extra points. Granted my original goal was to get them to read at least that far, but many good discussions often sprung from this pursuit as well. Now, having become a writer, or at least claiming to be one, I realize that most authors chose their titles from something in the novel that expresses the point or even overall theme of the book. More often than not, it is something one of the characters actually says. Since my publishing friend says that the authors generally do chose their titles, then I'd say this a good place to start.
Then there is the inside cover or back of the book blurb that can be helpful...or not... Sometimes the information here is just a glowing list of reviews from semi-well known other authors who were paid, cajoled, threatened, or otherwise convinced to comment on this novel. Since they are probably all over 30, one can be relatively sure they actually read the book. However, I don't know about you, but adjectives like "spellbinding," "compelling" and "emotionally charged," along with assuring me I will "not be able to put it down," don't totally convince me I will love this novel.
Fortunately, the actual descriptive blurbs (I have learned through my own publishing experience) are generally required to be provided by the author (and then are read by the aforementioned intern, which can be good news or bad news). They are supposed to include plot details (without giving it away totally), information on the setting, and basic character analysis. I've found this works pretty well overall, though I have had an occasional letdown. Who knew, for example, that a young man who goes "searching for his destiny in unknown territory," only to "unknowingly murder his own father" and "fall into an incestuous relationship without his knowledge" was actually a translation of Oedipus Rex.
I have finally realized, though, that the library is the best source for random reading. If you choose the wrong book, it didn't cost anything, and no one will ever know whether you actually read it, or just kept it for a couple weeks, and then tossed it casually in the return bin. So far, though, I have to admit that my new reading binge has been a humbling experience. Granted I sometimes read a book and say what the heck? Why is this writer so famous and I can't even get my friends to read my work? But other times, I finish a novel and just sit there and say, wow, I wish I could write like that. Humility, I must admit, is truly the best inspiration.
I'm thinking now that it might have been right about the time I decided to finish writing my first novel...which I never did, by the way, or at least haven't yet, even though I did finish the second, third, fourth, and fifth ones I subsequently started. There is something about suddenly identifying oneself as a writer that, whether you like it or not, makes you part of the club; that club of semi-egotistical, semi-terrified, semi-disillusioned band of brothers (and sisters), who through some form of temporary insanity begin attempting literary recognition.
And as part of this club, one quickly recognizes that one must also read what the other members, past and present, have written. Granted having been an English major throughout some 11 years of college and graduate school (not to mention teaching the subject for over 30) did give me a leg up, so to speak, when it comes to consumption of literature. But if you ever think you are more than an average reader, all you have to do is walk through the tiniest local library or bookstore to realize how many books are out there that you haven't read.
I don't recommend this "test" by the way, if you have just recently begun to think of yourself as an author, because it will most certainly cause you to throw up your hands in despair over the possibility of ever being published. Still, you do find yourself doing simple math problems, like if I read a book every five days and there are approximately 5,000 books in the fiction section of the library I am walking through, then will take me 25,000 days to read them all, which is approximately 68 years, not including the library's other branches that might carry different books...oh never mind, it's time I simply don't have, regardless. Besides, the chances of me reading through eight shelves of Danielle Steele novels when I couldn't even get through one, is pretty minimal.
So what about the books one does decide to read? And how does one go about making that decision? They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but often the truth of that statement is not so quickly discerned. It wasn't until I was at least 40 years old and had been teaching for some time, that I learned the covers of most books are not actually chosen by their authors. In fact, a friend of mine in the publishing business informed me that this task is usually handed off to some young intern whom the editors assume will read the book, then search through a collection of templates for just the right artwork (electronically, of course) to attract the appropriate reader to his or her most enjoyable reading experience.
If you have ever taught teenagers, you will instantly recognize the obvious flaw in this approach. Let me give you a hint: it starts with "read the book," and ends somewhere between "artwork" and "electronic." Try to imagine, for example, what the cover of To Kill a Mockingbird might look like were said non-reading intern to have designed it, or worse yet, Lord of the Flies. "Look Mom," your eighth grade son says cheerfully, "here's the book we have to read this summer. Can we buy it?" You look at the cover, gasp in horror, then quickly drag your son out of the bookstore, vowing to attend the next school board meeting...or at least, to send your husband.
But let's just assume that the book you take off the library shelf does have a cover that at least partially suggests its contents. What next? The title, of course. As a teacher, I usually challenged my students to find the title within the text of what we were reading...okay, maybe more liked bribed them with the promise of extra points. Granted my original goal was to get them to read at least that far, but many good discussions often sprung from this pursuit as well. Now, having become a writer, or at least claiming to be one, I realize that most authors chose their titles from something in the novel that expresses the point or even overall theme of the book. More often than not, it is something one of the characters actually says. Since my publishing friend says that the authors generally do chose their titles, then I'd say this a good place to start.
Then there is the inside cover or back of the book blurb that can be helpful...or not... Sometimes the information here is just a glowing list of reviews from semi-well known other authors who were paid, cajoled, threatened, or otherwise convinced to comment on this novel. Since they are probably all over 30, one can be relatively sure they actually read the book. However, I don't know about you, but adjectives like "spellbinding," "compelling" and "emotionally charged," along with assuring me I will "not be able to put it down," don't totally convince me I will love this novel.
Fortunately, the actual descriptive blurbs (I have learned through my own publishing experience) are generally required to be provided by the author (and then are read by the aforementioned intern, which can be good news or bad news). They are supposed to include plot details (without giving it away totally), information on the setting, and basic character analysis. I've found this works pretty well overall, though I have had an occasional letdown. Who knew, for example, that a young man who goes "searching for his destiny in unknown territory," only to "unknowingly murder his own father" and "fall into an incestuous relationship without his knowledge" was actually a translation of Oedipus Rex.
I have finally realized, though, that the library is the best source for random reading. If you choose the wrong book, it didn't cost anything, and no one will ever know whether you actually read it, or just kept it for a couple weeks, and then tossed it casually in the return bin. So far, though, I have to admit that my new reading binge has been a humbling experience. Granted I sometimes read a book and say what the heck? Why is this writer so famous and I can't even get my friends to read my work? But other times, I finish a novel and just sit there and say, wow, I wish I could write like that. Humility, I must admit, is truly the best inspiration.
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