A Love Letter to Self-Publishing. (Maybe.)

This? Really all you need to know about me.

(Also available in a lovely soft yoga tank, in case you're so inclined.)

Where did this INTENSE will to persist come from. Dunno. Divine is my best guess, but I'm owning this character trait like a boss, because it continues to serve me well, especially during this adventure into the roller coaster ride that is self-publishing.

'Cause damn you self-publishing. You can be kinda a bitch.

And while (too many times to count really), I've wanted to take you into the nearest dark alley and beat you into a pulp, somehow I've come out of this adventure learning a whole lot more about myself.

So here goes. Let's wrap this last day of this #DontSettle Summer with a public acknowledgement of the top five things you've taught me.

Sometimes a girl just needs a record of how far she's come.

And sometimes, she just needs to share her experiences with the world, because while no doubt there is shared strength in the struggle, there's even more strength in shared survival:

1.  I wrote a damn book. Yeah. No shit. But unless you've actually written a book, you probably, no definitely, don't know the self-discipline it takes to write a damn book. We live in a world where writers get so little respect, because everyone can technically write. Newsflash:  Writing is a craft. An art. A gift. Own it!

2.  Once upon a time, I saw self-publishing as a failure. That somehow not being accepted into the traditional system made my work less worthy or important. Or that I was a second-rate talent.

Nah. Not even close.

Self-published authors are bad ass. Why? Because no one is pushing us to finish our projects OTHER THAN OURSELVES! My book could have easily resided on my computer, well, forever. Who would have noticed, other than moi. But eventually just completing the project, became the most important motivator. Not money. Not fame. Not having an agent. Just finishing what I started.

Lesson? Own your tenacity, because sometimes that's all you've got. 

3.  Finishing a book, and packaging it into a beautiful final product, with, say, a cover, is a great way to weed out the haters. Who, fricken knew? As a self-published author, here's what you're guilty of:  Talking the talk. No doubt, because this dream takes time, you've probably been talking about it. Maybe for a while. (Waving. Ten plus years.)

You've also probably been making moves behind the scenes that no one knows about other than you, your dope husband, and the literal hundreds of agents you've queried. Or the students in that fiction writing class at Brown. Or the agent who finally asked you to the publishing prom, only to quit the business. Or the editor, whose comments made you realize the book she was reading wasn't the one you were trying to write, at all, inspiring you to rip it apart and start all over again.

Nope. The haters are just hearing you talk and talk and talk about your (imaginary) book. The one they truly believe will never see the light of day. Until it does. But instead of being incredibly happy for you, the haters hate. Their anger? Completely understandable. Only the target's a bit off. And instead of being pissed at you, for showing them up, with your drive, they probably should be more pissed at themselves for underestimating you in the first place. B-O-O-M!

4. You're probably gonna suck, at least at first, at selling your words, yup, even if you have a background in public relations/journalism. The problem? It's super hard to make that shift from dreamy fiction writer to thinking like a salesperson.  

All. The. Time.

Indeed, potential new readers are everywhere: Like the Ladies Room on New Year's Eve. Or the Alicia Keys Today Show Concert on the Plaza in NYC. Or that Greek Life College Recruitment Party that you happen to wander into on the beach. But it won't help the cause very much if you only realize this once you get home.

No doubt you'll need to create a detailed, innovative marketing plan. One that you can test and rework objectively, while at the same time not taking the success of the plan, or your book sales personally.

Reminder:  You. Are. Not. Your. Numbers. You are not your reviews. Your worthiness as a person is not wrapped up in the success of your campaigns. Or contests. Or re-tweets. Got it? Good. Me too.

5.  Pick an end date. Nah. Not for retirement from writing, as my horrified dental hygienist thought I was describing on my last visit. More like a finish date for your current project where you can celebrate your damn accomplishments. Of simply finishing. Bravely putting it out in the world. Selling it. To complete strangers (for which I am eternally grateful and still trips me out). 

This date, which just happens to be today for me, is also about looking forward in anticipation to the future. Of the opportunities that you don't even know exist. Of the seeds that you may have already planted (like, maybe in early June, hollah!) or the ones that you're currently sowing right now. And truth be told, I'm bubbling over in anticipation.

Because I, am just getting started.

And for you, Settling Down, my literary partner in crime, here's the Oscar speech you'll probably never get. (Unless Netflix or Jennifer Aniston make you into a movie. Stranger things have happened.) Anyway, thanks for helping me grow. As a writer. As a person. Thanks for reminding me who my biggest cheerleaders are, even if they'd look kinda scary in a short, pleated skirt. Thanks for teaching me about cover design, page formatting and numerous hard ass technical skills I hope I never have to use again. Thanks for reminding me that writing is passion. But more importantly, my calling. I'll try not to doubt it again. (Or at least not every other day.)

And rest assured that I'll never, ever, settle.

We done good kid.

An Author Calls Bullsh** on Book Reviews

In the past three years I have:

• Wrote, proofed, designed, published and marketed a full length novel.
• Lost 40 pounds.
• Learned how to salsa well.
• And bachata barely.
• Finished 6 rounds of Brazil Butt Lift. (Yup. I'd pass the quarter test.)
• Completely changed my diet to include yummies like black bean brownies.
• Went to the Super Bowl. 
• Traveled to the Dominican Republic. 
• Survived a carbon monoxide scare. And all the firefighters that went along with it.
• Survived an attempted break-in. Three days in a row.
• Ran a successful eBay operation.
• Found a stylist who finally got my hair game In check. (I love him. And my hair.)
• Geared up to move to a new city, funded by the mad real estate desirability of our 'hood.
• Nurtured the hell out of my marriage, so my husband and I can slay as individuals. And more importantly, as a team.

And that my friend, is just the highlight reel.

Then what the hell is the problem?

Two words:  Book Blogger.

Ah, okay, not completely.

Maybe:  Book Self-Promotion. 

Whatever it is, it's just a symbol of my frustrations, uncovered by Josi Denise. She jumpstarted my mojo with her epic rant, which is required reading (although she keeps breaking the internet). Which is ironic, because the bottom line is the internet has done a mad disservice to writers, just starting with the fact that it has christened everyone with a keyboard AS a writer.

(And if you're not a writer, you probably don't give a shit.)

Add to that hot mess, a promotional machine -- you pick the subset: From mommy blogs, to books, to reviews of basically anything, all simply caught up in the advertising's supremely smart business model of getting the most bang for the least amount of money. Hello, Yelp.

And where you are in the process, determines how you feel (or don't) about it--or the fact that journalistic objectivity can't live there.

Before I launched Settling Down, book bloggers were shouted out as the saviors of the self-publishing set. The yellow brick path to finding readers. Along with reviews. Because:  "You need reviews. Plenty of them. Amazon will only start taking you seriously at 50 reviews."

Now how hard could that possibly be? I mean, I had twice as many people at my wedding. So I researched the hell out of it. Made rounds of blogger lists. Sent out my very professional (and well written) media kit. And, outside of this gem from the generous folks at Chick Lit Central, crickets.

Please don't think I'm picking on the book bloggers of the world. I understand for many dedicated souls, this is strictly a passion project. And there's only so much time to read in our busy lives. Never mind post, design and promote for free. You lovelies who got into the business to share your love of book, and ferret out the reads that no one knows about--much appreciation.

I guess, I'm actually calling out the publishing industry, maybe for nothing else other than your marketing brilliance. You've taken this seemingly indy blogging platform, put your cash-ola into the rock stars, but yet made it continue to look like everyone is rolling independently.

But in actuality, everyone is reading the same book.

At the same time.

Author or not, that bores the hell out of me.

Whatever. I get it. You gotta do you. And you should do you. And the rest of us have to do us. While at the same time remembering what makes us, us in the first place.

And that's where I went completely off the rails.

My epic fail? During my non-stop squealing of: 'Please give me a review. Any review. Amazon says I need reviews. I NEED A REVIEW!!!! GIMMMMMMMMMEEEEEE REVIEW!', like some sort of addict josin' for a fix, I lost myself. Worse, instead of looking objectively at my overall accomplishments, I started to judge my entire reason for existing on this planet based on my perceived failures of not getting a review.

Yeah. Don't go there.

But even bigger than that, I started to disregard the very fact that I'm a writer damn it, and the incredible power that wields all by itself. The one thing always at my disposal ARE my words. Yet, instead of using MY words, I banked my success on continuing to beg and beg and beg complete strangers for validation with theirs.

No mas. 'Cause, I'm not some sort of needy bitch who needs your love.

I am a survivor. A thriver. A do-er. A WRITER! (See above.)

The irony of this whole situation? Not only do I vehemently not believe in book reviews, but I've never written one, outside of my Trixie Belden shoutout for Goodreads. I know, right? To me, reviews are like that dress that looks fantastic on you, but is five inches too short for me. Books, like skirts, all comes down to individual tastes. And style. And how much leg you wanna show in the first place.

So how do I pick my reads? Simple. By cracking open the spine (virtual or otherwise) and start reading. Foolproof? Nope. But it definitely gives you an idea for someone's writing style. And storytelling ability. And how their words affect you. 

And as a writer, isn't that the only marketing you ever really need?

Finding Your Voice

Fear has the ability to silence your voice.

Forever.

Dramatic? Indeed. But when you're afraid to speak up, especially when there are consequences for having a opinion that's not popular or expected or how you're supposed to act, it's way easier to be quiet.

To become invisible.

To take yourself to a place where no one notices you. Because there's a certain safety, and anonymity in this silence. When you put yourself on mute, there's no incoming harsh judgements. Because there's absolutely nothing to judge.

You are living an empty existence.

You become invisible. You go inward, not upward. You are afraid to really be you.

Hopefully, your voice is so strong that it cannot be silenced. And eventually, you'll work hard to become stronger. And get to a place where you're able to beat those other voices back. The ones that have the audacity to say you're not good enough. The ones that say why can't you be more like me. The ones that are weak. And judge. And compare themselves. And are threatened because they can't be more like you.

Hopefully, your voice can rise out of the quiet, and boldly go against the grain. And you can find the courage to speak your truth out loud. To embrace all of your wonderful, beautifully divine traits and gifts that are characteristics of you and only you. To figure out what YOU believe in. Then stand up for it. To figure out how to say no thank you to the things that don't fit your personal life mantra, embrace the things that do, and never, ever, have the need to apologize.

That's what being a Write On Grrrl is all about. 

It's about living a life of empowerment. It's about embracing love and showing fear the door. It's about Girl Power (em)powered by the pen.

Sometimes it takes a while to find your voice. 

But a there's absolutely no storytelling without one.

Say Cheese! How My Valentine Shamed My Poolside Stalker Paparazzi Style

This is what a stalker looks like in the Dominican Republic.

Meet Mr. Nasty. 

Clearly, his mother never told him it isn't polite to stare. Or follow someone to the bathroom, that's tucked conveniently, and remotely, behind the tiki bar. Or blatantly change his position to get a better view. 

And I thought we were just trying to get away from obnoxious toddlers at the adult pool.

Things started off innocently enough on our first full day in the paradise that is Punta Cana. With the weather forecast predicting snow at home, my husband Andre and I were beyond amazed that here, July lives on. 

And bathing suits can be worn sans coats.

So, after a breakfast of freshness (hello papaya), we made our way into the sunshine and tried to set up shop beachside. But after a stiff 15mph trade 'breeze' managed, in 10 seconds, to coat our water bottles with a thin layer of sand, we opted to go a few yards inland to the 'adult' pool.

Clearly this classification had to more to do with height than mental age.

After first getting kicked out of a lovely shaded cabana bed, because we were too cheap to drop the $15 rental fee, Andre and I settled for two lounge chairs on the patio. The small area was completely under-furnished, so Andre had to drag them, ironically, from the kiddie pool.

Where Mr. Nasty, no doubt, would have gotten arrested.

Here's the thing: I understand, as a woman, a bit of appreciative observing comes with the territory. File it under 'Harmless Bikini Watching In A Tropical Environment'. And trust, I also understand, or at least thanks to my husband telling me a million times, that men are more visual than women. 

But anyone with an ounce of class, or self-respect, would take in the picture with a sweeping glance. Then go about their private business. Especially when that includes a lovely lady at your Nasty side, who by all classifications, would rate as hot. Especially in her very non-American thong.

Not Mr. Nasty, whose party of two arrived on the scene minutes after us. 

"This dude's acting like he's watching tv," said Andre. 

So Andre and I made adjustments. I took the lounge chair the furthest away from my stalker--believing the psychological intimidation of putting a muscular black man in between the offending party should do the trick.

'Cause damn it, it usually does. 

Not this time.

Things were peaceful for a while, when another couple had the tremendous misfortune of picking the spot between us. But when they abandoned their seats, at the same unfortunate time that it was for me to reapply sunscreen, Mr. Nasty clearly lost his damn mind, leaving the comfort of his chair, to settle on the steps of the pool.

Facing us. Literally feet away.

For my husband to notice at all is bad. For him to comment on it, then it's really bad. 

"I'm gonna pop this guy," Andre said.

I turned to look at Andre over my right shoulder. My back was to my husband, as well as Mr. Nasty, as I attempted, in vain, to apply sunscreen hidden from prying eyes.  "Why don't you take his picture?" I said half-kiddingly. 

Andre's a photographer. And my protector. As well as a fierce champion of treating women with respect. My words, and essentially my permission to make a different type of scene, sparked something awesomely beautiful in him. 

Andre pulled out his camera and started to shoot.

Behind my sunglasses, I closed my eyes. Because even though I had tolerated a good two hours of being 'eye-raped' by Mr. Nasty, I was uncomfortable with what was going on behind Andre's viewfinder. I fought hard to quiet the teeniest part of my soul that felt bad that Mr. Nasty was now the subject of my husband's impromptu photo shoot.

With his hyper-application of zinc oxide on his lips, giving him the appearance of a sadistic clown, and expansive gut, Mr. Nasty is the type of dude who is going to get stared at for all the wrong reasons. I felt pity for Mr. Nasty, to the point that I was willing to continue to subject myself to his blatant leering, so that I wouldn't make him feel self-conscious about his own looks.

Even when he was doing the same thing to me.

My husband? He didn't have that issue. Andre just continued snapping frame after frame of Mr. Nasty until 'he slinked away like the Lock Ness Monster'. 

And we were finally free.

Black Friday Shopping? Please. Get A Life.

This year I almost bit (it). 

And I'm kinda embarrassed. 

Thanksgiving is a day I like to spend reflecting on what I am grateful for in my life -- a whole lot--and, duh, eating. Instead, I came outstandingly close to gobbling my dinner, leaving the dishes piled up in the sink and hightailing it to the nearest Connecticut big box, to wait outside for hours, like a loser, in a Black Friday line. 

At 6pm on Thanksgiving Thursday. 

'Cause all of that just really screams me.

Trust. I'm not in need of holiday gifts. I've already said, thanks, but no thanks, to the sad hyped up machine o' consumerism that brings Christmas to a retail outlet near you 'round September. I was in need of something way bigger. 

A new TV.

Our current viewing situation? Literally, a 'tube'. Stop laughing. We had the outstanding good fortune of replacing our hardware just as prices came down on HD units. Remember the days when they used to cost close to a grand? Me too. 

But now we're ten years out. With a 27 incher that refuses to bite the big one. Truth be told, we'd probably continue to suck it up, if involuntary picture cropping hadn't become part of our reality. Never witnessed this phenomenon? Few have been so lucky.

The skinny: Apparently, since 2009, the 16:9 aspect ratio has reigned supreme as the measurement of choice around the world for HDTV programming. Our boob tube? Not exactly wide screen friendly. Consequently, we're clearly missing some info with our viewing. How much? No one knows for sure. And that joke has gotten old. 

So when I heard, recently, that Black Friday circulars were available on-line for my browsing pleasure, nearly two weeks before the big event, I decided to check out the options. You know. Research and all.

And, indeed, there I saw it. A 32-inch HDTV advertised for less than a Benjamin. Granted, I had never heard of the name brand. Ever. But with a price so low that we could even pay cash, I thought about going to check that bad boy out in person.

Until I abruptly returned to my senses. 

It was the actual Black Friday theme song on the site that irritated me first. (Seriously AC/DC? Did you really just sell out like this.) And then I methodically started the calculations: How many hours would I have to stand outside? In the Northeast chill? I estimated four. Which, depending on the weather could quickly feel like eight (teen).

What time would I have to eat dinner? Around noon. Or 8 PM, if I still had an appetite. 

And the big one: Why in the hell was I doing this to myself? 

I'm a shopper. A good one. I know the actual price of things, as well as the value. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the real key. So I started investigating the specs of this TV to even see if it was really worth it. That'd be a negative. The resolution wasn't up to par, nor was it a Smart TV. I browse on.

The truth of the matter? No matter what lies you're telling to yourself, I don't think Black Friday is about shopping at all. The internet provides amazing opportunities, with coupon codes AND free shipping. No one stands out in the cold, or gets trampled, and you can save a huge amount of cake. 

In fact, I'd go as far to argue that Black Friday is all about frantic fake anticipation--best served to the millions of people who don't have any means to generate excitement in their daily lives--by big business. A Sisterhood of Shopping if you will, that every single year, millions of already cash strapped people fall for.

Hate on me if you want, but I know Black Friday is all about living on the edge, for those who never take the opportunity in their everyday lives. It's about doing something crazy, like waiting in line while it's still dark and rest of the world is asleep. It's about the adrenaline that comes from rushing inside after the doors are unlocked. Like a way sadder Running With The Bulls--only the prize is an overloaded bin of $1 fleece scarves. 

I don't want any part of that. Ever, but especially this year, as Black Friday blurs into Turkey Thursday and more givens, like the once simple concept that everyone, even minimum waged retail workers, could enjoy a whole day of rest with their families, get eroded by greed. 

This Thanksgiving, I am outstandingly thankful to live in Rhode Island, where our blue laws restrict retail store openings on Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Yay to you Massachusetts and Maine for also continuing the tradition.) Because these so called bargains? They're costing all of us way way more than you even realize.