At first writing seems the perfect job for a control freak. You are alone. At your desk. Making your very own world.These characters you’ve dreamed up, they JUMP when you say JUMP. Okay, perhaps they squirm away from your outline a bit. Or they do that thing where they start musing about the time in high school when they almost dated that awful guy and didn’t he have the worst clothes ever, and you gotta pull them back—but for the most part, everyone know who’s in charge.

Enjoy this.

Make it last.

Do not go to the next step until you are sure you have done all you can to make the greatest book you could dream up, write down, and edit.

Because now comes the part where the control freak in you might just freak out .

Let’s see. Take this simple test to determine how much you’ll enjoy experience of getting published:

1) When I need someone to help me take an important professional step, I like to:

a) Send out endless emails and letters to complete strangers so they can judge me!

b) Conduct extensive research to identify the best 35 candidates, hoping this will ensure a good match.

c) Pick the one person I want to work with based on my carefully formed opinions.

2) After procuring an agent (see above) I want to find a publisher based on:

a) Hey, whoever is willing to print my words is okay with me! Throw the manuscript  out there and see what sticks! My agent doesn’t even have to tell me who is getting it.

b) Work in tandem with my agent, knowing that ultimately she will make the best choices.

c) Tell my agent exactly who I think will do the best by my book and have her write the letter I’ve dictated.

3) After my book is published, my plan is to:

a) Seeing that book out there is enough! I don’t care what anyone says about it, as long as I can hold a printed copy in my hands.

b) Work with my publicist constantly—knowing that I must also work on my own seven days a week for a while in order to get the attention of readers.

c) Have my publicist get reviews in all the major papers and follow up on every lead I suggest.  Oh, and Oprah before she leaves. My book is PERFECT for her. And Terri Gross. And . . .

(more…)

In the weeks before my debut novel released, I resembled a child anticipating her jump from single digit birthdays to the doubles: 10! I could barely sleep—my husband groaned as I slipped out of bed at 4 in the morning. I ignored him and crept away, sneaking off to self-google in privacy.

As I waited for my launch date, invitations began trickling in. A reading at a library. Yay! I love libraries. A fundraiser for domestic violence. Wonderful—a perfect marriage of promotion and altruism. I could appease my inner scolding puritan while getting my book in front of people.

And then my publicist called with news of an event on book release day. Hallelujah—something to do besides scuttle from bookstore to bookstore, peeking between my fingers to see whether my book was boldly displayed up front with the big girls, or hidden deep in the back, only her sad narrow spine visible.

“What is it?” I asked, imagining a signing at the Harvard Book Store. A modest five minutes on the New England Cable News Network. She cleared her throat.

“It’s a Blogtalk radio show. Feisty Over Fifty.”

Was she kidding? This was my release day reward? Feisty Over ‘Effin Fifty?

Being a good girl, I, of course, swallowed my teary disappointment and thanked my lovely publicist (tender in her twenties.) Okay, so I’d spend my launch day coming out of the closet. Here I am, world: feisty. over. fifty.  Not that I thought anyone would believe I was a wunderkind. Have your first child at 21, and you’re pretty much locked out of the lie-about-your-age club.

But did I have to wear the number on my sleeve?

With the news of my soon-to-be coming blogtalk debut, instead of obsessing over my book, I obsessed over being feisty. over. fifty. Because that’s what this world does to us. Makes us squeamish about our age—as though once we pass a certain number admitting one’s age becomes indecent.

I worried. Would young listeners recoil in disgust from the book written by some wrinkly woman? I don’t know, but the show was a delight. The host, Eileen Williams was so warm, funny, and smart, that she stopped me from proceeding down my squirmy path. I realized something. I am over fifty—well over. Newsflash, each of us will pass through every age once. Twenty-somethings become fifty; fifty-somethings turn eighty (if they are lucky.) Why turn away in shame?

This is what I know:

I am happier at 57 than ever before. After spending my twenties and thirties playing Money Jeopardy (“Pay-Which-Bill-in August?” “What is electric,  Alex?“) I can write checks on time and without whiskey. In the second half of my forties, I found the love of my life and we married just before we tumbled into fifty. My daughters and son-in-law are all kind, wise, and honorable people whose company I love. My granddaughter is healthy and, of course, the best little kid in the world.

In January, I realized an enduring dream and Lulu and Merry, those two characters who broke my heart, were brought into existence.

Life is good. I am happy. If you want to call me feisty. over. fifty, I’m just fine with that.

First you gotta have friends . . .

For weeks before my book launch, I obsessed about the party I was giving. Maybe it was because it was a hard bricks and mortar thing—I was facing people in person—or maybe because it was easier to worry about facing an empty restaurant than worrying about reviews. Whatever the reasons, I had many (and conflicting) fears about my launch party:

Nobody will come!

Too many people will come!

However, that night, like Goldilocks, I was lucky, and it turned out just right.

So here’s the thing about giving a book launch party. You gotta have friends. You gotta have family. And you gotta have food. (And to anyone who complains about spending money for this—would you EVER invite people to a party and then NOT serve food??? If so, take me off your invite list.)

Every moment of this party reminded me how lucky I am.

My sister, she didn’t just bring herself—from three hours away—and her incredible warmth, she brought two friends who took pictures, videotaped, and were (silently!) the party angels. (Thanks Linda & Diane!)

My daughter, she didn’t just keep everything on schedule, she moved through the room with smiles, hugs and love for each and every friend from our past and present. Plus, she looked so radiant that I could barely breathe. She even wore a dress that wasn’t black, that’s how much she loves me.

My husband, the best person in the world, who is as far from a party person as you can get, this man circled the room with love and conversation and welcomes for all – and somehow looked after me at the same time. He chatted with my ex-boyfriends AND made sure I had hot water with lemon.

My closest friends were willing to be on their own as I spent my time with people newer to the group. They all looked beautiful, came early, and asked to be put to work. Those are friends. I love my friends.  So much. And my agent came! Seeing her dazzling smile lit up my heart.

I think people dug deeper into their pockets because for every book purchased from the wonderful Newtonville Books, a matching amount went to the Home for Little Wanderers’ Harrington House—an organization working against all odds to provide a home for kids with no place in this world.  When you’re lucky enough in this world to get a book published, you gotta remember to say thanks!

Yes, it was a wonderful party.

I read without choking.

I didn’t cry—and so I didn’t ruin all the make-up I applied in a desperate attempt to look as good as my author photo (thank you to my sister Jill and the miracle of Photoshop!).

In addition, my friends have told me, the launch didn’t make me look fat. Oh yes, that’s what friends are for.

Amazing. Here I am, about to realize my longest-held-dream—publishing a novel—and my biggest concern is whether I‘ll look fat at the launch party.

No matter what the event, we always wonder: how will I look? You bet that Michelle Obama, even as she basked in the glory of becoming First Lady, checked out her reflection from every angle. And you gotta know that it wasn’t just for the press. Mrs. Obama’s closest, realest friends, for sure asked:

What are you wearing?

I am lucky to be part of a “it’s hard out there for a pimp!” promo support group—we’re writers at various stages of releasing and selling novels—and on the night before the week before my book launch party, the question came (from the only man in the group. As a joke. Right, Chris???)

What are you wearing?

I had dinner with my oldest, most supportive friends—my women’s group, my sisters—and they asked:

What are you wearing on Thursday?

Oh, I don’t know. Just one of the 23 outfits I picked up on drastic reduction at Bloomingdale’s . Just one of the 35 outfits I’ve been trying on for the last 4 days. Oh, no big deal—just one of the 666 dresses, skirts, and jackets strewn across my bed, dresser, office, and floor.

I feel ludicrous. Is it possible that I spent more time trying on outfits for this event than I did copy-editing my final chapter?

Do male authors get facials before their book launch parties? Do they worry that their hands are so cracked and chapped from work and cold that they can’t get a manicure, and as a result, when they sign books, people will gasp with horror at their ragged nails?

Do these same men stand stupidly in front of the mirror wearing a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other, wondering which looks better?

Do they wonder if their suit makes them look fat?

So for me:

Surplice dress?

Simple blazer?

Sheath?

Be honest, everyone. Do I look fat in this launch?

One of the unexpected joys of (soon!) publishing a novel is how, like heat and comfort- seeking missiles, you find friends on the same path. Some you know in real life, some you meet on Twitter, some on wonderful sites like Backspace. Virtual or real, in that lonely sweat pants wearing world no matter what your work, first ya gotta have friends.

I’ve not read any of these books in their entirety, but I’ve visited all their websites, read their first chapters online where I could, and pre-ordered each and every one. Thus, in order of pub date, I present, my launch sisters (is it okay if I squeeze myself in there also?) beginning with the first lines of each book.

Part One: January

Double Black: A Ski Diva Mystery by Wendy Clinch. January 5, 2010

“When Stacey Curtis found the dead man in the bed, she knew it was time to get her own apartment.

The writing had been on the wall for a while and she’d ignored it for as long as she could. These empty condos on the mountain were convenient—they had clean sheets and plenty of hot water and maybe even a packet of somebody’s left-behind instant oatmeal to toss in the microwave come morning—and it seemed like a shame to let them sit unused. Especially when she was new in town, just sprung from an engagement gone bad, and living out of a tip jar.

A tip jar and an ‘87 Subaru, to tell the whole truth.”

*********

Saving CeeCee Honeycutt by Beth Hoffman. January 12, 2010:

“Momma left her red satin shoes in the middle of the road. That’s what three eyewitnesses told the police. The first time I remember my mother wearing red shoes was on a snowy morning in December 1962, the year I was seven years old. I walked into the kitchen and found her sitting at the table. No lights were on, but in the thin haze of dawn that pushed through the frostbitten window, I could see red high-heeled shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of her robe. There was no breakfast waiting, and no freshly ironed school dress hanging on the basement doorknob. Momma just sat and stared out the window with empty eyes, her hands limp in her lap, her coffee cold and untouched.

I stood by her side and breathed in the sweet scent of lavender talcum powder that clung to the tufts of her robe.”

*********

Alice I Have Been by Melanie Benjamin. January 12, 2010

“But oh my dear, I am tired of being Alice in Wonderland. Does it sound ungrateful? It is. Only I do get tired.

Only I do get tired.

I pause, place the pen down next to the page, and massage my aching hand; the joints of my fingers, in particular, are stiff and cold and ugly, like knots on a tree. One does get tired of so many things, of course, when one is eighty, not the least of which is answering endless letters.”

*********

The Murderer’s Daughters by Randy Susan Meyers, releasing January 19, 2010

“I wasn’t surprised when Mama asked me to save her life. By my first week in kindergarten, I knew she was no macaroni- necklace- wearing kind of mother. Essentially, Mama regarded me as a miniature hand servant:

Grab me a Pepsi, Lulu.

Get the milk for your sister’s cereal.

Go to the store and buy me a pack of Winstons.

Then one day she upped the stakes:

Don’t let Daddy in the apartment.”

*********

February Launches: coming soon, including:

Drive Time by Hank Phillipi Ryan, releasing February 1, 2010

The Things That Keep Us Here by Carla Buckley, releasing February 9, 2010

Hubris, thy name is me

SHE WRITES, a terrific site for women writers, asked if I’d like to be included in the group of writers they’ve invited to participate in writing a “Countdown to Publication” blog. Well, let me tell you this: having a debut novel launch includes many tasks—some Sisyphean, some plain fun, and all feeding into the monster that is the incredible me’ness of publishing a novel.

So, in the spirit of me, me, me (boy, does my husband appreciate me these days) that is building within me, I will break my rule of not posting about my own book, so continue reading at your own risk. Big head coming:

Your novel has been sold. You can barely breath. After screeching into the phone to your husband/wife/partner/sister/brother, what do you do first? You struggle to walk the balance beam between:

1) Making it the first thing you say to everyone you come in contact with (Gynecologist, in brisk no-shilly-shallying tone, “Scoot down, please.” You, in desperate-for-attention tone, “I sold my book! I sold my book!”)

And

2) Becoming frozen with modesty and fear that no one will ever buy it, so why bother talking about it (Dear Friend: “Did you hear from your agent? Any bites on your book?” You: “It was released last week. No big deal.”)

What you do first is find a way to wrap up your book in ONE SENTENCE. One. If really, really, super-needed, you can give two. Need to know how important this is? Listen the next time your boring uncle recounts the plot of 24. When do you lose the thread…hmmm? When are you shouting shut up in your head?

Point taken?

What do I say when people ask what my book is about? I say, “The Murderer’s Daughters is a dark domestic drama about sisters who witness their father kill their mother, and the effect on their lives for the next thirty-two years.”

Are there about twenty other subplots? Do I find each more fascinating and gripping than the other? Of course. Will they? No. It’s like your children. To you: most amazing daughters in the world. To others: garden-variety children. These people aren’t asking for a synopsis. They’re being polite. They want to be grounded. Did you write a mystery? Suspense? A quiet character study?

If they want more information, well, at that point you can say more. Just don’t use my uncle’s method. In the famous words of James Carville: it’s the economy, stupid. Only in this case, it’s the economy of words.