Congrats, Clare Wilson!

One of my oldest and best twitter author friends, Clare Wilson, is launching her second book, and my blog is part of the release celebration! Today Clare tells us about her experiences as a traditionally and self-published author. 

Congrats again, Clare! You've written another lovely book! How I wish I could be there for your launch party and get an autographed copy. Have a lot of fun! x

PS: And yes; you ARE an author!

Between a Rockin' Ebook and a Hardback Copy

There have been countless articles written on the merits and disadvantages of self publishing versus traditional. One thing is for certain, the world of publishing is going through its biggest change since the rise of the affordable paperback, and we as writers all need to roll with the punches.

As a young writer (relatively speaking), I have never been a part of the old-school publishing world. Any writer will tell you, the people getting lottery win advances are few and far between. Much to my frustration, most of these people tend to be celebrities either writing about their boring lives, or fulfilling their hidden dreams to pen fiction. How much of it is directly written by such people is another hot topic for debate, but as mere artists, ours is not to reason why...

Anyway, I wanted to talk a little bit about where I find myself in this mystifying new universe of books. I am not a self-publishing evangelist, nor, as I have said, am I a die hard traditional publishing stalwart. I strangely lie somewhere in a murky grey area betwixt the two.

My first book The Long Staff was published by Olida Publishing in October 2010, and the second book in this series The Ancient Exile is being officially released as of the start of May 2013. Olida is one of the many up and coming indie publishing houses, which are pushing the big boys to sit up and take notice. In my case, they are responsible for the hard copies of my Staff Wielder Books, and do not have the e-book publishing rights. While I don't know how common this is, it has given me a rather unique learning opportunity. I am responsible for self-publishing my book online, while my publisher has produced a fabulous hard copy of each title and also provides me with the benefits therein.

Since my book was released in 2010, my relationship with my publisher has allowed me to gain access to such organisations as The Society of Authors. I have visited a good number of schools as a 'published' author, and this has allowed me to reach out to an audience that wouldn't be more complicated to reach from behind my laptop.

I have also had my book appear at such prestigious events as The Edinburgh Book Festival and the Bologna Book Fair. Finally, a highlight for me was getting to appear on the official programme at The Wigtown Book Festival in 2012. 

Being affiliated to a publisher has also opened the doors to great organisations like The Scottish Book Trust, who have enabled me to perform at paid school events north or the border, something which greatly boosts a non-existent income. 

The one area which still eludes me is the bookstore... While I have had some great support from that rare breed, the independent bookstore, chain stores like Waterstones are much harder to crack. I don't come from a large publishing house, so getting in the door is extremely difficult, even with my publisher. 

Still, maybe as bookstores dwindle, this is something that doesn't matter to the same extent. There is a worldwide audience out there, and through the internet, no-one is unreachable any more, even if you need to be smart about where you look.

So, we come to my self-publishing experience. I find that I have learned a great deal, and also been given a great deal of freedom. The editions of the books which appear online are ones which I have been able to finally edit myself. Not only that, but I have control over the pricing of the books, and I can track sales figures at any time, rather than waiting for a statement from my publisher. I have been able to reach a great many new readers online through Twitter and Facebook, using my control over my ebook as a tremendous tool. 

Using KDP with my first book, I have been able to achieve more than double the figures in downloads than I have in hard copy sales, even if a lot of these were when my book was on special offer. 

So, in conclusion, where does this leave me? As I said, I am neither a self-published author, nor am I paid cash advances by a publisher with the clout to get me in shop windows or on TV book clubs. I am the little indie author who sits between the two worlds, belonging to neither, yet striving to succeed in both. I don't think traditional publishing is dead, but, like Professor X's new generation of humans, there are some super-smart writers out there, swimming upstream. They won't be ignored and they won't wait for an illusive deal with an agent or publisher.

Who am I? I write, therefore I am... I may not make a serious living yet, but I AM a writer.

Airport Ramblings

American public places have a preference for the color beige.

They also tend to be dingy.

I’m talking JFK airport right now, and I’m comparing it to Frankfurt or Hamburg airport.

JFK is a BIG airport, isn’t it? It’s big seen from an international standpoint, I believe. And yet it is dingy, beige and uninviting. I wonder why that is.

The music is too loud, too. There’s nothing here that makes me want to linger, and maybe that’s the intention. But the place also looks as if it had been built in the 70s and then let to sit here, no renovations, no rebuilding, nothing.

I mean, really? A huge big airport, and just ONE - ONE! - line for security checks? They really like to herd people here, make them stand in line, no matter if you get on a plane or come off it. 

Aha, Bette Midler is singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” while I hang here, waiting to board.

 I have a lot of time to kill. The cab needed thirty-five minutes to get me from Jersey City to JFK. I know, it’s the ninth world wonder, but the streets were actually totally clear on this Tuesday morning. Driving toward Holland Tunnel we saw an amazing sunrise, the Empire State Building hazy in the distance.

Yes, I was humming “Leaving New York” when we drove through Manhattan on Canal, it was that kind of feeling.

And sitting here now, I want to close my eyes and go back to sleep, be somewhere else,  be where it is  quiet and cool and dark.

Air travel in the USA is no fun.

There’s also no elegance to it, nothing of the worldliness and exuberance it still has in Germany.

I’m a bit homesick right now. Homesick for the comfort and style of my home country, for the solidity of stone buildings that were meant to outlast centuries, wars and storms, and that look weathered but never beaten down.

I’m longing for porcelain plates and metal forks even in takeout places, and I would like to not see old people swiping the floor of this eating area at JFK to make a living.

I’m tired. It’s nobody’s fault. I’m just tired from getting up very early, not having had enough coffee and standing in line for too long. In fact, the in-line-standing will make me think very hard and long before I come back to the States. They do that really well here, and with enthusiasm.

At JFK, all by myself.

A lone traveler, lost somewhere in the USA. 

Somehow it feels different, going forward on a journey, than returning home. Going home, all pretences can be dropped, and nevermind the suitcase full of dirty laundry. Going onward, you still need to keep yourself together, dress properly, be on good manners, be your best self.

I’m going to a place I’ve never yet been: Salt Lake City

I have to let go of the fetters of New York City now and give myself to the West, to dry heat and a high altitude, to different food and strange, new faces.

It’s the reason why I love these trips: I want to meet new people who have been friends on Twitter or Facebook for a long while, but who I’ve never met in real life yet.

Traveling like this makes me feel alive and real like nothing else ever has done. I’m myself, and yet someone totally different.

I can do this!

I can navigate an airport, a strange city, a strange country, all on my own. 

I’m not afraid of accosting strangers if I have to, and I can buy food and coffee for myself. I even figured out how to use an American ATM machine!

I can sit patiently at an airport for three hours until boarding time if my cab was way faster than expected.

I can sit here at JFK airport and wait to get on my flight to Salt Lake while the silver bodies of the American Airlines planes glint in the sun as they roll toward take-off. 

And now I wish this bloody airport had free wifi so I could post this blog.

But like for everything else, they make you pay for that, just like you have to pay an outrageous $25 if you have to check in luggage.

Really? How come European airlines don’t have to do that, and you even get your meals free, and the airports are prettier?

Planes are standing in line, too, waiting to take off. I can see them from where I’m sitting in the lounge. 

I’ll finish my coffee now and slowly make my way to my gate. Maybe I’ll find a manicure parlor on the way.

PS: American airport coffee is awful.

All Over Again

A year ago today it was snowing.
It had been frosty and cold for days, and that day, December 1, it began to snow.
I remember how I looked out of the window in the early morning and cursed a bit because it meant I'd have to put on my very comfy and very warm, but also very ugly winter boots to go out.
At that time, I was still working at school, and the Christmas Show we had been rehearsing for was only five days away.
So I dressed, made coffee, stared out of the window some more, admired the neighbors' holiday decorations, listened to the hubby grumble about having to scrape snow from the car, and then I turned on my computer.
There was one important task for me to do that morning, before I set out for school and the cold auditorium for another round of rehearsals: I was going to submit my first book ever to a publisher, for the first time ever.
I knew nothing about submitting.
I had no proper synopsis, no query letter, only a hastily slapped together summary in the "you know, and that's really all that happens" manner, I had no bio other than that I'd been born and was still alive, and my pitch was "I'll do what I have to do, except dance naked on tables". Yes, I really wrote that.
And slapped an unformatted, very lengthy manuscript into an attachment.


I'm kidding you not, that's how it went. I was in a hurry, the publisher had requested the book, and they kept asking for it. So I sent it off. I remember being totally ecstatic for about three hours, and then the panic set in.
The book was too long. I hadn't done my best with the editing. I hadn't found a good ending.
I HAD NOT WRITTEN A GOOD BOOK AT ALL AND IT SUCKED AND THE PUBLISHER WOULD NOT EVEN BOTHER TO REPLY.


My hubby, patient, loving soul that he is, bore it all, and more of his hair turned silver.


A day before Christmas I fell into depression. And I MEAN depression.
My older son, a medical doctor, came around, took one look at me curled up on the couch, a mound of used tissues on the carpet, and went out to get me a pack of antidepressant.
Totally listless by then, I watched my family put up the Christmas tree. The presents weren't wrapped, there weren't even presents for everyone, and I hadn't done any grocery shopping for the holidays.
And it didn't mean a thing to me.
I wanted that book deal. I wanted that email telling me I had that book deal.
My older son kept telling me, "Why are you making such a fuss? Of course they'll take it!"
Only I didn't really think it was going to be that easy.


I had to wait until the middle of January until I got THAT reply, and a little longer until the contract was finalized, but it really was that easy, in the end.


The reason why I'm writing this now is because last night, exactly a year after submitting "The Distant Shore", I finished writing the sequel, "Under The Same Sun".
And I'm full of gratitude and blissfully happy because I'm allowed to do this, I'm allowed to be a writer. I have the best publisher in the world.


I think writing one book and getting it published is a pretty cool thing. I mean, it's VERY cool.
But finishing a second is way cooler. It's a totally new dimension. It proves you have more in you, writer-wise, than just one burst of creativity. It proves you have a chance of being in it for the long run, have that career as an author.


So I'm sitting here on my couch, my favorite red velvet cushion in my back, my cat beside me on his favorite red fluffy plaid, hubby has made fresh coffee, and I'm opening the "Same Sun" file to start the editing of my brand new novel.


Come on, Santa. Try and top that.






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I Am, I Write

I've been in a mind to write about writing for a while now, but it always seemed presumptuous, and I don't really have time for it, and anyway, I don't care too much for blogging. Yes, I know, big mistake, authors have to have a blog and post regularly, and so on.  Have you ever had a feeling of distance on your computer? Like, some pages, files, whatever, are simply farther away from what you do daily than other stuff? Well, that's how I feel about my blog. It's in the farthest corner of Safari, somewhere DOWN THERE WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE and I don't like to go there. It involves work.

Sometimes there's a subject I'd really like to rant blog about, but I'm not that stupid, and I keep my trap shut until the moment is over, or I do in fact write the blog post, but then my poor publisher gets dumped with it, and of course has to comment or leave me still in ranting mode, and unhappy. Publishers have a hard life sometimes, and sometimes they are more babysitters than publishers.

Anyway. I'm rambling.

What I really wanted to write about today is... writing.

I don't believe you can teach writing. There, it's said. I believe you can teach technique, grammar, maybe even style. There may be a way to teach plotting, storyline, dialogue, characterization, even description. You can put all these together, and maybe a couple more that I forgot, and you have the classic creative writing program. Oh yes, punctuation. Ah, and... contractions (*doffs head to publisher*).

But if you put all these together and shake well, all you have is CRAFT. I want to compare this to creating a clone. You can grow a perfect clone, the prettiest girl on Earth, or the most adorable male, and yet they are empty husks, nothing but bodies, because the main ingredient is missing: the soul. The thing you cannot teach is the feel for writing, how to make it come alive.

A writer has to be able to observe. I'd almost go so far and postulate that this is a major ability for a writer. Everything that goes into a story, every emotion, every expression, the way a twig bends under snow, you must have observed it to put it into words. If you don't see your surroundings, you can't describe them.

Just as important, I believe, is visualization. To write a scene, you have to see it in your mind. It's as if the characters are doing private theater scenes in your head. They act them out, you write them down. They deliver the dialogue, all you have to do is listen. And write.

Writing is not a job. It's something you do, or you don't. There's no half-way writing. It happens all the time. Either you're at your desk, typing, or kneading the story in your head, or collecting impressions, or doing research or playing out dialogues while you clean the bathroom. You may not even notice you're writing, but the next time you sit down to actually type, you'll notice.

Either you're a writer, or you are not.

That's basically all. I said, BASICALLY. This is a declaration of faith, and nothing more. I've said my piece. Generally, I think talking about writing is a waste of time, when I could instead by writing a story.

To say it in the undying words of Yoda: There is no try. Either do, or do not.