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Longest night: Day of Doritos and Gratitude

Longest Night. For winter-loving folk it sings a chorus of skis and hockey. For me, it is Shortest Day, SADS on a stick, jabbing me with icy spears of dread while growling threats of carb cravings and cabin fever that even the writer’s cure-all – wine – can’t silence. But this year it may be different. And I have my muse to thank.

To be clear, my muse is not a mythical creature or a figment of imagination. He doesn’t play the harp, rarely wears white, and whlle he’s no doubt modelled a toga or two in his day, does not resemble the Greek legends or angelic deities often attached to artistry’s mysterious element. Oh,no, that would be too easy. My muse is very much human, and a man at that: 5′ 7″ (he would say taller) of flesh, bone, stubborness and attention span swayed instantly by the scent of a football or the hint of cleavage. Yet in a job thrust upon him that neither of us predicted or chose, he offers a rare combination of wisdom, curiosity, and courage that has given rise to three books, will inspire at least four more, and reveals the world to both of us in moments of atomic detail. I have no gift to acknowledge the trust and sacrifice in assuming a role that is in complete defiance of the life he built, with no salary or job description, no office hours or fame. But the longest night does.

To explain that, we return to when the millennium was new and the longest day was his longest night. As summer blossomed from spring, the love of his life took her last breath and with it,  the light of his world. Years later, this fateful anniversary would bring author and muse together with one thing that could penetrate the depths of his darkness: his story in her words. Since then, my muse emerges as a child timid but fascinated by the wonders in our minds, scooping seashells of memories and netting fireflies of imagination to dump them proudly on my desk with a grin and a challenge. Presented with the words, he assumes the position of critical reader. Palms on thighs, eyes closed, he absorbs each syllable as I watch both page and cues. Leaning forward means he is challenging my assertions. Head tipped back shows his search for the images I suggest. Completely still means jackpot: he’s right there in a moment that was or could have been. “You’ve nailed it,” he’ll murmur. “I know,” I’ll reply, and we savour the words offered like sprinkles on a cupcake: not necessary, but nice.

With so much unspoken, the job is more easily dismissed than explained. “Not a muse, an agent,” he had huffed at first, silver head flashing its refusal under the fluorescent lights. “Well, if you’re not my muse, then as an agent you’ll starve,” I retort and he laughed, engaged by a new bridge connecting my world of artistry to his of commerce. Even now, after years of our meetings, I snicker as I imagine him with Scotch in hand, surrounded by conversation and cigar smoke, tightening his tie and his handshake with the introduction: “Yes, I’m a life underwriter, financial planner, and muse.” I try to picture the reactions, the requests to repeat that last part, to define the job, the terms, the benefits. Then, I admire his courage even more. For as real as he is, I too struggle with revealing that which is so natural between us to the narrowed views of those ‘out there’. How to explain the need for arguments with no winners, only a story clearer, smoother, energized by the rasping of our thoughts and words? How to honour the courage in offering one’s life stories to a critical world when thanks is dismissed with cool logic? “I’ve already lived the life,” he replies quietly. “I have nothing to lose by sharing what’s already been.” How to thank someone who endures author rants and reader indifference, juggles quarterly reports and galley proofs, while embracing each encounter with phone turned off and insight tuned in?

Above all, what gift is there to acknowledge his commitment to save me from myself? He teeters between a life that is and a life that could be, above the darkness we both fear, allowing me the freedom to explore, reunite, and reveal ourselves while keeping me from plunging too far and too fast. There is nothing I could buy, write, or promise that repays such dedication.

But the longest night can.

This year, my muse will spend its sparse daylight hours winging his way to a Christmas we all deserve: a holiday wih no boardrooms, calendars, or financial forecasts, only family, football and the bustle of a house devoted to peace on earth and goodwill toward men, women, children, and their stomachs. Before the longest night descends, he will be tucked into the warmth of a young family’s couch, with a new grandchild exploring her first Christmas and her Poppa with joyful, drooling abandon. It is the perfect start to a new season, and a fervent reminder of the light that can spring from darkness.

I will still mourn daylight’s loss with tantrums, Doritos and frequent naps, yet warmed by the image of my muse at rest I will learn not to worry when or if all will come to light, but appreciate the opportunities hidden in darkness.

After all, a season that spawned mulled wine can’t be all bad.

Merry Christmas, my muse.

Happy Holidays to all.

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From the mouths of babes and their favourite shirts

It was a Sunday morning fight I just didn’t need. Morning comes too early anyway, and the battle between my warm cozy nest and the rigid hardwood of a church pew was raging in my head long before Youngest Daughter twirled proudly in her self-made Sunday best: jeans and a T-shirt. Now, I have accepted that my willfull third-born will no longer tolerate the sweet dresses and matched outfits of toddlerhood. Main goal today is to get her to church with a Christian demeanour still intact. The Lord doesn’t care how you look as long as you show up, echoes in my head. Jeans I could live with. The shirt, however, was another story – a tiny pink tee with Tootsie candies proclaiming Let’s Roll!, guarded defiantly by its eight-year-old owner despite its faded fabric, cracked decal, and seams meant for a torse two sizes smaller. Bravely, I suggest another shirt. Eyes darken and lips extend in a pout that will ease only after someone cries. With a single bead of optimism, I align three lovely shirts on the bed, extolling their virtues as an auctioneer wooes his audience. This one has a butterfly, see? And this one is purple; you love purple. A glimmer of hope, and the pout relaxes. Maybe purple would be okay. It is my favourite colour, and the Advent candles are purple.

She wriggles out of the Tootsie Roll into a long-sleever with the word PEACE descending on its front. “You know,” she offers shyly, smoothing her hand over the letters, “the other shirt was getting a bit small. I just didn’t want to tell you.” I know, I reply. it is your favourite shirt. it’s just that you’re growing, and things change. She gazes at me. “This feels a lot better,” she chirps, eyes bright now in relief. You can keep the other one for play, I smile. She dashes to her room, then calls to me: can I put it in the bag to give away? You bet, I reply. We have pictures of her in her favourite shirt. That’s what is important.

What I saw in her lithe little body, adorned in polycotton that respected her new size, was relief not from the fabric but from the secret. To admit her shirt didn’t fit would mean to lose it. Say nothing, and no one would know. But her body knew and in our moments tgether, her mind realized it as well. In the safety of our conversation, she could reveal her secret, and learned that good things come when sharing a burden with someone you trust. Our mother-daughter relationship has been growing since she was conceived, and touchstones like these tell me we’re doing okay, and life is that much easier when we have places to share.

The author-reader relationship can also be an important arena for sharing. As writers, we help characters share their secrets and in the process, share a little bit of autobiography as well. As readers, we often shed our secrets in the safety of pages, in other people’s homes, lives, and realities that mirror or remind us of our own. As authors and readers, we find success when we build and protect that trust and strengthen the ability to share. We write and we read because it is important to us. It takes time, costs money, and insists we invest our feelings as well as our thoughts, but we continue to do it. We write and we read because as painful as it can be, it feels oh-so-good when it’s done. The secret is shed, our trappings swapped for something that fits and feels better.

There will be more shirts, and always, there will be memories.

Thanks to the reminder of a smart little girl, I’m pumped for more words as well.

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For whom the jingle bells ring: testing the craft show market

Our Christmas craft show season begins with the first whiff of Thanksgiving turkey (October in Canada, eh?), but seasoned pros spend the entire year stockpiling inventory, planning displays, and banking vacation time from their ‘real’ jobs to enter the frenzied lottery that is the craft fair market.

Can booksellers tap this market? As a new author (first adult novel out a year ago, second just released), I am still learning to swim in the choppy waters of self-marketing, and took the plunge to find out. My test venue was an urban show of nearly 400 vendors that drew about 20,000 people.

The short answer is, I spent three days selling all of four books. Here are my numbers:

Cost of table: $410.00

Cost of travel: $37×3=$111

Cost of meals: $20×3=$60

Cost of supplies/decor: $50

Total Cost: $631.00

(prices do not include GST/HST as our company receives a rebate against tax owed)

Revenue from sales: $86.00

Revenue from sharing table/expenses: $250.00

Total Revenue: $336.00

Net: – $295.00

I lost money even though I found a fellow author to share the table: an author, by the way, who has been writing children’s books for years and sold 40 copies across her five available titles, more than paying her expenses. As ,umm, disappointing as it was watching her titles move while mine stared plaintively at folks who picked them up, admired them, then set them back down, that was a lesson in itself. In addition to my table mate’s voice of experience, here is what I gained in ‘qualitative revenue’:

– industry contacts: in my case, two other publishers who were in attendance. One in particular had a wealth of knowledge on new technology and sales trends.

– sales experts: trade show veterans offering advice on best shows, booth arrangement, crowd control

– market research: watching what people buy, what people are attracted to, how traffic flows. At this show, hot items were food, baby clothes, wooden decor, flowers, and more food. Most shoppers had young children or were shopping for young children. Very few were shopping for themselves; fewer still were avid readers.

– exposure: I know, writers can die from this if there is no money attached, but as a new author, there is no substitute for the hours of physical presence needed to build book, name, and brand recognition. For every book sold, I gave out dozens of business cards, practiced my pitch, and smiled, chatted or nodded to hundreds of more who passed by.

Comparison costs:

To reach this audience via print media: $400-$1,000.00

Broadcast ad: $2000.00 plus production

Market research: $10,000.00

Signings are free, but typically don’t draw crowds in the thousands, even if you’re an established author.

I’ll admit, my pride was stinging more than my back was aching as I lugged out nearly as many books as I had carted in. That sting was eased with the knowledge that I was also bringing home real-life experience on what does and can work for selling my books, and what does not: in other words, my expenses were not lost revenue but tuition for a real-life course in marketing and promotion.

Will I do it again? When my anguished pride completely heals and the cash flow recovers, I’ll weigh my ability to pay with my chances of improving the odds, and decide from there. At least when I do next year’s marketing plan, I will have much more information to work with. And if anguish is the writer’s fuel, I’ve got a full tank and then some 🙂

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Trick or Treat: What this writer is really afraid of

It’s the season of scare and I’ve already had my fill. Goosebumps erupted with a vengeance at the sight of snow on my deck during Sunday’s nor-easter. My hands gnarled in torturous anticipation of having to turn my demanding 10 year old into a watermelon superhero using nothing more than a shirt, a pillowcase, and an obscure prayer to the Patron Saint of Costumes.

But that is nothing compared to the terror we authors live with every day. So today, in honour of this most spirited celebration of the frightful, I invite you deep into my writer’s lair for a peek at what this author is really afraid of.

1. Not being read. It’s like high school all over again, throwing a party and the only ones who come are your grandmother, your brother because your parents paid him, and the creepy kid down the street who picks his nose to make his own pets. Except now you’re an adult, your grandmother’s passed on, your brother’s number is unlisted and the creepy kid is a lawyer charging $300 bucks an hour for public appearances.

2. Being read. After all, if people read your book, they may not like it and will forever ridicule you. Simple trips to the grocery store will become dashes through volleys of ‘you call that a book?’ and ‘you write like a girl.’ Okay, so the second one is actually a compliment; I make no assertions for the intelligence of said critics. On the other hand, if folks read it and actually like it, they will expect you to do it again, except better and in time for the next holiday gift-giving season. Who can possibly be creative under that kind of pressure?

3. The silence. It’s classic horror movie fare: no sound at all, until a sudden crescendo of horns, strings, and gushing blood hurls you from your seat and into the popcorn you’ve just sprayed around the room. But in the book world, the silence never ends: minutes tick to hours which drag to days of no one liking your facebook posts, no new follows on Twitter, no comments on your blog … you dash with newfound hope to the ringing phone, only to be hit up for a blood donation. As if you haven’t already given your heart and soul: they want your fluids as well.

4. The uncontrolled emotion. The Vincent Price-like laughter that erupts whe people ask how much money you make as an author. The writhing sea of green that churns every time the author on the news isn’t you. The tears that threaten to drown you and the wide-eyed ingenue who gushes: ‘You’re a writer? You’re living my dream.” Embarrassment and potential legal action aside, these outbursts pose great difficulty when trying to sucessfully find one’s way home, or trying to ensure one’s children don’t go dashing to the neighbours again because ‘Mommy’s got her writing face on.”

5. An end to the insanity. Because when the tears are dried, the book is written and every last drop of wine is drained from the bottle (and sucked from the cork), the writer’s life is one that chooses us, and that we choose to accept. I mean, quite frankly, in what other profession can all your fears fuel something as cool as a woven tapestry of the written word?

So bring on the monsters. Mine are bigger. Might as well have fun with them.

Happy Halloweeen, everyone!

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W-Day: A Fresh Start

In cyber-time, I haven’t posted a new blog since I-Pad 1s ruled the Apple store, so this is long overdue. I’m easing in slowly, committing one day a week. Wednesday. W-day, for cool women I’ve met or hope to meet.

As fate would have it, I attended an awesome event last night combining two of my favourite things: reading and well-appointed bars. More than a Reading Series debuted Oct. 18 at the Economy Shoe Shop in the heart of downtown Halifax. I got to meet three other authors, two of whom were newbies like me. I got to enjoy the company of good friends who came to cheer me on. I was able to introduce Little Jack and his compadres to a new crop of potential readers.

And I got to do this through the stellar efforts of the keen lady of the day: Kathleen Healy, Editorial Director of Bryler Publications Inc.

I hesitate calling her a lady, only because at age 24, she’s young enough to be my daughter. Like I ever thought I would hear myself saying that. However, she already has a very proud mom and for good reason. At an age when many of her peers are languishing at home bemoaning their futures between texts, she has rediscovered her passion and set out full-tilt to earn a living at of all things, publishing books.

I know. Kids her age aren’t supposed to be reading anything not posted, tweeted or broken down into initials and here she is, devoting her life to the creation and promotion of the ultimate printed tome. My daughter is clamouring for an I-Pod Touch for Christmas and Kathleen wants bookshelves. Young enough to be my daughter, maybe, but definitely her own person.

She admits to taking a few detours. Academia was her calling, she thought, until she realized over time that the pursuit of higher knowledge was depleting her deeper calling: that of writing, reading, and thoroughly enjoying a good story. She switched her higher education gears to publishing, then set her sights on a new company that she believed was so perfect for her, she spent six months working for free to prove her point. Now, she is living and working in rural Nova Scotia in her chosen field, as well as one or two others to subsidize her passion. And if her days aren’t busy enough acquiring manuscripts and working with authors to make their writing dreams come true, she has taken on this new reading series to help highlight the work of not only her employer, but other regional publishers as well. She issued invites, set the lineup, read all of our books, wrote the questions, and delivered everything with the relaxed glee of someone doing what she truly loves.

Books are dead? Not as long as there are folks like Kathleen. It makes this new author and old fogey have hope that even if I can never afford an I-Pod Touch on my book earnings, I can still do what I love and make a difference.

Now if I can figure out how to wrap that up for my daughter …

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Finding Maria first blog post

Welcome! This is an event of firsts for me.

This is my first blog posting, on my first web site, to invite you to share in the release of my first novel, Finding Maria.

For the past 20 years, I have earned my living as a non-fiction writer. The only things I wrote purely for enjoyment were invoices and bank deposits.

To describe the writing of a novel as enjoyable is to describe barreling down Space Mountain (or any other of those terrifying roller coasters) as a Sunday drive. However, getting to know Jack, Gwen, Rose, and Billie, as well as Rover, Joe, Gus, and the others who played an integral role in Jack Brandugan’s life has been much the same: intriguing, heartbreaking, terrifying, and yes, fun. I hope you agree when you read the book.

I look forward to your thoughts on the book, the web site, the writing process, or the world of books in general.

– Jennifer Hatt