My ideal writing spot

My husband asked me to write about my ideal writing spot. I told him that I already knew my ideal writing spot — a cabin at nearby Mozingo Lake. After all, I said, I could curl up on the couch next to a fireplace in a cozy nook, look out the window at the lake, and type.

I don’t have access to that spot more than once a year or so, which means I have to deal with less than ideal writing spots. Take, for example, my living room (my most common writing spot). I generally write sitting on the couch, with a lap desk securely holding my Surface Pro 3 (an older but serviceable tablet with detachable keyboard). We have a fireplace, sort of — one of those little plug-in electric heaters that if one pretends really well looks like a fireplace. There’s tea here when Richard makes a pot. It’s not my favorite spot, though, because I can’t spread out and be cozy.

We have an office, a small room that was touted as a bedroom in the real estate ads for this house yet seems too small to put even a twin bed in. It’s overfull with bookshelves and a library table, and although its large monitor calls to me, the feeling of cluttered claustrophobia keeps me from taking the space seriously.

Going out to write, of course, gives me a fresh perspective on writing. Board Game Cafe in Maryville, MO (as I’ve mentioned before) has good coffeehouse ambience with just enough distraction to make writing easy. The Starbucks in the campus library (aka the best Starbucks in the US given its location and spacious seating area) works excellently. Both these places need a fireplace, though.

Going back to the Mozingo cabin, I think the reason it’s my favorite writing space is because it’s truly a retreat, a visible break from everyday routine. It’s something I can’t have all the time. Even if we put a real fireplace in my comfortable living room (impossible because of the need for ventilation) my living room would be someplace I would need to take a break from, to get a new view on my writing.

I’m still looking for how to make home more ideal, though.

My Qualms about Self-Publishing

I said I would share my reservations about self-publishing.

My first reservation — and I might as well get it out of the way — traditional publishing feels more legitimate. Agents and publishers curate one’s work and bestow the title of “author” and all its blessings unto the writer. The reputation of the publisher reflects upon the writer. Traditional publishing speaks of centers of commerce, big cities, a certain cachet. On the other hand, self-publishing feels to me like declaring oneself an author, hoping nobody puts an asterisk after it because it’s not blessed by a publishing house. Do I need someone else to tell me I’m an author? Honestly, yes. It sounds stupid, but there it is.

My second reservation relates to the first — I feel unsuited to self-promotion. There’s a reason I didn’t go into sales; in fact, professoring is the polar opposite to sales. As a professor, my work is judged on its scientific and factual merit, its rhetorical accuracy, and its readability — not its saleability. I fear that promoting myself will consist of getting into people’s faces and disturbing their regularly scheduled Facebook lives and begging them to read my book. I can’t even bring myself to ask my Facebook friends to read my book, much less strangers. I tried putting one of my books on WattPad, and had a total of 21 readers, whereas much more poorly written items had thousands of readers.

My third reservation has to do with resources — how much of my writing time will go into promoting my book? I have a full time career already, and I’m the sole earner in my family so retiring early isn’t an option. I also have little money to put into promotion.

My fourth reservation? I have no idea what to do for self-publishing past “Write, edit, find a cover, post on a platform”. Someone suggested asking a published author to make a recommendation — I am acquainted to one, and she didn’t return my request.

What isn’t a concern? Making money. I’m still not in this for the money (although it would be good to break even in terms of editing and promotional outlays). I want to be read; I want people to think my work is good. I’m not expecting a huge number of readers, especially as agents don’t champion my work because they don’t think they’ll get a return on it.

I’m just really, really scared of self-publishing.

Playing Devil’s Advocate to my Writing Career

Well, we survived the power outage yesterday, and the windchill now is only -18 F (-28 C). We spent about 2 1/2 hours in candlelight and bundled up with hot tea (the stove still worked) in hand. We still had charge on our computers and internet from a backup power system for our modem and router.

So I’m still here, despite the cold, despite the fact that I got another rejection yesterday.

I’m still here, but I don’t know what that means.

I think about giving up writing at times. I’ve slowed down considerably on the writing front to edit the backlog of what I’ve written, so it’s harder to remember the thrill of writing new things. It’s easier to examine my writing, find the places where I fell into mediocrity, and wonder if my work deserves to get published.

It’s harder to remember the reasons I started writing — because I felt I had something important to say — and easier to consider the work, the hard work of writing and editing and querying — with no guaranteed rewards.

It’s harder to call myself a writer and easier to let it fade away and find another hobby.

I’ve given up things before — I used to write songs. I used to be a singer-songwriter until I divorced my guitarist twenty-some years ago and couldn’t perform my songs anymore. Those songs, almost twenty in number, still exist; I don’t sing them anymore. I wrote a song a couple years ago with my friend Mary Shepherd — it’s a Christmas carol. I don’t know what to do with it.

Giving up is not necessarily a bad thing. If the practice isn’t worth the pain, if the resources put in do not yield rewards, the logical thing is not to continue putting time into something that’s not working. To put more time or money into a fruitless pursuit or a junker car is called the sunk-cost fallacy, and like all fallacies, it is illogical.

I don’t know that I’m going to give up writing, but I have to look at it as a viable option, and ask myself if it’s still worth the time to me if I can’t get traditionally published.

My feelings about self-publishing are worth their own essay.

aaaaand the power just went out.

I think that if I could pick the one time I would not want the power to go out, it would be on that morning when we have a negative 30 wind chill. Here I sit, writing in candlelight while the Internet battery backup allows me to still post. Then we have a wi-fi hotspot with at least a little more juice if we need it

We have a generator in case this lasts longer than an hour or two. That will give us heat and refrigeration at least. We will not freeze, but we may find ourselves a bit chilly.

This was not how I expected to spend this day off. Not at all.

The Wind Chill

The temperature at this moment is -17 F (-22 C) with windchills of -32 F (-35.5 C). At this temperature, any exposed skin will develop frostbite in ten minutes. The US Postal Service suspends deliveries to save its workers from literally freezing to death and schools shut down. Outdoors could kill me today with very little effort, if I were to venture out and stay there.

I’m not sure why I got out of bed this morning. It’s hard even thinking about moving, even in a blessedly warm house, with temperatures outside like that. It’s bitterly cold outside, and my body wants to eat high-carb food, gain twenty pounds of fat, and hibernate for the winter.

I will do nothing of the sort. I have coffee to drink, blankets to swath myself in, books to edit. I have gardens to plan. I defy the chill, even though it frightens me with its potency outside.

Dream or Let Go?

Sometimes I still dream of success.

To me, success in writing looks like:

Finding an agent
Getting a publishing contract
Having a readership and modest sales
Interacting with others on my blog

Given that I haven’t achieved the first yet, and given that the other goals are probably dependent on that first goal. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get there.

This is why I’m considering self-publishing, but I have so many questions about it, such as:

If you self-publish, will people always put a figurative asterisk by the word “author” after your name?
How do you get the word out about your novel?
If my novel doesn’t get accepted by agents, is there really a chance that readers will gravitate to it in self-published format?
Can one get famous (ok, somewhat well-known) self-publishing?
Will I have to spend all my time promoting my book instead of writing?

These questions may be proof that I’m still dreaming and doing a lot of assuming. I’m assuming that my books are good enough to find a following rather than languishing on a virtual shelf somewhere, which is a lot to assume even if I get traditionally published.

My affirmation cards keep saying that I have great ideas, the time is not right, let go of expectations, to the point that the same cards keep showing up in readings.

Our American society says that we should hold on to our dreams. Buddhism, on the other hand, suggests attachment — even to a dream — causes unhappiness. Which shall I do — hold on or let go?

I’m Not Feeling It

My writing life lately has been meh.

Current projects: finish re-re-re edit of Apocalypse (halfway done) so it can be dev edited. Add a couple thousand words to the dev edited Voyageurs so I can send it out for queries. Wait to see if any agents nibble on Prodigies (not good so far with rejections in the double digits). Flesh out idea for possible new novel, but I’m not feeling it.

That’s pretty much the problem today — I’m not feeling it. Whatever it is.

I have a Tarot deck, but it reads in terms of themes and affirmations rather than predictions. I don’t trust predictions, because it’s easy to insert wishful thinking and get disappointed. I read by shuffling the cards repeatedly and reading what falls out of the deck. My cards today: Hanged man (It’s not time yet; surrender your expectations) and Page of Earth (undeniable evidence that hard work will pay off). Which seems … contradictory.

Meh.

I suppose it could be the winter. It’s hard to get inspired when everything outside appears the same uniform shade of grey, and going outside means braving the cold (Wednesday’s windchills are predicted to be -40F/-40C) The earth is hibernating and so, it seems, is my brain.

So I’m looking for inspiration because I’m not feeling it. Anything you can send me for inspiration (honestly, I mean it — you can comment on posts!) would be appreciated.

Welcome to My Winter Morning

Sunday morning, and Richard and I sit on the couch over coffee and Baroque music.

Our living room provides comfort with cream and burgundy and dark wood. Clutter from projects and plant catalogs litter the coffee table as garden planning helps us through the winter days. I sit on the couch next to Richard with a lap desk on my lap, tapping on the keys of a Microsoft Surface. Words come slowly today; maybe the coffee hasn’t taken effect yet.

The beans that Richard roasted came from Malawi, and the coffee brews up rich and brown sugar sweet with a slight herbal note. Yo-Yo Ma plays Bach on cello over a set of old yet functional speakers.

Chucky, the big butterscotch-colored cat, races upstairs chasing an unseen sprite. Me-Me, grey tabby and white, regards us with her huge, wondrous green eyes. Snowy, pitch-black and ironically named, sits in front of the fake fireplace warming herself by electric heat. Girlie-Girl, calico patched, demands something. Richard shrugs his shoulders and tells the cat he has no idea what she wants.

I light a candle, and the scent of sandalwood wafts to me. I drink my second cup of coffee and think about the seeds cold-stratifying in the refrigerator and other seeds in their packets waiting for the right time to be introduced to soil and water. It’s winter outside, and the weather forecast says it will get even colder, but for now I sit in my warm house on a Sunday morning.

Buddy the Cat writes a guest column

Hey, I’m Buddy. I’m a cat, as you may have gathered from the title. Suspend your disbelief for a moment and accept that you’re reading a furry creature’s thoughts.

My people found me in their garage one day hanging out. Most people would be like, “Hey, there’s a strange cat in our garage. Let’s call Animal Control.” My people put out a food dish instead, so I stuck with them, patrolling their yard for intruders and snacking on their food. I let them pet me, of course.

Then one day I cut myself on something in the garage, big cut at the base of my tail that looked like I tried to skin myself. No big deal; I’m an outdoor cat and we’re tough. But my people caught me and loaded me up and took me to someone they called “the vet”, who stuck me a few times and stitched up my tail. But then the vet said, “Keep him indoors for at least three-four days,” and that’s how I became an indoor cat.

Indoors is warm, but it comes with five other cats. I’ll sit near them sometimes, but I’m not an overly emotional guy. The big cat likes to chase me around, but I set him straight, and now he respects my need for space.

It’s nice living with my people. I still go outside sometimes, usually by making a break for it through the basement door before they can catch me. It’s important that I guard the yard from miscreants, because my people don’t know how to. It’s up to me to take care of them.

Gotta go now. It’s petting time.

The inertia of a warm bed

Right now in northwest Missouri, it’s -8 degrees Fahrenheit (for the rest of the world, -22.2222 degrees Celsius). In other words, it’s very cold. My blankets are warm. There’s a cat curled up with me. I don’t want to leave this warm bed to go to work even though I will spend no more than a minute or so from doorstep to workplace in the cold.

In other words, I suffer from inertia — a word which came from physics, meaning the inability of an object to change velocity or direction without a force acting upon it. In the human sense, it means the tendency to do nothing or stay unchanged (Wikipedia, 2019). I have to admit it’s going to take a force acting upon me to move me out the door today.

What are the forces that move humans? To continue the physics metaphors, we can group these forces into pushes and pulls. In our case, pushes are the repelling factors that relate to necessity and adverse consequences if we don’t leave the bed; pulls are the attracting consequences of getting out of bed.

So as I lie here in bed, I think about the pushes — if I don’t get out of bed, I don’t meet my classes, my division chair gets mad, my students miss out on class material. I think about the pulls — if I get out of bed, there’s breakfast and coffee and people and time to write. We feel more satisfied by responding to pulls than to pushes — it’s more gratifying to make something of the day than to avoid disaster.

So I climb out of bed, disappointing my cat, and start my day, responding to the pulls more than to the pushes. It’s going to be a good day.