Taking Stock

I have readers!

I’ve discovered in the past few days that 33 people have read Kel and Brother Coyote Save the Universe. I don’t know how many people have read any of the Kringle books because I only find out about those who have reviewed it, but I have a few reviews on each. There are a few reviews on Gaia’s Hands as well. There is hope.

I would like more readers. Of course I would. One purpose of writing is to have something for people to read. I could act selflessly and deny that, but I don’t do selflessly well. My goals are to have a readership and maybe make enough money to defray the costs I incur for writing and editing programs, the occasional book cover, and conferences.

Mission and vision

My mission and vision are important. My mission is what I want to accomplish now and my vision is the dream.

My mission: To write books for geeks of all ages who like their fantasies romantic and their romances fantastic.

My vision: To write worlds interesting enough that other people want to play in them.

I’m definitely fulfilling my mission. I need more of a readership to fulfill my vision, although my husband has written in the Archetype universe.

From here

I think I need to post my mission and vision statements on the office wall, along with my two posters from books I created. This should focus me toward what’s important to me — the writing and the connecting.

The Cataract Surgery

Sorry I didn’t write yesterday

I was prepping for my cataract surgery, which means no breakfast, no water, no coffee. NO COFFEE?! I was a total wreck.

What cataract surgery entails

I arrived at the surgery center, which was in the basement of the eye center. (When the patient liaison told me it was in the basement, I entertained all sorts of gruesome scenarios of dungeons, but the surgery center wasn’t that way at all. The lights were somewhat dimmer than usual, because eye surgery necessitates dilation of pupils.)

We sat in a small waiting room with other patients. Finally, the nurse called me back. Once called back, the nurse sat me on a gurney and took my blood pressure and oxygen, and my bp was high, as one might expect from someone who’s about to take a scalpel to the eye. I’m normally sanguine about surgeries, even wanting to watch them, but slicing eyes is beyond my comfort zone.

The nurse gave me a Xanax. I informed her that one xanax would not be enough to sedate me, so she gave me an IV full of Versed (a benzodiazepene). They gave me eye drops — dilation, numbing, betadine (ow!), water, more dilating, more betadine, more water, more numbing. I didn’t feel any different, really, but I shrugged and let the nurse wheel me into the operating theatre.

The surgery itself was no big deal. They pried one eye open and shone red and green lights in my eye, and somewhere over to the side, the doctor did something that stung a little bit. I felt the vacuum part, which felt like a tugging on my eye and hurt a little. At some time, the doctor told me that I needed to look at the lights; I must have been distracted.

The surgery didn’t take that long, beginning to end. My eye was disappointingly blurry for the rest of the day, so I couldn’t see how well the surgery worked. I spent the rest of the day wandering with Richard to lunch, to coffee, to the follow-up appointment, taking eye drops and Tylenol.

A day later

This morning I woke up — and oh my gosh I could see! I couldn’t just see — I could SEE! The eye gets gunky at times, and it feels a bit like there’s something in my eye (which drives me crazy) but I can see again!

I’ll have to have the surgery on the other eye in a year or three, so I’ll know what to expect. But A+A+A+A+A+A would do again!

Facing my fears (writing related)

My worst fear about writing is that, after developmental editors and publishing coaches, I will be left with this choice: Write what I love or get published.

I have gotten several rejections by agents. I don’t know if anyone will read me if I self-publish, because I’ve never been good at self-promotion.

There, I said it.

This has been my fear all along, that I will hit a dead end in my writing career — and yes, I think of it as a career, or at least the start of a career.

If that’s the worst thing that can happen, what are the possibilities?

I keep trying to find an agent, with the great possibility that revising my query materials will not attract an agent.
I self-publish, trying to get a readership on my own, which scares me to bits, because I hate self-promotion. I am convinced there’s a psychological disorder called “Midwestern Female Syndrome” in which sufferers display inward perfection while at the same time striving to look mediocre to others
I give up writing novels, because it’s really a waste of time to write novels that nobody reads.

I don’t have more than three possibilities in my mind. My mentor Les says that’s a bad thing, because there are always more than two options. I, however, cannot quit until I’ve exhausted all avenues.

On the flip side, how would I measure success?

An agent, and eventually a publisher if going the traditional route
At least 1000 copies sold of a self-published book, without having to resort to buying the books myself and reselling them
In the short run, at least breaking even on the investments I put into coaching, editing, and other items.

My vision, or where I would like to be:

Money to supplement my retirement in 10 or so years
A devoted readership
A book signing tour
The confidence to say I’m an author

I think my goals are realistic — perhaps too modest, but realistic.

This is where I am, world.

If you could send encouragement (non-anonymous preferred), prayers, wishes, or advice I’d greatly appreciate it.

A Short Poem

This, as always, may get revised. I like how it started being about one thing and ended up about something else:

Ephemera

I do not see pictures in my head,

Or not as you do – this old slide

Of yellowed Kodachrome slides past my mind

I see hair or expression, never both.

I stare at you when you are here with me,

I memorize your patterns: swinging hair,

Glasses, a squint, a laugh, a lumbering walk,

All of those together equal you.

I fear to lose you in a crowd;

Too many people almost look like you

I live on faith that you’ll come back to me