I was talking with a writer friend recently, and we got into a discussion on traditional publishing vs. self-publishing. She’s been querying agents like crazy. I’ve been doing self-publishing prep like crazy. She was surprised to find out I didn’t even bother trying to get an agent or traditional publishing contract.
Why would I do such a thing? Why would I not even try to get a publisher?
I’ve done a lot of research on the matter, and while both approaches have advantages, I decided self-publishing was a better option for me. Let’s talk about why.
i enter the barn at the end of the day
worries and stress squeezing my shoulders
scrunching my brow
and hitching my breath
halter on and brushes out
i tie the lead rope and pull back my hair …
and i’m angry.
but i can’t let her feel my stress
or she’ll bolt faster than light before my foot hits the stirrup
so i curry in slow circles
over her neck and shoulder and haunches
hearing her sigh and stomp and swish
and i let the rhythm lull me
i can’t let her feel my anger
or i’ll eat dirt faster than i can say giddy-up
so i brush in soft flicks
watching the dust curl in the rays peeking in
smelling the hay and grain and wood
and i let the tranquility calm me
i can’t let her feel that stab of sadness
or she’ll go where she wants despite my commands
so i brush her face with the softest touch
and she closes her eyes and leans into the bristles
i feel the tickle of her mane on my skin
and i let the serenity cheer me
and i brush and pamper ‘til her red coat gleams
and i rub her mane and tail with sheen
she’s beautiful, shiny, no dust to be seen
and all that dirt is on my face and my jeans …
and i’m happy.
The 2014 Art of Marketing conference in Vancouver featured incredible speakers and big-name sponsors, each presenter offering a unique perspective on the current and future state of marketing—knowledge as essential to the author as it is to the startup tech company.
Read my guest post at Jane Friedman’s blog for my big conference takeaways, including how to find your audience, earn trust, live generously, and generally make your network blow up like a marshmallow in a microwave.
I have an obsessive personality. I get hooked on something and it’s all I can think about. Naturally, when I have an idea for a novel (one I’m convinced is spectacular), nothing gets between me and my keyboard. I make sacrifices—socializing, mainly—in order to spend time writing. Part of me even becomes my protagonist: I want to think like him so I can successfully write him.
Writing a book obviously requires a ridiculous amount of dedication. Less obvious, however, is why some people can accomplish it and some can’t. What traits set us apart? Are some of us predisposed to be novelists?
This is a deleted scene from The Infinite Knowledge of J. T. Badgley. I removed it because it’s a thought tangent that does absolutely nothing to advance the plot—but I’m still fond of it, so here it is. It happens on page 141, when Jake is trying to sneak back into the Kremlin.
I have to share this. It’s one of the first poems I ever wrote. The positive reaction from the class and teacher was a huge factor in inspiring me to keep writing. Moral of the story: praise a kid’s work, because that encouragement makes a big impact!
When I make my snowman
With a carrot for his nose
Along comes my pony
Munch munch! Off she goes!
When I make my snowman
With peanuts for his toes
Along comes a squirrel
Munch munch! Off he goes!
When I make my snowman
With no nose or toes
Along comes my puppy
Now he has yellow clothes.
To match the human to the face that has Picasso drawn
To find among the autumn leaves the still and silent fawn
On such a day I know the truth whether the path is set
Be the ground fresh laid in stone or be its clay still wet
Does great Hecate see me there in grass that seems more lush?
Or should the daisies at my feet subdue my need to rush?
Is it a house that I’ve begun to build with this brick wall?
Or is it meant to crumble here ’til brick by brick, it falls?
Beyond the bricks perhaps there lies an Earth of paradise
But since its snow is free of prints it may be mere thin ice
I can’t but tell unless I try to build my house from snow
If it shall melt I still at least have all those bricks to show
And so I carve said house of snow but build the bricks up still
In hopes someday that igloo holds, and move to it, I will
For I cannot but know for sure the nature of my path
The trades of safety, fun or growth, responsible or rash
I will not be the fawn so still on clear untrodden land
But rather be Picasso’s work, and paint my Earth by hand
This month I had the pleasure of attending the 2011 OurCS conference at Carnegie Mellon University. OurCS is a 3 day undergraduate research workshop for women in computer science, focused on teaching students about research opportunities, graduate school, and some specialized real-world research problems. It was last held in 2007, although I think they’re going to try and make it an annual event.
If you’re a female computer science undergraduate, reading this because you’re wondering if you should go to this conference next year, my answer is “Yes. Go.” For me, the conference cleared up so many unknowns about graduate school. I had no idea what graduate school was like, whether I wanted to go, or what kinds of research it entailed. I came away with hands-on research experience and full of inspiration.
