I've moved! Find me now at la-mitchell.com along with all 600+ posts from the Vortex.

A Migration to the Big Screen

A few Vortex faithful may remember a book experiment I started in August 2009 called A Novel's Migration. I wanted to harness the power of lending books, track the book's journey through the eyes of the readers who picked it up and start a dialogue about how the shared story impacted us.




To my knowledge, only one Vortexer returned to make a comment on its thread (Thanks, Todd!). It had been so long, I didn't even remember the book's title. However, I hadn't watched this entire movie trailer before I knew it was the story I adored so much 2009. I can't say if the movie will do the book justice, but have a looksee.

So You Want To Write A Novel

Lagniappe

So much time has passed since my last blog post. It's amazing how all-encompassing it can be to write a novel. As it should be, really. For a novelist, no amount of social media activity or blogging should ever take precedence over the quest to capture written words that are part of something larger and more enduring. My clients deserve nothing less than my best.

When last we spoke, I was one-third into the first draft of the YA fantasy I'm ghostwriting. A summer passed, autumn came and 100,000 words later, the novel is a fully-formed, if imperfect, work. The messy chore has begun: cutting, adding, hating one moment and loving the next. In January, it will be complete, and I will move on to two other waiting projects, neither of them mine. It will be a time of reflection and renewal. I will do well to remember that advancing my stories and my career counts for something, too.

In the new year, I'm looking to barter a revamped, basic website for freelance work, either ghostwriting or editing. If you know anyone who might be interested, let me know.

One cost of ghostwriting is, of course, being a ghost. I would love to share my successes and sales, but they are not mine to share. The stories are no longer my babies. I want to tweet bits of awesome reviews and share emails my client receives from readers. The validation is heady but veiled. I'm so proud to deliver products that encourage my clients to return for more.

For those blogging friends who question the continued viability of blogging, I have a case. A potential client landed upon Writing in a Vortex and spent the better part of an entire evening reading through old posts. It was a huge factor in his decision to hire me for his project. When asked, he said it wasn't necessarily the writing of the posts, but the person he came to know behind them. It seems, despite my objective to keep topics largely to writing and the use of a pseudonym, little bits of me leaked through the words. Blogs give potential readers so much more than a Facebook or Twitter snapshot. They give readers unprecedented access to us. I'm coming to believe that access is half the battle in sales. Readers want lagniappe, that little something more, to push them to action.

Take care of yourselves. And each other. Email me anytime: la-mitchell@la-mitchell.com.

The Four Peabodys

I'm thirty-thousand words into my ghostwriting project-which is awesome. And I'm not entirely certain what my next thirty-thousand will be-which is downright terrifying and not-so-awesome for a plotter-girl like me. So I turned to my paperwork: conference worksheets, notes from a thousand Saturdays ago when I had an epiphany at a chapter meeting, online workshop materials, initial brainstorm lists, secondary brainstorm lists, brainstorm lists about the brainstorm lists (I wish I was kidding about this, but I'm not). In  this archaeological dig through my writing archives, I discovered four small slips of paper, each with the letterhead from the Peabody in Memphis, Tennessee. From the first writing conference I attended eleven years ago, each contains something I thought important enough to commit to paper. Promise me you won't laugh. Promise.

Peabody Nugget Number One:
Smoke from the steam engine encircled her as if she were an apparition emerging from a fog. She glanced from at each passerby with a renewed energy that would quickly wane in the disappointment from the lines of her eyes. Until one man emerged who stoked the fire and kept the russet flecks in her eyes ignited.

Wow. I don't even know where to start. This chick is obviously in close proximity to a live train, but the point of view is schizophrenic at best. My metal-filled molars are screaming at the prospect of biting down on this hunk of foil. I'm pretty sure I loaded up at the romance buffet line that morning, with heaping piles of hotcakes and I-can't-believe-Fabio-isn't-here butter and purged it that evening all over this poor, unsuspecting note pad.

Peabody Nugget Number Two:
He'd never have noticed her, so ordinary was she, had the woman not drawn attention to herself by stumbling down the passenger car steps, creating a domino effect of passengers lying in a heap among luggage and stray accessories. She flipped her bonnet away from her forehead and glared back at the steps as if they'd awakened for her the sole purpose of her embarrassment and grabbed her a foot.

So I had trains on the brain for this conference. Sue me. The only redeeming thing here is that the heroine took a major digger off the platform. And that the hero was there to witness it and find amusement. Tripping is funny, people. Any way you slice it.

Peabody Nugget Number Three:
"A dramatic moment calls for an economy of words." -LaVyrle Spencer

Now this is a nugget worth remembering. Well worth the sacrificial pulp and ink. That it is attributed to one of my favorite romance authors is even better.

Peabody Nugget Number Four:
The worst blizzard Betty had seen in 3 decades slammed into the valley, ushering smothering the vally w/ a lacy white blanket of snow.

Betty lit a solitary candle. The flame dancinged in response to her heavy sigh, mirroring the pre-dawn dreariness just beyond the window. She glanced at the lifeless phone, then the light switch before her eyelids dropped with heaviness.

Poor Betty. No really. She's trapped in a cliché-storm where the earth's gravitational pull is conspiring against her and she has a telekinetic gift of which she is, apparently, unaware.


Why do I share these, you ask? Life has a way of sending messages when we most need to hear them. I needed to see these today to remind myself how far I have come as a writer. A gift of perspective not everyone gets.

I wish I could say I remember writing these Peabody nuggets. I don't. I remember the duck parade with more clarity. Yesterday, I reread chapter one from my current project. I don't remember writing much of that, either. Writing is a strange beast. It hijacks the mind and turns the body into a conduit for truth. Somewhere in this hijacked landscape waits a klutz, a house-bound frau, and a siren with red-flecked eyes who is sure to become someone's desire. Maybe one of them will step forward in my next thirty-thousand. Maybe not. For today I am thankful for the reminder.

What message did life send you today?

Squirm in Suburbia

If some of you follow my Twitter feed, you'll notice I'm walking the Nik Wallenda tightrope of being a curious writer and a window stalker, ala Rear Window. See, I've never been a fan girl of our backdoor neighbor. While I can gag out some respect for his culture's view on women, he doesn't respect mine on gender. Regarding our fence replacement, he spoke through me, around me and over me instead of to me, despite me being the most informed person in our impromptu lawn meeting last fall. Armed with three estimates and all the necessary paperwork from our HOA, I might as well have been in a beaded bra occupying a harem. His dismissive demeanor in favor of the other men present who didn't know a post hole from their own hole was off-putting to say the least.

So when I moved writing operations upstairs (minty new A/C-yeah!), to a window overlooking said neighbor's house-both front and back because of his placement on a court-I had no idea the challenge that awaited my focus. Having lived in this court for over a decade, I'm sure he is used to having certain...freedoms. I'm sure long about five years into our geographical proximity, he figured those blinds in my upper window have been and always will be closed, because in the two weeks I've camped up there, dawn to noon, he hasn't once looked up. But I've looked down. Sometimes to the immediate eye burn of discomfort and the
frantic lowering of blinds. I ask you the following:

What man weed-whacks his lawn in his underwear? In his FRONT YARD, no less.
What man has such a case of OCD that he picks up every wayward leaf, SEPARATELY, and slam-dunks them into the trashcan like a middle-aged LeBron in loafers?
What man prunes his trees at six am in his underwear?
What man fires up his lawnmower for two zips across his lawn and quits?
What man has a permanent Joker-like smile in the sun's early morning glare that could send children running to hide their faces in their mother's skirts.
And all those bags he removes from his truck? And the toilet he moves around his garage like his favorite chair? Don't get me started on those.

I saw his wife at our community pool yesterday. She was reading one of those Greek tycoon Harlequins. I get you, sister. You get all up into that fantasy. I would, too, in your shoes.

The man is like watching an ant try to take on every job in his colony. In his underwear. He's a distraction of epic proportions, so I plan to do what any self-respecting writer would.

He's going in the book.

Hire. An. Editor.

May I just take this opportunity to say, if you are planning to self-publish:

Hire. An. Editor.

It doesn't have to be me, though if you check out the client testimonial tab at the top of this blog, you'll see my mounting collection of stellar reviews. All make me feel like I've just sipped hot cider on a snowy day.

I beg of you, hire someone.

Remember my side gig as a paid ebook reviewer? As of this post, I've reviewed twenty-seven books, all self-published. Guess how many of them had errors. Ga-head. Guess.

Yep. All twenty-seven. And that's forgiving the formatting errors.

I'm reading these novels for free and the errors tick me off. Imagine the consumers who parted with their favorite Starbucks frap for a day or sacrificed their weekly washing quarters to make the purchase.

Some of the editing needs were Herculean. I barely coughed out two stars on my reviews. Shame on them. Just because Nana's bridge club thinks your book is delightful doesn't mean it's ready. Have some respect for your readers' time and money. Put the manuscript down and step away from the self-publishing manuals.

Some of the editing needs were a transposed word or a tiny continuity issue. Little errors are speedbumps to the reader's full immersion in the story. It doesn't happen in traditional publishing, and if you want to make money in this industry, it shouldn't happen with your self-published book.

Chuck Sambuchino has great advice for finding the perfect editor and some FAQs on the topic over at the Writer Unboxed blog. I always offer test edit pages, free of charge, to potential clients. Two of my clients purchased first chapter edits from multiple editors (one of them ten!) before ultimately selecting me as their editor. This gives me a chance to showcase my skills and gives the client the confidence that I'm the best fit for his/her project.

*

I'm starting a YA fantasy ghostwriting project next week that will carry me well into autumn. I would love to hear from you if you are interested in editing or ghostwriting. Drop me a line anytime at la-mitchell@la-mitchell.com. I'm booked until November, so be sure to plan ahead. Even if you're not looking to hire, I'm happy to answer questions and point you in the right direction. Meanwhile, I have two paranormal romance ghost projects set for release in the next few weeks. Be sure you're signed up for my newsletter to get the latest scoop.

Necessity Is the Mother of Re-Invention

So many things about my writing life are different today than six years ago when I started this blog. I was one of the first in my peer group to launch a blog dedicated to new content multiple times each week (and stick with it). I had the luxury of focusing on my own writing on my road to that first publication credit. And, let's face it, people read blogs back then. Now? Not so much.

I am so blessed to have a crazy-thriving freelance business that has gone from that first should I or shouldn't I? to a rapidly-growing clientele that books me two months in advance. When they select me as their ghostwriter or editor, I make a promise to them that they'll receive 110% of my mental agility, my creativity and my focus. It's an immersive endeavor each and every time-as it should be.

Many of my writer friends have cut back on blogging, using it only as a way to disseminate information when they have something significant to pass along. This works when there is a dedicated go-to, catch-all for RSS feeds. But the upcoming demise of Google Reader in July is just one more death blow to the blogosphere. Sure, there are others set to take its place, but Feedly (the most touted of the replacements) isn't supported by Internet Explorer. Last I checked, IE accounted for 60-70% of my traffic. Most people will refuse to let an online reader bully them into swapping a browser they cuddle like Linus's blanket. Without a mainstay that has a convenient interface and doesn't require blog followers to jump through hoops, I fear the blogger-reader relationship will grow even more distant.

I suspect this theory is more related to a professional identity crisis for me. Do I want my identity as a writer to evolve into a freelance business exclusively, thus necessitating a reboot of my online presence? Do I want to hoard my blog and online momentum (such that it is) for my writing and my career? Can I juggle two separate baskets when all I really, really want to do is stay off the internet and write?

This year is my crossroads year. The software I used to create my website will soon no longer be supported by my host. Necessity will become the mother of my online reboot. I just need to figure out what that reboot is.

I have two fiction projects in the final stages of pre-release. I'm so proud of both. They are the best writing I have done to date. Remember, if you want to be able to find my ghost projects, subscribe to my newsletter. With client permission, I'll be sure to post all the blurbs and buy links in there once they're released.

And loyal Vortexers? Have no fear. You are parked safe at Feedly for me. I value the connection we have made over all these blogging years most of all. Be well.

My Pocketbook Will Go Ooooonnnn and Oooonnnn

This is how cowpokes in Texas get your money.

You feature an exhibit in some high-falutin' museum near the Stock Show and Rodeo and offer up some real cheap tickets, like. Then make those fancy-pants educated-types pay extra to get through a roped-off area to park their glossy cars and pay again to have the privilege to walk twenty yards to get into the lobby of that high-falutin' museum that's normally free to approach. By the time they accomplished what they came down to the wrong-side of town to accomplish, they're out more cash than a rustler at a cat house.

Enjoy your exhibit, suckers.

All that to say: Oh. My. God. I would have sunk all my nanna's fake jewels in that Atlantic to have the opportunity to see the Titanic Artifact exhibit. It's that good.

Vortex faithful know how much of a buff I am about the Titanic, but even if I wasn't, it would have been educational and emotional. As my luck typically goes, I was given the identity of a woman in third class: Mrs. Claus Peter Hanson listed as Jennie L. Howard from Racine, Wisconsin. This is akin to being given a window seat on the Hindenburg. The entire one-hundred year journey though the exhibit--and I do mean journey, from conception and design of the ship to recovery efforts led by non-profit organizations to the crass consumerism of the gift shop afterward (Who wouldn't want a coffee-mug reminder that you just vicariously died aboard the Titanic?) is mesmerizing. I went alone. It was an artist's date of the highest caliber.

Even if the cowboy outside the museum was stroking his moustache in the ticket booth as I left.

Chicken Fried Romance with UNsweet Tea

Nathan Bransford remarked last week on how his Google Reader slims with each passing week. We've all known for awhile that blogging has peaked. Times change. I'm mourning the Barnes and Noble announcement that they are closing stores and going the way of Borders. I'm sad that the downsized Books-a-Million I used to visit sells more pop-culture gift-y items than books. I'm positively apoplectic when I think about my children not passing the day in a bookstore as I used to. I am to blame. My last visit to the downsized Books-a-Million, I bought a Big Bang Theory pen that says, "Bazinga," when pushed. I spent only enough time in there to squeeze between errands. The last fifteen books I read were on my Nook. And, yes, your Google Reader is slim because of me. Times change.

But I'm still here, and you are, too, if you're reading this. So let us be pleasant travelers. It's so short a ride.

Those two lines are from a poem someone gave me a month ago. The author unknown at the bottom makes me pine for a name. Someone to thank.

My new ghostwriting project is a departure in many ways. My character has a southern identity, which one might not think a challenge, having lived more than half of my life in a southern latitude. For me, it is. I tend to walk the streets of the South with a grammar pen in one hand and a glass of unsweetened tea in the other because, apparently, unsweet tea exists only in government conspiracy theories south of the Mason-Dixon line. The new project is dark and light, mysterious and universal, sweet and unsweet. It involves a train, which I know seems antiquated, but I am in the South and cross over railroad tracks nearly every day that I'm not holed up in my cocoon, writing. Maybe if I write through the romanticism of a train, I'll stop thinking about how I should use one in a story. Which brings me back to the poem as inspiration for my small-town, romantic Southern tale.

 

Life is like a journey,

taken on a train

with a pair of travelers

at each windowpane.

 

I may sit beside you

all the journey through,

or I may sit elsewhere,

never knowing you.

 

But, if fate should mark me

to sit by your side,

let's be pleasant travelers.

It's so short a ride.

 

~Unknown

I have one more post in my system before I spin that safe, story world cocoon again. Considering it fattening up your Google Reader. It's what good Southern girls do.

Ten Thousand Shades of Romance

I'm baking chocolate-peanut butter chip cookies right now and contemplating my next freelance career move. Do I pursue an invitation to write a "sure-to-be-Hollywood-blockbuster," including an all-expenses paid trip to the Caribbean to meet with the client? Do I trust in those repeat clients who have proven themselves awesome beyond belief and thoroughly non-delusional? Or do I say "Pshaw! Who writes those Benjamin Moore paint color names? I want a gig like that!"

Don't laugh. I've always wanted to be the one who gets paid to come up with names for paint colors or nail polish shades. Someone does it, right? Why can't it be me?

They're not marketing to the right audience. When was the last time you witnessed a man standing at the paint sample cards for an hour? For longer than it took to belch up his last chili cheese dog? The same people picking out these shades are the same ones buying romance and beyond, which is my polite term for Fifty Shades. What woman wouldn't want to paint her office Cabana Boy Six Pack or Warrior's Kiss or Latte with McDreamy or Chest Hair at Dawn or A Sexy Brit's "Hello"? Seriously, I could go on all day.

On a not-entirely unrelated topic, these paint samples are great writing tools. I keep a stack of them in my drawer just in case my brain is selecting stale descriptors of color--but only when writing in a woman's point of view. My heroes can't differentiate sea-foam green from their own moldy bread, and I like them that way.

If you weren't busy being fabulous at your day job, what dream-job would you have?

Because It's What Miss Manners Would Do

I'm putting off the task of writing holiday thank you notes. While I am an extremely grateful and humble gift receiver, it is a necessary evil. There is the time involved in the handwritten task, which you'd think would appeal to a writer but doesn't. How to express that a gift is spectacular when I know it was the same re-gifted basket of women's bath lotions that has circulated the greater Fort Worth metro-plex for the past few years? I'd rather scroll through the latest crop of Walmartians in my email inbox. Then there's the expense of supporting the Postal Service for gift-givers over the age of sixty who can no more find their internet browser than their bifocals.

I thought I'd try something different this year: a public note of thanks.

To the microfiber hair towel gift-giver:
Thank you for helping me to get in touch with my inner turban-girl. Never mind that it fails to fulfill the promise of lightning-speed wet-hair wicking. I am a suburban goddess in my pink hair wrappie and bathrobe.

To the Betty Crocker Liquid Dispensing Scrubber gift-giver:
Wow. Just wow. Combining the laborious task of dish soap dispensing and scrubbing into one swift action has freed me to complete that great American novel with all the extra time. How much fun can one girl have? Hair turban and dish washing.

To the seventeen million notepad gift-givers:
Would that I could have so many story ideas that these scribbler pads burst at the thinly-glued seams, mostly they will just end up with things like toilet paper and coffee creamer scrolled across them.

To the Nora Roberts gift-pack gift-giver:
Thank you. Sincerely. I'll put them in my stack behind my next twenty under deadline for a book review. Though to be fair, Nora will still, most likely, be the reigning queen of them all.

To the dark chocolate cordial cherries gift-giver:
Although a sweet of last, desperate resort when the Reese's and Special Darks have vanished, there is no better sensory input for a writer than to feel one of these burst on the tongue.

To the family mine adopted:
Thank you. At a time of extreme sadness, there was no greater gift than to focus on making someone else's holiday special.

And to my Vortex readers:
Thank you for hanging around for six years. I can't imagine what this journey would be without you all. I only wish I could send you my final Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer lollipop-mostly to get it out of my kitchen-but because I adore you, too.

I'm starting a short, but intensive YA fantasy ghostwriting/edit project tomorrow, so I'll see you on the backside.

The Year of Intention

First, I offer apologies for the driest posting spell in the blog's history. December cannot end too soon. It was a month for the passing of loved ones, too many tasks and not enough time and hard lessons in the freelance business. I caught up on my Google Reader last night. Everyone, it seems, is looking backward. What did 2012 mean to them? Did they meet their goals? It's an obvious time for reflection, and I love reading about the journey of others. Me? I'm looking forward.

2013 will be the year of the intentional freelancer for me. I stumbled into self-employment by tripping through the backdoor during February of last year-starting with a why not? and ending with a why? With a full twelve months dedicated to ghostwriting and editing, I will know if this is my path.

I worry that I'm selling away my creative fire, that I'm giving others what I should be reserving for myself. I worry that monetizing it will turn writing from a passion to a job. I worry that in chasing the pleasures of others, I will no longer please myself.

I'm constantly amazed at the amount of freelance work out there. Even in this economy, there is no shortage of people willing to pay for writing talent. We can attribute that to the ebook revolution. I have as much work as I care to have. 2013 should be a fun ride.

I wish all my Vortex readers a happy and productive 2013.

My Table of Plenty

I began a new ghostwriting assignment this week. It's a bit like holding someone's hand as you lead them behind the curtain of fiction writing. Until now, it has been an obscure place for some. Magic behind the velvet barrier. Pay no attention to the chick behind the curtain. She's only orchestrating everything and playing God.

This assignment is a short story with the promise of more. I adore short stories but don't always give myself permission to write them. It's a necessary exercise for my long-winded, tangled prose. I remember economy and the beauty of simple things.

Thanksgiving this year was, blessedly, not at my house. This did not prevent a banquet at my table. The early stages of fiction planning necessitate, for me, diving back into my old favorite craft books and files. They are the pillars to which I return each time to provide the foundation of my stories. I know them by heart. I can spout the wisdom contained within from memory. Still, I return to them as a safety blanket to remind me what's important lest I forget between projects. This banquet of knowledge still fills my table, not as grizzled leftovers, but the promise of the literary meal to come.

I am blessed to be able to wake each day and spend time doing what I love. I am blessed there are a handful of people whose lives I have touched with my writing, if only for a diversionary few moments. Perhaps they'll remember, most likely not. But for those simple moments, author to reader and reader to author, there are few things so supremely transcendent. It is a rare relationship few share so intimately. I realized only recently it has everything to do with why I'm able to ghostwrite while some authors cannot.

My brother calls me a wallflower. I suppose I am. Extraordinary in my ordinariness. While my name on the NY Times list would be nice, for financial security-not fame, it isn't what motivates me. It is in the imagining of one person, one ideal reader, holding my words in his hand and being transfixed, that I find my motivation. The name on the cover could be Rosy Longbottom. I don't care. The reader and I know the secret: the magic isn't in the name. It isn't in the Oz-like scribe at the dials screaming "I wrote this! Look what I did! Aren't I awesome?" It's what's behind the curtain that counts.

Remember to join my mailing list if you want to be one of those readers. It is through my newsletter that I share, always with my client's permission, what's behind the curtain.

May your blessings be many and your burdens be light.

The Hashtag of Discontent

When the visual of my last post hit me as I logged in, it made me a bit queasy. No, silly, not Dean Butler. Manly could never do that. All the Twitter visuals. Have I become one of those people?

I've had a Twitter account for about two years. Tweet count as of this morning? Two hundred and ninety-four. There are no hard and fast statistics on this, but largely 80% of those are the result of the Vortex feed. I have tried. Tried to mine what could be fascinating in my moment-to-moment life to amuse the staggering 190 people following me because I followed them. Tried to elevate my awareness of the media such that it becomes engrained in my daily to-do list. Tried to fill those moments of waiting by whipping out my iphone and scrolling through people trying to fascinate me. Tried to raise it on my priority list of visibility and marketing. I have tried.

I'm tired of trying.

Apparently, I'm not the only one.

Forgive me for sounding like a ninety year old in a thirty-something body. What does all this nervous chasing of some nebulous social following get us? I can't attribute this to my recent theory about how somehow we've collectively skipped the track. That in Colorado, we are now teaching our kids that it's okay to smoke pot because mommy grows it in the kitchen window. That I have neighbors I barely know by sight let alone name or culture or history enough to respect them past a wave of the hand. That I am the only house on the street who displays an American flag-even on traditional flag-hanging holidays. That we again voted into office someone who can't be bothered to put his hand over his heart as a sign of respect to country and those who died so he can  have that privilege. But I digress. This isn't about politics. I can't attribute my recent social media attitude to those things because I've been thinking about it for some time now. It's about chasing the wrong things in life.

Professionally, I have only to look to my favorite authors to have an epiphany. None of them have Facebook accounts. None of them have Twitter accounts. Guess how they're spending their days? Writing. Hopefully, hugging their children. Maybe taking a walk in the Autumn breeze. And writing.

Perhaps it's because I'm hard-wired to be introverted. Perhaps because Twitter just seems like a big, crowded room filled with only a handful of people I'd ever really talk to in real life. Perhaps because there's a guy in one corner screaming to buy his book fourteen times a day and a woman in the other talking about the Greek yogurt she had for lunch whom I only follow because she edits books in New York.

I don't wish this to come across negative. Rather, a call to action of a different sort. Authors, how many books have you sold as a direct result of Twitter marketing? How many of you could have written your next book over the past six months with those hours? How many of you are exhausted trying to keep up with social media because we're told we should by someone who seems to know some grand publishing secret we don't?

I challenge you to be more aware this week of how you're spending your time. Take a walk. Nourish your body so that your mind is ready to be creative. Read a book to fill the well or get more in touch with authors in your niche. Spend time with your loved ones, not the Greek yogurt lady in the corner, because tomorrow is no guarantee. Put your smart phone with the Twitter feed down at mealtime because your children want to tell you about the butterfly they saw at recess. Social media does have it's place, but only if we put it there.

And only if it brings me Dean Butler.

#Manly...If You're Out There

Helpful Twitter promotional tidbits for my self-published and traditonally-published Vortex tweeps:

@kindlenews
@freeebookdeal
@IndieKindle
@WLCPromotions
@DigitalBkToday
@kindleebooks
@Kindlestuff
@KindleEbooksUK
@KindleBookKing
@KindleFreeBook
@free
@free_kindle
@FreeReadFeed
@freebookdude
@4FreeKindleBook
@FreeKindleStuff
@KindleUpdates
@ebook
@Bookyrnextread
@Kindlestuff
@KindleBookKing
@Booksontheknob
@Kindle_promo
@IndAuthorSucess
@CheapKindleDly
@KindleDaily

Some useful hashtags:

#FreeKindleBook #freekindle #freebook #free #kindlepromo #freeebooks #IndieKindle #IndiePub #ebooks

Cut and paste into your existing list. Don't have a Twitter reference sheet? What in the name of Dean Butler are you waiting for? I'm sure even Dean has a reference sheet. #LittleHouse, #Manny, and my personal favorite, #Manly

If the D.B. reference escapes you, try these:

It's All Fun and Games Until Dean Butler Loses a Shirt

J.R. Is No Dean Butler

A Mental Pilaf Made From Quinoa, Denim and Bite-Sized Chunks of Dean Butler

Dean Butler Might Need an Acceptance Speech

I still haven't heard from Mr. Butler. A girl can go all dreamy, can't she?

Come, New Author. I Have Some Tablets For You.

I've been freelance editing and ghostwriting long enough to have reached some epiphanies. They may not be earth-shattering to some, but more than a handful of people out there have plopped out a book and are stumbling over themselves to upload it for sale. I'm more than a bit conservative, super-protective of my brand, and hyper-aware of the importance of quality writing before going "live" in a cyber-environment that often seems like an annoying in-law: quick to judge and never seems to go away. Being a book reviewer has only enhanced these commandments I believe everyone who has typed the end punctuation on the final page of that first book should memorize.

I. Thou Shalt Know Your Market

Vomiting out a long series of subsections found in a Barnes and Noble store is akin to tossing crumpled manuscript pages at the brick and mortar and praying it will stick. Pick one. If you're good by any other standard than your mother and the creepy guy at the 7-11 who loves everything about you, pick two. Don't write what you haven't read since fifth grade.

II. Thou Shalt Know The Industry

We're not talking the kind of insider knowledge that would get the Romance Writers of America yearly convention buzzing about when the hottest, long-haired male editor arrived (and we romancies know who THAT is, don't we?) Gems like that take years of immersion. Please know what an editor does. We will not rewrite your entire book for you unless you pay us, handsomely, for the title Book Doctor because you have a bleeder and your opening sentence has flat lined. For this much hemorrhaging, we could write our own books.

III. Thou Shalt Chill

Traditional New York publishing notwithstanding, writing and publishing a book is still glacial. Laborious. Exhausting. The process is a marathon, not a sprint. Take a short cut or rush the process and you'll end up in the dirt beside the trail with mud-caked knees because you forgot to tie your laces. Piss out a novel in one month and expect it to turn 50 Shades of successful? Yeah, that's gonna happen.

IV. Thou Shalt Get Your Book Professionally Edited

Both content and line edited. Then think about doing it again. Nothing steams me more than swiping to the next page in my Nook and finding errors that a fourth grader could have found. It's disrespectful to your reader's time and pocketbook and the faith they placed in you to deliver a flawless story. Shame on you if you overlook this commandment.

V. Thou Shalt Recognize E.L. James As The Exception

Debate the quality (and we have here) of Ms. James's newly-minted empire, but repeat after me: I. Will. Not. Get. Rich. Is it okay to dream? Sure. But writing is not the path to fame. Most famous writers would probably prefer not to be famous outside of their royalty checks. We are overwhelmingly introverts and write because we have to and we love to, not because it will land us on the cover of USA Today or on a Hollywood set overseeing the film version of our book.

What are some other commandments writers should know before self-publishing or submitting to publishing houses or agents?



Soft Kitty, Distracted Kitty

Remember this shirt?

I'm wearing it now. Except it's pink. Hot pink. And my arms are less hairy. Seriously, why would a guy pick this shirt out of all the Big Bang Theory shirts out there? Completely emasculating, unless you look like this...

Despite his Zack-like expression, I say, "hoo."

Before we commence more time-foolery, let's catch up on Vortex business. Since my top-secret romance novel hit virtual stores, my newsletter subscriptions have doubled. I was so excited about this development, I drew two names to give away free copies. Trouble is, neither responded to my notification email. I fear the email may have entered the black hole of their spam folders. If you are on the newsletter list, you were automatically entered in the contest. Please check for the winning announcement in your spam folders. Free books await! I'll send out another attempt by Friday if I haven't heard back.

 

My first book review went live on Monday. I'm knee-deep in a Rebecca-type throwback to the Gothic romance, my fourth book set to review. My suspicions about the depth and breadth of self-published novels have, thus far, proven to be correct. I've read some that made me want to flail myself with a frozen Eggo waffle to stay awake and some that have brought me to my knees, salivating for more, wondering why, for-the-love-of-Suzanne-Collins, wasn't this book picked up for mass distribution and film rights. I have more amazing prospects percolating on the freelance stove, and I'm beginning to worry about my momentum shift.

 

The money, absent for so long in my literary endeavors, is addicting. Never was this more clear than driving around yesterday, minding traffic (because I'm wicked-rule-follower like that) and Black Lab's This Night played on my Ipod from my novel play list. It hit me like a Stephen King tome to the gut. I was sucker-punched back to the long-ago (well, a few months ago) place where I had left my work-in-progress edits, I couldn't fight the intense sadness in letting my goals stray. I've never been great at keeping multiple pots boiling. I tend to immerse myself a thousand percent in the project at hand, to the detriment of eating and stretching important muscles and all but involuntary body functions. I would love to know how other freelancers do it. I'm highly-organized, but when accountable to others, I am sometimes no longer accountable to myself.

 

Luckily, I had been to a Body Combat fitness class that very morning. I did one of those Charlie's Angels kicks (not what they're really called) to my mental derriere and remembered my bank account until the sensation passed.

 

What do you do to keep your outside projects balanced with your personal goals?

No Asshattery Here

I've worn many writing-related hats since starting out on this fiction road almost thirteen years ago. The romance writer hat? A softie-knitted pink jobber, of course. Then there's the militant hat of self (and hired) editor, the veiled pillbox of ghostwriter, the jester's hat of blogger, the Sherpa of nah-nah-nah-nah, I'm-not-listening-to-the-"market" time travel author and the twin crowns of Golden Heart princess and rejection queen. This photo was creepy and royalty-free, so I snagged it. Let's call it my psychological suspense hat.

Today, I add another hat to the collection: book reviewer.

What qualifies me as such? Well, I read. Quite a bit, in fact, and extremely quickly (nine hundred words per minute, a talent I catalogue right beside my ability to turn Reese's peanut butter cups into a meal--no questions asked.) I have a pulse, and I know how to use it. Oh, and I wear all those other hats in my closet. Makes for a pretty well-rounded reviewer. At least, I hope.

What drew me to this project was the carte blanche of honesty. I always hate reading reviews obviously written by the author's mother's quilting bee. Or someone who didn't bother to offer anything past what I could glean from a blurb. And then, there's the importance of it all when placed right up against this climate of self-publishing. In a world where an author's mother's quilting bee is the last stop before Amazon and B&N, God help us all to sift through the sodden dreg at the bottom of the literary cup. The cream does rise to the top. I'm just helping that cream along a bit in my own way.

And lest you think this venture is altruistic, I assure you, it most certainly is not. I will be getting paid. Not in the John Locke sense of paid reviewer--I assure you, there is no asshattery in this closet--but by the review site seeking honest feedback for their subscribers and visitors.

I will be keeping anon, by the way. Unless you subscribe to my newsletter. There are a bounty of delicious secrets in those missives, aren't there? Guess you'll just have to join. A huge thanks to so many Vortex followers for getting the word out about my ghost-novel. I might need to come up with a clever street-team name to match my love for you all.

With a tip of the hat, I'm out...

Bacon Number? 1...Maybe 2

Trailers of the upcoming movie Stoker keep landing in my inbox. Could be my Google alert for all things a-certain-British-hottie. I really should remove that particular alert; it's so when-I-wrote-the-book-that-released-this-week. I just can't seem to leave him behind. This movie feels like it's a number one on my personal Bacon number: psychological suspense, Nicole Kidman (half a bacon strip away from the tastiest Aussie on the planet), and one more fresh excuse to revisit the inspiration for a past hero. So he plays a creepy homicidal maniac uncle. We can forgive a few things, can't we? The movie is rated R because the Brit's hotness might burn your retinas. Beware.


You may have guessed I would have gone to see Looper by now. To that, I would say, "Nay, my ghostwriting has kept me busy." I'm hoping to sneak out by myself for a nooner this week. I hear rumors of an awesome Bruce Willis line (while speaking to his younger self over a diner table): "I don't want to talk about time travel. If we do, we'll be here all day making diagrams with straws." Amen, David Addison.

And here I go again, breaking my newly-minted photo rule. For a booksigning? Best. Treats. Ever. This video seemed like a good place to start.

As it turns out, my ghostwritten novel is not as exclusive as previously thought. If you have a Kindle or Nook, you can join the fun. How will you know the path to titilation unless you follow me on Twitter or sign up for my newsletter? Psst! In addition to the icing aroma in the Vortex today, there is the distinct air of a contest. Just saying.

Have a great weekend, everyone!