As a writer, it is mega-important for you to figure out your own personal flavor and brand of gut-rot.  I know, ewwwww, right?  But writer’s gut-rot can eat into your work and your writing and your career until you wake up one day and realize that this thing you once loved, you now hate and don’t know why.  So many writer-friends have told similar stories about something in their process, their career, their writer’s life, or elsewhere that unequivocally rotted out their passion from the inside. And if something is rotting in there, it needs to change.

That gut-rot might be a step in your process, like plotting (or not plotting, or the way you plot), or the efforts you put into promo (whether or not you’re published yet), a particularly draining critique group, a toxic business or personal relationship, or even unreasonable personal expectations (I’m not saying aim for the ground, but if your goals include “NYT bestseller list” or “XYZ publisher acquires me/puts me in lead title slot/spends millions on promo for my title” you are making your success dependent on factors not wholly in your power to control.

Which brings us back around to my broken streak.  It started last year, when I was whinging to Mr. Xandra about my six whole readers (honestly, I’m not sure if there are even six of you out there, LOL!  And I wasn’t whinging about you, I was whinging about the lack of more of you) and why didn’t I see more traffic to my blog. Pragmatist that he is, shut me up by telling me, “Duh, readers want something to read.”

Yep.  If it wasn’t for the hot air, my head would collapse in on itself sometimes.  I mean, I knew this stuff, I’m a smart chick, right? (Don’t answer that)

So I very quietly made a promise to myself that, come hell or high water, I’d make sure to post something in my blog once a week.  If I couldn’t post on the same day (which I often can’t as schedules for moms of little kids are fluid, at best, regimental at worst, and neither offer much in the way of free, quiet, quality, tranquil time in which to ruminate intelligently a la blog), then I’d use the handy-dandy magical “schedule post” button to make it cleverly look like I was showing up once a week, even if I was neck-deep in edits (which I was at one point) or otherwise occupied (several times).  I have (mostly) kept to this goal, and the goal remained something that would be in my control.  Last week, I should have scheduled my post earlier and been done with it before my troubles hit, but it’s a lesson I shall take with me into this week.  I can’t control how many blog readers I get–that’s up to anybody who stumbles across this out-of-the-way cul-de-sac of the internet.  But I can make it a place where readers have something to read.

Now, speaking of something to read…there’s a story that isn’t writing itself.

I’ve been submitting manuscripts since 1998.  Granted, I write slow, and many of my submissions have been to traditional publishing (and via snailmail, to boot), so it’s not as if glaciers move much slower than the process. Every time I do this, I get a little thrill of accomplishment and let myself breathe a sigh of relief at a job done.  But the more I do it, the less time that satisfaction at something being finished feeling lasts.  At first, it was weeks or even a month that I could ride the high of finishing a manuscript and putting together a submission.

Now? I take the rest of the day “off” and clean my bathrooms.

By the time I hear back on this one, it will have been old news.  I’ll be mid-way (optimistically) into my next project.  On a different track, and riding a completely different train of thought.  The process of publication is a long one.  An author’s existence is front-loading at its finest.  The bulk of our creative work is done before the process can even start.  Of course, once it does, it’s not a downhill-coast to mad profits by any stretch.  At the same time we’re “resting” on our laurels over a completed work, we’re percolating the artistic coffeepot for the next project, while simultaneously anxiously awaiting revisions, edits, copy, and covers.  And that doesn’t even mention the promo.

A writer’s life is constant running ahead of the curve.  Or trying to.  When there are years between creation and publication (and even more years between publication and payment), you’ve gotta have a few things in the hopper to keep you going.

It almost went unheard amidst the exciting chatter about what it was like to get “the call,” work with an editor, decide whether to hire a publicist, and to do that all-important thing every writer wants to do after the first sale–order swag (oh yes, we love the shinies.  Pens, fridge magnets, bookmarks, little bitty bubble bottles with the name of our book stuck to them, hell yeah, we love that shit).  It almost went completely under the radar amidst the talk about how making the USA Today list or the Waldenbooks list or even, gasp, the Times or the Times Extended can change your career (and simultaneously have no effect on your life, because people still don’t recognize you at the grocery store).

She spoke those quiet words, and silence swept the room for just a second.  Things returned to normal shortly afterwards, of course, but those words tucked themselves away in my brain, only to resurface years later after I’d gotten “the email” and wondered, “what next?”

I knew I wasn’t going to be one of the ones who immediately ordered a bazillion pens (but damn, did I want to.  I never say no to a pen).  I didn’t have the budget, and kept my head firmly on my shoulders–no spending more than I’d likely make, and epublishing being what it was at the time, I knew I wasn’t likely to win the lottery of a runaway hit (and even if I did, the digital version of “runaway hit” does not a millionaire make).  I chose Fridge Magnets (next to pens, I love fridge magnets–my refrigerator keeps ice cream cold and also serves as filing cabinet and art gallery), and I did so acknowledging that most of my promo should happen online, where my books are.

I made a website and started a blog.  I created a sig line and haunted forums where writers and readers gathered.  I joined yahoo groups.  I guest-blogged, group-blogged, and blog-toured.  Guess what?

That’s right.  It ate me alive.  I ran contests–although not nearly as many as others have, and without nearly as many of the hair-raising results.  I participated in chat loops and author chats where the emails flew fast and furious and ate up gigabytes.

And I hated it.

Yeah, that’s right.  I couldn’t stand getting on the loops and talking up because it felt so damn fake.  I wanted to sell my book.  I still do want people to buy my book (and read it and like it!), but I have never been one of those people who enjoys talking myself up.  I feel like a fake and I feel like a dork.  Sure, put me somewhere where the subject matter is something I got something to say about and yes–I’ll talk your ear off.  Eventually.  But only after I’ve lurked forever and feel like I have something meaningful to say.  And reading for me has never been a large-group experience.  I like a book, I’ll tell a handful of people about it, but I don’t gush over it to all and sundry.  Video games, yes.  Books–no.  They’re an intensely personal experience to both read and write.

I didn’t want to be yet another voice screaming out, “Look at me! Look at me!”

That’s why I don’t make appearances on loops much.  Occasionally, I’ll post an excerpt, blurb, or rarely, an announcement, because I feel like excerpts and blurbs have value–they are samples of my writing.

I know that’s probably not the right way to do it.  I should be chatting, getting involved with readers, making connections and making friends.  But friends and connections are about more than squee/agree posts on a chatters’ loop. And they should damn well be a hell of a lot more than thinly disguised marketing efforts.  We all brand ourselves as authors with catch-phrases and taglines (I’m guilty of it myself), but at some point, the advert is over.  What you have left, then, is the writing.

And if you’re eaten alive by the promo, what’s left over for the writing?

It’s easy for a writer to become obsessed about finding reviews–it can really kill your writing time to spend it hunting for mentions of your name or your book’s title, and it’s easy to get lost in the idea of the book you’ve written to the detriment of the book you’ve still got to write.  But when you receive a happy bit of news like this, it can be just the thing to kick start your day.  Hearty thanks to Night Owl for taking the time to read and review Jolly Rogered.  I know I’m one of a great many, and it means something that someone took the time to read and review.

All writing is not the same writing, either.  I’ve spent time recently with some very dense, heavy-packed, and slushy snow.  It’s hard to move around.  It doesn’t stick well to other types of snow, either.  Especially at certain temperatures.  Molding writing like that into a story without the same consistency is no picnic.  Trying to mold that dense snow to the icy powder at the next layer is an exercise in futility.  The powder is light and great for skimming over, wonderful for a fast read or action-packed scene, but it’s wispy.  It blows around and rearranges itself according to the wind, or even the shift of what’s underneath it.

To even get the hard-pack to come close to sticking to the powdery stuff, you have to cup your hands around the powder and breathe on it, just enough to melt a teensy bit of it for the dense stuff to grab onto.  And don’t think there’s a shortcut in the future where you can roll your snowball around for a quick and easy expansion–you’ll be fighting for every new millimeter added to its size.  You have to smooth the surface to get it to stick.  Pin those words down with the heat from your hands to ease the heavier stuff into bonding with it.

Then, underneath, is the ice.  The dangerous, subversive stuff.  The hard and unpleasant surprise at the center of a vindictive snowball, or the slick danger that looks like maybe just a patch of wet on the road.  Sometime’s it’s there because the ground was warm, then later cooled with the blanket of snow, freezing it back up after it’s melted.  Maybe it’s there because it’s been packed down and driven over.  Enough pressure has been placed on it that it’s hardened.  Frozen up into something with a smooth surface and a chill of its own to infuse its own properties into that of the other snow types that are making their way into the snowball of a story.  But it’s the ice that’s at the center of the story.  It’s hardest to change the properties of the ice.

Half an hour later, after stroking the Yank’s cheek and excusing himself to go clear the rest of his schedule, Nigel sauntered into the office, whistling the tune of a sea shanty about a good ship called the ‘Venus’, prompting a snort from Suisan as she passed back out to the front desk.

“Well?” Drew slid away from the terminal and the collection of ledgers which Nigel paid him a king’s ransom to care about.

Nigel flopped into the plush leather chair, put his hands behind his head, and regarded his former lover with a grin. “They’re so bloody cute when they come with little whimpers like that.” He emitted a self-satisfied sigh. “And when those big baby-blues look at you with wonder, it’s just enough to melt your heart and make you sick.”

Drew rolled his eyes. “I’m supposed to envy you the exotic new pet?”

“Not yet, my friend. He’s got no clue what he’s gotten himself into.”

“Yeah, about that. I’m not so sure he did the getting into. I checked his reservation and it was made from somewhere in the States, but through several bounces and out of a tunneling service located in Germany.”

“Poor bastards have to go through all that just to get a little vacation sex?” Nigel wanted to close his eyes and take a nap. Or better still, get back to the Yank and the lovely, pleasant feeling of low-grade, constant arousal the newcomer engendered in him.

“Do you think our new friend is really as innocent as he makes out?”

Nigel glanced at his longtime friend. “Judging by the way he makes out, yes.”

Drew slanted him a return look. “So what’s in it for you, then? I thought you kissed off your last Queen of Denial eight years ago.”

Nigel pouted. “I’m a fickle bitch, aren’t I?”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“He’s a complete neophyte. I want to show him the whole resort just to see the look on his face. Am I too jaded, you think?” Bloody virgins and their bloody ingénue eyes.

Drew was not to be put off by the temptation of speculation. “All I’m saying is that getting involved with an American can lead to heartbreak of the International Incident kind.”

Nigel’s brow furrowed. In spite of being the master of all he surveyed, the stark fact was that he was master on a kind of sufferance. As long as the Isla paid its taxes and membership fees to the Caribbean Union, they enjoyed a moderate international protection via carefully-courted goodwill with the looming behemoth to the north. That didn’t stop the Americans from establishing “embassies”–otherwise known as bases of nosiness–on international properties–whether the inhabitants wanted them or not. Yet he somehow doubted the Union would spend its diplomatic capital on his behalf, should the US wish to open up shop on his island. All the same, a steady flow of palm-greasing gold only lubricated the wheels of diplomacy when one knew which palms needed the greasing.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Well then,” he said. “I guess I’ll just have to pump him for information, then, won’t I? Make sure he’s on the up-and-up and all. I should go get my spy outfit on.” Nigel rose out of the chair in mock eagerness.

Drew took the bait and flicked a stylus at him. “You’re an idiot.”

“Then I’m lucky to have you riding my back. Just pull my hair while you’re doing it.”

During my time in RWA (I joined in 1996), the organization has consistently advocated for, and educated thousands of aspiring authors on, the traditional means of achieving publication within the romance novel publishing industry.  Which is, to sum up, a fairly straightforward process when viewed from the outside.  It goes something like this: 1.)write a great book with a love story and a happy ending, 2.)send that manuscript to agents and editors of houses who publish romance novels, 3.)sign a contract for an advance and eventually collect royalties after your book has come out for sale in bookstores, and 4.)PROFIT!!!! (Yes, that last is an internet meme joke, and by rights, number 3 should be “???” but if I have to explain, it’s probably not as funny as I think it is, but this is my blog and this is how I ramble roll).  This process was a consistently-modeled (if not easily replicated) process, and could be counted on to be not only the current best practice within the industry, but really, the only practice in the industry that would achieve the results of number 4.  But as the past few years have shown, the only constant is change.

With emergent technologies, the prevalence of digitalization, and the opening up of internet access to more people within more social classes as well as physical locations, great change has come to commerce, and publishing is included in that change (big fat duh, I know, but bear with me).  Within the romance publishing industry, challenges mounted to the current best practice, and those challengers have proven viable.  RWA has remained consistent in championing the industry’s current best practice, and I understand why, even if I don’t agree with it.    But at some point, the scales tip, and what was once a conservative approach eventually turns to resistance to change out of habit.

When that happens, and after the resultant time period required to steer a ship of the White Star Line the size of the RWA, the organization’s policy must necessitate a shift from pure advocacy to advocacy with equal parts emphasis on education.  The tl;dr of this is that RWA must now step up to take a more proactive stance to educate its members on the different processes by which they can derive a respectable income from their writing.

When the brouhaha first started, I was honestly surprised at how many fellow chapter members showed little understanding of why vanity press is the oldest scam in the publishing book.  I realized that because of RWA’s strict focus on the one-way current best practice, understanding of other routes of publishing (both good and bad) not only suffered, but fell off the radar altogether.  RWA has well-insulated its members from shady business practices, but it has done so at the cost of members even being aware of those practices.  We’ve lost some of that “caveat scriptor,” and it’s to our detriment.

Epublishing is finally firmly entrenched in the public awareness.  It’s approaching–if it hasn’t already approached–the tipping point of saturation.  And there’s a business model for writers in there that’s been proven via persistence.  But there’s still a lot of room for abuse, and the RWA has a unique opportunity here to step up via education of its members to prevent that.  Taking a proactive stance offers RWA the opportunity it’s never had before–to help craft a new best practice model that benefits its authors, with profitability and career advancement for all.

As a result, I tend to write in fits and starts. Or rather, make progress on writing-related activities in a manner of activity better suited for making half a bundt cake disappear in one sitting.  When the glut is long enough to get me from start to finish, this can be a good thing–I sit down, fork in hand, cake plate in front of me, and devour a whole story’s worth of cake  in one protracted binge of writing.  I have the same taste for cake, the same “tone” at the end of the story as I did at the start, and I’m left exhausted, bloated, but with a complete story.  And also really glad it’s a story and not a cake for reals, otherwise I’d be in a sugar-coma and have guilty cake crumbs all over the place.  But, as after the cake-binge, there comes regret.  I look at the disaster that is my house and despair the same way I’d look at that empty cake plate and feel the guilt over the binge lodge right down there in the ol’ upper-GI tract.

So to break the cycle, I’ve adopted a schedule.  I never thought I’d do it (I’m no slave to the calendar, maaaan!).  I still have a hard time conceiving of the logic of actually stopping writing when I feel like I’m on a roll.  But I do it.  Lots of writers set goals for themselves and then stop at those goals no matter what.  And you know what?  I’ve found out it works, sorta.

Some writers set themselves page goals or time goals–and when they’ve reached their goal, they stop.  Flat-out, no ands ifs or buts.  I can’t be one of those people that stops in mid-sentence if I’ve hit ten minutes or 2 pages.  Since I usually use scenes to mark time and progress, I’m pretty much insured against the need to do so.  But it doesn’t prevent me from reaching that goal and realizing that yeah, I’d like to write more, or keep going on this one wound.  And wouldn’t you know it, that feeling seems to follow me from day to day.  I’m making real progress, instead of just vomiting up a brain mess.  And that’s hella better than cake.  Even half a bundt cake in one sitting.

The minute you press “Publish” on your first blog post, or the minute you make that heart-pounding decision to show your work to somebody who could, one day, maybe give you some money for it, is the minute where you have to become Savvy.  Writers groups speak a lot about writing “the book of your heart” because it’s a phenomenon that broadsides all of us at different times.  Even when we think we’re ready for it and facing the cutlass with both eyes open, only to find out it’s the cannon from the side that’s just pounded us to hamburger.  And what’s that cannon loaded with?  Nothing more or less than the lead shot and gunpowder of The Market.

As writers, we signed up for this gig to, well, write.  Now when we want to share our work with the world, it turns out that we have to do things that are the opposite of writing.  We have to pay attention to markets.  We have to promote.  We have to be aware of whether or not the words coming from our hearts and the stories begging to be told are morsels tasty enough to be fed to the beast that thrashes the calm waters of our creativity and devours unsuspecting sailors when plucked from the riggings of their tiny, tossed boats.  The Market…will eat you alive if you let it.

Every writer has to find his or her own fine line to walk between the appetite of The Market, and the uncut purity of self-expression.  It’s important to understand that The Market is never the same beast twice.  Sometimes it can be fed, placated with some morsels of marketability in your works.  Other times, it is a demanding maw that can, if you allow it, suck out all the soul from your work in exchange for safe passage through troubled waters.

That isn’t to say that The Market can’t be negotiated with.  There are many tools in the writer’s belowdecks good for navigating The Market’s hungers.  The first is to stay informed.  Its twin is to stand firm.  A writer who completely writes to The Market is often chasing from behind, pursuing a beast that is faster and sleeker than can be overcome.  Some writers can catch up to that beast close enough to harpoon it from the backside and let it pull them along.  Other writers find that The Market’s path carries it close enough for them to leap and catch a wild ride, if they react quickly enough.  Still other writers may find that The Market’s main body is far away from them, save for one of its many adjunct limbs that may be stalked and tamed for a time.  Some writers will steer far away from the thrashings of the beast and concentrate on smaller, calmer waters.

Each of these paths has its benefits and disadvantages.  The beast-hunter can only ride for the length of the harpoon rope, and a sudden change in the beast’s direction can mean a quick and messy scuttle.  The leapers can only ride for as long as the thrashes take the beast close to their home waters, and should they find themselves moving in a different direction, it is the beast that will leave them behind, no matter how hard they pull and how tight they hold.  And the limb-tamers can too easily find themselves severed from the beast in its efforts towards self-preservation.  Those who navigate the calm waters away from the beast will never see the action that the beast’s movements bring to their sea.

Staying informed will help the writer track the beast that is The Market.  Standing firm will help the writer track the limits of what their craft can take in pursuit of the beast.  How much of Jack Sparrow and how much of Captain Ahab you want to be is up to you, the writer.

As authors, we simulate the human voice in our writing–each of our characters has their own “voice” – their own sound and rhythm of speech yes, but also their own outlook on life, their own values and their own worldviews.

But as authors, we also need our own voice–our particular, peculiar ways of telling stories that make those stories unique to us.  There are, at best, three dozen or so plots in the whole world so far–there is nothing new under the sun, and it’s the way we as individuals tell those stories that make them mediocre, or make them great.  Voice is that elusive quality that editors and agents look for that makes a book stand out, and sadly enough, it isn’t something that can be taught.

The only way to find your voice is to use it.  The amazing experience that is listening to a pipe organ is made or broken by the acoustics in its cathedral.  Same with your writer’s voice.  Find your cathedral and then let your Vox Humana echo from the rafters.