Farewell, my lovelies … ha ha ha … or be seeing you … I hope … on this blog.
Finally, for what it’s worth, here’s the end of my young adult novel, which is totally not a spoiler. I hope my writers group doesn’t think it sucks too much. Here goes:
So that’s all I got. If you’re looking for some sort of moral, I couldn’t tell you what it is. Don’t follow strange boys riding on buses? Don’t lie to your parents? Don’t do stupid things just to be accepted? Feel free to take your pick.
I guess the point is that we all have to make choices. Up until three years ago, I never really had to live with mine. I was always moving from one place to another, so I didn’t have to choose to be anything anywhere. However, things changed, once we settled here and I had to decide who my real friends were.
I’ve heard we are the sum total of our choices. I’ve never been sure exactly what that meant until now. I’d like to think I add up to someone worth knowing.
Life is like a weird, crazy movie. It’s totally like that novel, The Sound and the Fury. Have you ever read it? If not, I’ll save you the trouble.
It starts out as gibberish – a tale told by a true idiot. Half the time, you have no idea what’s going on. Slowly, the pieces come together. And just as it all starts to make some kind of sense, it ends – inconclusively. That’s it. You’re welcome.
THE END
So … should I take a bow? Ha ha ha …
Be seeing you, I hope.
UPDATE: They liked it! My writer’s group liked the story. In fact, I know what I must do to make it even better.
You’ll get one or more of these books in return for your contribution. If you’re your contribution is really awesome and you live in or are willing to come to my local area, you’ll get to meet the goofy blonde with the shit-eating grin who can barely type this post. Ha ha ha …
So … I was telling my husband today, that now that his mother is doing so much better and she doesn’t have the keys to the car, he shouldn’t be so worried about her. She’s living on her own and still quite capable, you know. He just worries way too much, but then he’s an only child. I’m fortunate to have siblings. I realize that.
However, I also realize that I’m responsible for living while I can, despite being tortured constantly. This means I have to make decisions wisely, so this blog must bite the dust. Soon!
BTW, I’ve been working on a shitty first draft of DEEP SIX, the fourth Sam McRae mystery. See what you think:
Prologue
I once spent the night with six prostitutes.
It’s not what you’re thinking. In fact, I’m probably not who you’re thinking either. I’m Stephanie Ann McRae, better known to most people as Sam, the nickname I created from my initials. As you may have gathered, I’m a woman. I’m also a lawyer, in my late 30s and single, but not inclined to use the services of the world’s oldest profession.
The prostitutes and I spent our night in mutual discomfort in a holding cell in Landover, Maryland. It was my first, and hopefully last, time in jail.
If I learned one thing from the experience, it’s that I wouldn’t last a minute in prison. I also learned that I can’t pee when other people are watching.
Once I was in lockup, I spent a good deal of time pacing along the bars. Then I tried leaning against the bars. They started wearing grooves in my arms, so I switched to a wall that might have been beige somewhere under the grime and obscene graffiti. How did the graffiti get there? Smuggled crayons? I mulled this over a bit, then went back to pacing. I avoided eye contact with my fellow inmates, having no desire to strike up a conversation. I think the feeling was mutual.
After a few hours of this, I tried to get what little sleep would come sitting on the cold concrete floor, knees up and huddled, keeping a shirtsleeve between myself and the filthy wall. I managed a half-doze, but kept getting snapped back awake by one of the prostitutes, who had a cough of tuberculin vigor, and a retching drug addict who’d joined the party late, but gotten a head start on celebrating.
Walt finally managed to spring me around 4:30 a.m. Even Walt Shapiro, one of the county’s finest criminal defense attorneys, must have had his work cut out for him that night.
You see, several hours before, I’d shot someone.
1
Ten days earlier
I could think of better things to do on a sunny morning in early May than to sit at a shabby desk in my small, sublet office waiting for the phone to ring and going over my severely diminishing law office’s financials. But the latter made the former necessary. So I opened the window to allow myself a taste of the mild spring, which would soon enough transform into a sullen, hot Maryland summer.
Law can be a seasonal business. Thanksgiving and Christmas are often a bust—people too entrenched in the holidays to bother with legal matters—but afterwards, look out. There’s usually a run on divorces wrought by dysfunctional family “cheer” and both criminal and personal injury cases resulting from too much festive drinking. For whatever reason, I’d been experiencing an extended drought in business since the end of last October. Where are all the drunk drivers and assault perpetrators, I grumbled to myself. Or, much as I hated handling divorce and custody cases, I’d settle for a miserable spouse or two. Or someone hopelessly mangled in a car wreck. I grimaced at my thoughts. Only a lawyer would suffer such longings. But I was struggling to cover my overhead, plus unanticipated repairs to my car. My billables were a joke, but I wasn’t laughing.
I looked out the window onto Laurel, Maryland’s historic Main Street, all beautifully restored with brick and flowering trees lining the street. This part of town was the heart of old Laurel, what remained of a time that had long given way to suburban sprawl and houses of ticky-tacky, as the song goes. I could stand here looking out the window all day thinking about that or I could sit at my desk and think about that. But I couldn’t go out and chase ambulances or hand out business cards at funerals. I could advertise on the Internet. I could tell people all about myself and what I do. But I couldn’t force them to hire me.
So I did what I could to pay the bills. I sat at my desk, kept my books, ran an honest business and waited for the phone to ring. I turned from the window, went back to my desk and landed in my chair. Thud. Then the phone rang.
When the phone rang, I nearly answered, “Sam McRae, will represent you for food.”
I settled on my usual greeting instead. “Law offices.” Like I have more than one. One that I sublet, no less. Funny.
“Sam? Sam McRae, is that you?”
The voice rang a faint bell, but I couldn’t place it with a name. Was it a former client? “Yes,” I answered. Hopefully, not a former client with a complaint.
“Oh, my gosh, Sam. It’s been forever, but this is Linda Parker. Remember me?”
“Linda Parker? Holy shit, lady.”
She laughed, and I joined her.
I’d met Linda while doing my undergraduate studies at the University of Maryland. We’d kept in touch for a few years afterward, but our contacts attenuated to yearly Christmas cards after a while. Then, at some point, the Christmas cards stopped.
“Nice to know you haven’t changed,” she said.
“Some things never change.”
“Yeah, well.” She paused. “Some things do and some don’t.”
Why did I not like the sound of that?
“So, it’s been ages, Linda. We should get together sometime and catch up. But was there a reason you called me at my office?” Because I’m such a busy, busy big-time lawyer now.
“Actually, I hoped you could help me with a legal matter.”
My turn to pause. I wanted to say, “Well, sure, Linda! But I don’t do divorce work for friends. And I don’t work for free for anyone. However, because you’re an old friend, I’ll take a check up front, okay?”
“Sam? Are you there?”
“Yes, Linda. Uh … what kind of legal matter?”
“I’d like to take some time to explain it, maybe over lunch or dinner? I’ll pay, of course.”
Must be a mighty interesting case. I decided to hear Linda out. Besides it had been ages since we’d seen each other, and who was I to object to a free meal?
“Well, there’s room on my calendar tomorrow to meet for lunch, if you’d like.” Yes, I think I can manage to squeeze you in, old friend.
“Great! Why don’t we meet at the 94th Aero Squadron in College Park. Eleven-thirty, say? Can’t wait to see you.”
We hung up, and I thought, I can’t wait to see you, too. I thought briefly of an old line another lawyer used to say: “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.” I felt chilly, despite the day’s warmth, then the chill passed.
At eleven-thirty on the dot, I walked into the restaurant, housed in a pseudo-French farmhouse circa WWI, and was escorted to a table next to a big picture window, where the waiter removed the napkin from my goblet with a flourish and poured my water with equal fanfare. Linda was nowhere in sight. The place had a low wooden ceiling with thick parallel beams and a brick fireplace in the corner.
I vaguely recalled seeing a show on the History Channel about bombs buried under real farmhouses in Europe during World War I, as a defense against the Germans. The British were taking steps to tunnel down and recover them. However, some of them were going off accidentally. Possibly due to lightning strikes.
I sat in my solid wooden chair and admired the detailed recreation of history, including the brass pots and pans hanging near the fireplace and the mantel clock. A bookshelf lined one wall. A clarinet noodled a swing tune solo in the background. Each table was adorned with a pristine white tablecloth, draped over a red one, and full place settings arranged around a candle flickering in a cut glass holder, in hopeful preparation for someone to sit there. No threat of the Kaiser, no bombs submerged below the painstakingly decorated eatery. None that we knew of.
I shifted in my seat. For some reason, my jaw felt rigid, so I tried smiling. I figured sitting by myself smiling made me look goofy, so I stopped. My mouth was dry, so I sipped my water. One sip of water didn’t quench my thirst, so I took another. My mouth still felt dry. Why was I so nervous?
I looked around at all the neatly-set tables again, waiting for customers. So far, the only takers were myself, one quiet couple, and a group of four men and two women, all in suits, talking about sales figures and laughing too loudly at each other’s jokes. I turned away to gaze out the window, guzzled water, and watched a Cessna make a lazy circle over the landing field.
Finally, Linda came in about thirteen minutes (which felt like an hour) later, moving through the room with the fluid grace of a gazelle and the self-assurance of a woman on a mission. A smile broadened across her pale, freckled face, and her wavy, red hair flowed back as if blown by a secret wind. The air seemed to freshen in her presence, as if she’d brought some of the outdoors in with her. I got up and we hugged.
“Sam,” she said. “It’s been too long.”
“Feels like a million years,” I said, overlooking her tardiness and lack of explanation. “You were with the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service the last time we spoke.”
“Can you believe I’m still there? I’m probably a lifer, even though every year, they make me to do more with less budget. But how many jobs are out there for biologists?” She jerked a shoulder up in a “who knows?” gesture. “Bureaucracy and paperwork just seem to worsen over time, too. But, if you can ignore the bullshit, it’s decent work.”
“I know what you mean.” My problem was I couldn’t abide the bullshit of office politics and bureaucracy. That’s why I’d left the Prince George’s County Public Defender’s Office years ago to start my own practice.
As we took our seats, she said, “I’m really sorry I’m late, but I got waylaid at the office.”
I waved my hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s so great to see you again. You’re well worth the wait.”
Her and the free lunch.
We scanned menus the waiter had left with me. Linda chose the Cobb Salad. I decided to go all out with filet minon, since Linda was paying. This meal could be both lunch and dinner.
After the waiter took our orders, Linda turned to me and said, “How’s business?”
“Fine.” Never let them see you sweat. Even if they’re old friends you haven’t spoken to in forever. Not if they’re going to be your client, maybe.
Linda raised her eyebrows. “Okay.”
I sighed. “I’ll be honest. Things are a bit slow right now, but they’ll pick up I’m sure. They always do.” That’s me. Little Miss Sunshine.
Linda leaned toward me and touched my arm. “I wish we had more time to catch up, but I can tell you about my case and you can see what you think, okay?”
I sat up straighter. “I’m all ears.”
Linda leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on the table. “Two years ago, I started a local activist group where I live. It’s named Citizens Advocating Sensible Development, but everyone calls it CASD.” She pronounced the acronym as if it were spelled “cazd”.
“We’re trying to preserve a large tract of undeveloped land in southern Prince George’s County, where I live,” she continued. “The group plans to appeal a zoning decision that would pave the way for a big new development—five hundred-plus acres of former farmland has been rezoned to let a developer fill it with houses, offices and stores.”
“Interesting,” I told her, “But I’m not a zoning expert.”
“But, it’s really not that hard. It’s all politics, really. Couldn’t you please do it just this once?”
Okay, meeting an old friend you haven’t seen forever is awesome. Doing an old friend a favor is awesome. Mixing business and pleasure, sometimes not so cool. And this contact from my long-lost friend had tripped my bullshit meter now, big time.
“Have you thought of approaching any local firms?” I asked, casually. “Many of them will take a case like this pro bono for the publicity.”
She shook her head. “We tried three or four firms. We’ve offered to pay. No one wants to fight Graybeck.”
“Is that who we’re talking about?” No wonder no one would take the case. They were probably all fighting for his business. I felt torn between fears that I’d be in over my head trying to fight Graybeck and a weird thrill at the prospect of doing it anyway.
“I guess you’ve read the articles about this.” Linda twiddled her thumbs, a tiny vertical line forming on her brow. “The fact that Graybeck is a minority-owned business and the push for upscale development in a mostly-black county doesn’t help us. The press is playing the race angle like the environmentalists are a cross between Greenpeace and the Klan. Sometimes I wonder why we can’t just all get along.”
I’d often had that same thought, knowing that if it came to fruition, I’d be out of a job. Our food arrived, and she fell silent, pushing her salad around on her plate a bit. I sawed off a healthy bite of my filet minon, bit it off my fork and chewed. Perfect. I was still thinking of all the reasons to turn this down, when she said, “We’re willing to pay you eight grand up front, if you do this.”
I swallowed my bite half-chewed and felt it inching down my esophagus, like a mouse through a snake. I grabbed my water and gulped half the glass. When I set the glass down, I could swear the meat was still stuck way down in the bottom of my esophagus. Well, at least, no one had needed to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on me.
I raised my napkin to my lips. “That’s more than generous,” I managed to say.
“We were willing to pay that to the firms, so it’s yours, if you want it.”
My mouth went slack. “How … who … where did you get this money?”
“The group got together and collected it.”
I peered at her. “Really?” I pictured a bunch of hippies, handing out flowers for donations.
“Our members have resources and friends with money.”
Ah. That helps.
I was ready to offer another polite demurrer. Then, I remembered Jamila Williams. She worked as a real estate attorney for one the biggest firms in Prince George’s County. She was definitely politically connected. I could consult with her on this. Jamila and I were tight. We were there for each other when the going got tough.
“Well,” I said. “I feel funny about taking a zoning case. But, for you, I’ll consider it, okay?”
I still had misgivings, but with eight thousand reasons to take the case and a stack of unpaid bills, I couldn’t say no.
After we dispensed with that, Linda seemed to relax.
“Thank you, Sam,” she said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
Let’s not get carried away. I said I’d consider it.
“Linda, please don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I need a day or so to think about this and make sure I have the resources to do a good job for you. Do you understand?”
She reached out and touched my arm again. “Of course. You have to do what’s right for you.” Linda leaned back and smiled. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
I thought about that. Was that really true? “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, I can tell. You’re as stubborn as ever, and probably a hundred times better than most of the high-priced lawyers in this county.”
“Well,” I said. “Being stubborn doesn’t mean jack shit when it comes to being a good lawyer.”
She laughed. “See? That’s why you’re the best. You’re honest. Thank you for that. I hope you will consider my offer. Please.”
After we finished eating, Linda said she needed to go back to the office right away. She flagged the waiter over, pulled her wallet from her shoulder bag, and retrieved an Amex credit card. A silver Amex credit card, to be exact. The waiter hustled over through the nearly empty room and presented the bill in its folder, like an engraved invitation. Linda gave it a cursory glance, nodded, then stuck the credit card in the slot and handed it back. The waiter hurried off.
“Here’s my card, Sam,” Linda said, pulling a shiny, gold-colored metal cardholder from her shoulder bag. She popped it open with her thumb and retrieved a card from the stash within. “I’ll write my home and cell number on here, too.”
While she scribbled that down, I fished around for a business card and a pen, finding both. I paused, then wrote down my cell phone, which I normally don’t give out to clients. Linda was turning out to be the exception that would prove the rule that no good deed goes unpunished.
2
I left the fake World I French restaurant, hopped in my old purple Mustang convertible, and rejoined the ugly reality of 21st century College Park and good old Route One. I could’ve taken the Baltimore-Washington Parkway instead of Route One, but frankly I was screwed either way. Traffic in this area is a bitch, no matter what road you take. Since they began making improvements on the Parkway, the traffic has become even screwier, no matter what time you’re on it.
The trip back to my palatial sublet office took me well north of the University of Maryland campus proper, right into the thick of Berwyn or Beltsville. Older suburbs of brick ranchers. The kind of houses they don’t build anymore, because people are looking to buy bigger houses that are made more cheaply. Lovely.
Through some miracle, I found a place to park out front of the old Victorian house where I sublet, instead of having to pull into the lot in back and walking around to the front door. I know, I know … I sound lazy, but I walk all the time. And I ride a bicycle to stay in shape, so no one can say I’m not working it.
Once I’d parked, I grabbed my shoulder bag and marched up the walkway, then climbed the three short, grey-painted wooden steps to the little porch before the front door. To the right, a small ramp slanted alongside the steps. My landlord had installed the ramp, requiring a complete architectural redesign of the front porch, in order to accommodate disabled employees and clients in accordance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. He’d also had to get permission from various Laurel zoning and historical authorities. My landlord must really love having his business in Laurel to go through all that shit, huh?
I entered the waiting area, where my landlord’s elderly receptionist, Sheila, was nodding and making “umm-hmm” sounds into her headset, while typing on her keyboard. I waved hello and kept going toward the stairs leading up to my plush digs on the second floor. Sheila punched the hold button, apparently, because her head swiveled and she said, “Hang on. We need to talk.”
Oh, shit. I froze in place. I could’ve ignored her, but why put off the inevitable?
Once Sheila finished nodding and murmuring into the phone, she hung up and turned to me and said, “Sam, could you step outside with me, while I take a short smoke break?”
How interesting, I thought. Sheila keeps her silver-gray hair tied back in a bun, giving her the look of a skinny, chain-smoking librarian. One who’s never felt any compunction about smoking in the office, despite the law that says you shouldn’t. The woman smokes like … well, a house afire. Obviously, she wanted to talk to me where certain busybodies couldn’t hear her.
So Sheila and I went outside and huddled on the small porch together.
Not one to waste words, Sheila got right to the point. She said, “I hate to bring this up, but Milt is getting on my ass about the rent.”
I nodded. “I know, Sheila. You guys have been more than kind to cut me this slack, during a tough time. But I’ve got what looks like a promising client. Just give me a little more time, to square my accounts with you, okay?”
And (in no particular order, because I totally didn’t plan this) Stephen Leather, Tim Hallinan, Simon Wood, Karen McQuestion, Brenda Wallace, Derek Haines, Scott and Mary Clevenger, Chris Vosburg, Cassie (if you’re still there), Wendy, Caren Kennedy, Louise Phillips, Dale Phillips, Marcia Talley, Sasscer Hill, Ray Flynt, Mary Ellen Hughes, Karen Cantwell, Joe Konrath, Jack Bludis, Graham Powell, Jim Winter, Zoe Winters, Zoe Sharp, Scott Nicholson, L.J. Sellers, C.J. West, Bill Gagliani, Jenny Milchman, Janet Rudolph, Peg Brantley, Frank Zafiro, Austin Camacho, Jeremiah Healey, and Louise Titchener.
And each and every one of my readers, of course.
And all the other awesome ones I’ve left out, but you should know who you are.
My literacy campaign will not be financed by my mother-in-law. That’s not the point. The point is to do something awesome and promote literacy by distributing my books in exchange for contributions. Will you help?
“When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”
Hi there! There I am with my shit-eating grin and my three novels, one of which is a New York Times bestseller, for what that’s worth. Ha ha ha …
I remember, right before we went on vacation this summer, when my third book was published in print, one of our neighbors came over and I showed him the book. He saw the words “New York Times bestselling author” on the cover, and he said, “So … you’re famous now?” And I said, “Um … no. I’m not. Or, you would already know that, wouldn’t you?” LOL!
Well … the fact of the matter is, the readership of this blog is much smaller than the first blog I established. This blog is, in fact, like an appendix. It may have served a purpose at one time, but that’s no longer true, because I’ve learned that I have the strength to stand on my own as an author, screenwriter, possible producer, traveler and who knows what else and create my own unique platform.
So, for your benefit, I’m going to start over — again! — and include this link from the other blog, which explains a lot about what I’ve been going through for seven and a half years.
And in case you don’t click the link, I’ll quote the relevant part:
Now … I’ll quote from the guest post where I made that admission:
When Vincent invited me to write a post for his blog, it was during a discussion on LinkedIn. (Remember LinkedIn? Some of us still hang out there.) We were talking about the usual subjects – marketing ebooks, promoting our work online, that sort of thing.
I think Vincent mentioned something about readers expecting us to publish a book every six months or so. I couldn’t resist saying something at that point. You see, I have a problem. I try not to make a big deal about it, but I don’t keep it a secret, either.
I had a stroke in November 1994 2004 [Blogger's note: I fucked up the date! Feel free to change it, Vincent. Ha ha!], due to a post-operative blood clot going through a hole between the atria in my heart (i.e., due to a complete fluke set of circumstances). About five or six months after that, and despite what seemed to be a complete recovery from the stroke, I developed the third most common movement disorder (after Parkinson’s and tremors) called dystonia. As it happens, dystonia has no cure.
This disorder causes constant clenching and contortion of my left hand and foot. (The side affected by the stroke – coincidence? Don’t think so.) And when I say constant, I mean 24/7, day in and day out. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every … oh, you get the idea.
And as for treatments, well … the story is not so good. There are some, but they don’t really work completely. They are, at best, hit or miss. The best neurologists do things and say, “Let’s see what happens.” (In other words, “We don’t WTF we’re doing, but this is our best guess.”)
And alternative medicine. Yeah, been there, done that, spent the money. Currently trying acupuncture. Seems to be doing something. Slowly. Very slowly. Patience, grasshopper.
And pain. Like you wouldn’t believe sometimes. Picture your hand being slowly twisted in a medieval torture device that never, ever stops. Lovely, isn’t it?
Okay. Now, back to what we were talking about. Publishing a story every six months? No, I don’t think so. Sorry.
And then … Vincent said something even funnier! He mentioned that we were vying for position as #1 in some Amazon category! Well …
I won’t lie. Being #1 is awesome and all, but it’s not why I wake up in the morning and write.
And for me, success is measured in way more than mere numbers.
For me, success is being able to force myself out of bed and convince myself to keep going, despite everything.
And I write because I enjoy telling stories, and I want to tell the best stories I possibly can. No matter how long that takes.
Success is also being able to make a living as a writer, despite all the work that entails. This would not only include all the concentration and creative effort that goes into writing the work, but the physical act of using my hands to type the words. Not to mention all the marketing and promotion.
As for speech recognition software, well … have you ever used it? I have. Two words: it sucks.
Writing this post itself takes not only energy, but decision making. I don’t wish to present myself as an object of pity. However, I am interested in raising public awareness of dystonia. So I find myself striking a fine balance between talking about the matter and not talking about it too much.
Success is summoning up the blind faith to keep going in the face of what, at times, has seemed to be insurmountable odds and endless obstacles.
Frankly, achieving bestseller status is (pardon the cliché) just icing on the cake.
Okay … not only that, but if you read this post, you’ll see that I’m not supposed to use speech recognition. In fact, it’s better for me if I don’t!
That said, anything you can do to support this campaign for literacy would be greatly appreciated. All the proceeds will go the Red Cross, okay? None to me, and the contributions are tax deductible. However, the deadline is creeping up like a cheap pair of drawers! Dec. 21. Please, pretty please, help make my goal! I’m not going to get hand outs from my mother-in-law or Mr. Smiley or anyone on this. Believe me! This is for charity and literacy, okay?
Also, great news! The goal amount of the Sam McRae Mystery Series campaign has been raised to $5,500, and the deadline extended to Jan. 31, 2013. I’ve stretched the goal amount now that I’ve hit my initial mark and I’d like to keep this going, so I can give out more books and make my series a success through small donations.
Therefore, I’m concentrating on promoting this at the first 3 levels of support.
Any help you can provide in terms of spreading the word, etc., would be greatly appreciated! Thank you!!
When you lose money, you can always earn it back. When you lose your health and there’s no cure, it’s gone forever. Until you die. Or someone finds a cure. But hope is a killer, unless you can learn to laugh at the universal joke that screwed you over. I don’t need to pretend my life is anything other than what it is, anymore. That’s it.
More to come. Stay tuned and leave your comments here for Dale’s giveaway contest.
UPDATE 2: I’m on Pinterest now, of course. Here’s an interesting video I pinned. Hmm …!
UPDATE 3: Good grief! I totally forgot to mention this part. Sorry!
Give $10, and you’ll get a paperback Lulu edition of the New York Times ebook bestselling novel IDENTITY CRISIS, signed by the author AND delivered to your mailing address. NOTE to international backers: extra charge for shipping may apply.
Give $20, and you’ll get a paperback first edition of LEAST WANTED, signed by the author, delivered to your mailing address, AND all rewards listed above. NOTE to international backers: extra charge for shipping may apply.
Give $50, and a personalized thank you letter, a paperback first edition of RIPTIDE, signed by the author, delivered to your mailing address, AND all rewards listed above. NOTE to international backers: extra charge for shipping may apply.
Give $300, and you’ll get to meet the author for coffee at a Baltimore-DC area cafe or restaurant that’s mutually convenient, AND all rewards listed above. NOTE to international backers: I’ll give you the books when we meet. You’ll have to pay for transporting yourself here. Ha ha ha …
Hi there! It’s becoming painfully clear that this blog must be archived. It won’t be deleted. It will be preserved. As an example of … whatever. How to be a doofus? Ha ha ha … I don’t know.
I’m not shutting it down just yet. This is just an early warning that subscribers might want to switch over to this blog, where I posted something today.
Most of the interesting links are over there, except these …
You can get copies of my novels if you make a tax-deductible contribution to my campaign! Awesome, yes? Please act swiftly. The deadline for meeting my $1,000 goal is Dec. 21. Any support in terms on RTs, FB or Google+ shares would be greatly appreciated.
BTW, I did manage to write a shitty first draft of the special acknowledgment section of the new edition of IDENTITY CRISIS. Here it is:
SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No one gets anywhere in life without help from others. I’ve always felt lucky to have such a wonderful husband, family and friends. However, I’m starting to think maybe we choose wisely and that makes all the difference.
When I decided to self-publish this book, I never intended to make a living as a self-published author. However, things have changed and now I think it’s possible to do so. However, if you’re going to do it, you need to establish yourself as an author, in order to create a meaningful readership.
I’d like to thank the following people for providing early financial support for this edition of the book: Mac Cassity, Edward Adams, Debra Hoover-McDonald, Nancy Mack for herself and on behalf of Joyce Mack, Rick Iacangelo on behalf of Mary Louise Iacangelo, Karen McQuestion.
Now, this is just a shitty first draft, but you get the idea, right?
I’ll double-check to make sure all the names are named, of course.
Well … there is one unacknowledged name that bears mention. Jack Bludis always asks about him. Oh … what’s his name?
Bob Broomall! Right! Thank you, Bob. If you hadn’t told me that first novel (my “practice novel”) about Sam was “publishable”, I might never have believed any of this was possible.
As my funny sister would say, I think it’s a “highly punishable” story, and I’m in the process of punishing the shit out of it. Ha ha ha …
And finally thank you to everyone reading this. To quote paraphrase myself:
I just want to thank everyone who’s reading this. All my subscribers and frequent readers, because you’re so awesome for putting up with all my bullsh*t ridiculous posts. Even you casual readers who’ve stopped by, simply because the headline caught your eye or whatever. I’m grateful for the patronage of any other Internet hobos like myself. #gratitude
This has been a really lousybusyweird unusual week year full of epiphanies for me. So, I’d like to end the week this post with what I hope will be a really awesome gesture.
So … here’s a video I was lucky enough to get found on Twitter …
… and here’s another one.
I think they’re both awesome. I hope you enjoy them.
A long time ago, when I was practicing law, I saw this movie. I’ve never forgotten it. It always reminded me of where I came from and how people misunderstand each other for the wrong reasons.
However, what I really meant to tell you was that the old man’s message was right. Do the right thing, and you’ll never be sorry.
Anyhow, I had the most wonderful dream this morning. It was about how I had to write something to the effect that I couldn’t deny that happiness was out there. I just had to take steps to find it.
Oh, and it’s official!!!! We have hit the goal! And you know what that means? My business is back in the black! Even with conference expenses. Now, that’s awesome.
But if I can give away my books AND raise money for the Red Cross, that would be majorly awesome. So please spread the word! All contributions go to the Red Cross. Not one cent goes to moi. And we know it’s not a bunch of possible liars with sob stories. Ha ha ha …
Now, just a few links of possible interest and I’ll shut up:
Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! Shame on you! …
PS: I’m on freaking Pinterest, okay! Here are some things I’ve pinned.
It’s a TARDIS fridge!!!
UPDATE: I’m giving away digital copies of RIPTIDE from Smashwords until Dec. 31. Just use the coupon code DJ28H at check out. Thank you and you’re welcome! Ha ha ha …
Hi there! I think it’s high time to drop the pretense that I’m a mid-list author, don’t you? In point of fact, I’m just a writer, period.
As a writer, I started this blog to establish an online presence. Now, given that I should be using my blog to reach readers, here’s some things you might like to know about Sam McRae, the protagonist in my mystery series. Please click there to “like” it on Facebook, okay?
Well, let me tell you, Stephanie Ann “Sam” McRae is a tough-talking, lawyer-sleuth, and champion for the underdog. The series is set in the Maryland suburbs, between Baltimore and Washington.
While Sam doesn’t seek out danger, it occasionally finds her. Having been orphaned while young, Sam is willing to go the distance for her clients, because she knows the system from both sides. As a result, she feels an intense loyalty and sense of duty to those in need.
Now, in case you’re wondering, the Baltimore-DC suburbs where Sam works look nothing like this …
In fact, here are actual headlines from the local news:
Apartment complex for homeless planned in North Laurel. Laurel, MD has a BIG homelessness problem. And lots of prostitutes doing business along Route One. Sam could get involved in a case related to those issues. Interested?
“In the final analysis, the whole cause of world revolution hinges on the revolutionary struggles of the Asian, African and Latin American people who make up the overwhelming majority of the world’s population”
Now, if you want to know more about the speech, I could say just click here for the details, but what the hey? I’ll cut and paste a bit. Why not?
Me, pretending to give my speech.
My husband took the photo. That’s not actually a mic! That’s a lamp. But it was all good. I spoke just fine. The crowd of about 20 or so was friendly, and they actually heard me. And I didn’t have to shout.
When I gave my speech, I had notes, but I hardly looked at them. Just now and then.
… “As you can tell from the cover, I write cozies.” And they laughed! Yay!
Mainly, I got the message across that authors needed to build their platforms through social media, so they can get name brand recognition. Creating books involves writing the best book you can write, not just writing crap as fast as possible and selling it cheap.
That’s why selling your work through Amazon’s KDP Select program is basically signing up to be a sweatshop worker. Now do you understand why I can no longer pretend that this here blog is my author blog?
Then, I realized I was a real writer. I had been all along, but I’d artificially separated my work from my life, by creating a blog based on a reality show. That’s how sadpatheticridiculous funny or whatever I thought my life was.
So … the bottom line is this blog is superfluous. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to kill it. The blog will be preserved for posterity. But it must evolve into something more. Because my brand is the sum of all my blogs, but maintaining five blogs is just crazy!
BTW, while we were in the area, we stayed an extra night and toured downtown Richmond. Here are some photos.
33 years and still going strong. Aren’t we awesome?
Dec. 1 was the 33rd anniversary of our first date. Isn’t that crazy romantic AND awesome?
The awesome story about this flag is that the green represents the Catholic Irish, the orange represents the Protestants, and the white represents the hope of peace between them. Isn’t that awesome?
I think there’s a message in here for everyone, if you look for it. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.
“The prime goal is to alleviate suffering, and not to prolong life. And if your treatment does not alleviate suffering, but only prolongs life, that treatment should be stopped.”
Hi there! I’ll be on the road tomorrow, and I’ll be giving a speech at the Sisters in Crime, Richmond Chapter on Sat., Dec. 1, at Gayton Library, 10600 Gayton Rd., Henrico, VA. I’ve been practicing my speech, and I think it’s pretty damn good for a slightly impairedgimpycrazy shy person.
There are only 12 days left until the deadline, Dec. 10. Yikes! I’d really appreciate any support at all. Even $1. RTs and other support are great, too. Thank you!
Let’s quote the really weird awesome part, shall we?
Parnassus doesn’t sell ice. It does sell books, $2 million worth in the past year. Most were the old-fashioned kind, paper and ink.
Ask Patchett, 48, if she’s bucking a trend, and she defiantly says, “We are the trend.”
Until early last year, she had been busy enough just writing novels. Six in all, including her 1992 debut, The Patron Saint of Liars, set at a home for unwed mothers, and Bel Canto starring an American opera singer held hostage by Latin American terrorists, which won the PEN/Faulkner Award in 2001.
Her latest, State of Wonder, about a research scientist sent to find her former mentor who has disappeared in the Amazon, landed at No. 12 on USA TODAY’s Best-Selling Books list last year and spent 28 weeks in the top 150.
But these days the best-selling novelist is a part-time bookseller.
Patchett, who credits her business partner, Karen Hayes, for doing much of the real work, spends a few hours at the store usually every other day. When she’s there, she plays literary “matchmaker,” as she puts it, introducing readers to books, one at a time, “better than any computerized algorithm.”
Sure, Ann, sure. However, it certainly helps to have a BIG platform, live in a rich community and be able raise lots of dough. Furthermore, I don’t see your Amazon Single, THE GETAWAY CAR, mentioned here. Is that how you’re cleaning up, lady?
What Patchett and Hayes have created out of a former tanning salon in a shopping center four miles south of downtown may seem retro. It’s an airy 3,150-square-foot store with 22,000 books and one piano (donated by a local musician, it’s used for monthly concerts).
An average Barnes & Noble “superstore” has 26,000 square feet for 125,000 titles, a prominent display of its Nook e-readers, but no pianos. And both Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com offer millions of books online — often at discounted prices that Parnassus doesn’t offer.
Patchett and Hayes say size matters — the lack of it. They say their store is big enough to offer a variety of titles, but not so large that “we lose a sense of intimacy, a human scale,” Hayes says.
As part of the American Booksellers Association’s digital partnership with Kobo, the store offers e-books, but they account for less than 1% of sales. Nor does the store, unlike some independents, sell Kobo’s e-readers. Hayes says, “We’re focusing on what we know best: books.”
She acknowledges that in terms of price and convenience, the store can’t match its main competition, Amazon, the online retailer. In the past decade, Amazon’s share of the book market, both print and e-books, jumped from 8% to 31%, says Albert Greco, a Fordham University professor who studies the book industry.
Okay … hold the phone, lady. Your bookstore is supported by Kobo, and they need to sell Kobo devices in order to compete with Amazon. But you don’t carry them? And you’re supporting Amazon by selling your book exclusively through them?
“The Value of myth is that it takes all the things you know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by the veil of familiarity.”
Hi there! What a weekend I had. Sheesh! Who could have predicted that my mother-in-law (who’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s) would just up and vanish on Saturday? Thank heavens the cops found her in her car on the side of I-70 in Frederick, MD. She’d run out of freaking gas. So … we had to retrieve her car on Sunday, before I could post here.
Pretend this is me, racing home from Frederick, not smiling.
I was telling my neurologist about this on the phone today. My neurologist is awesome. He actually gives a damn about me. How many people can say that about their doctors?
All my doctors are awesome, actually. I must be really lucky good at picking doctors.
I’ve also been pecking away on my novel. And working on my speech for this Saturday in Richmond. Care to see a shitty outlined preview?
Well, here it comes:
Introduce myself, explain my series, the NYTimes list, etc.
Ask how many are considering self-publishing. Ask if they’re doing it to make a million dollars. I’m not here to tell you how to do that.
Never intended to make a career as a self-published author. My first novel was published by small press in 2005, but went out of print 9 months later when the publisher went under.
Shortly before the novel went out of print, I suffered a stroke and developed a rare movement disorder called dystonia.
Despite these setbacks, I kept writing freelance and fiction.
I decided to start a blog to establish an online presence. This eventually led to my starting three other blogs.
From 2005 to 2009, I wrote or revised three more novels, short stories, while freelancing and maintaining one to four blogs.
I submitted my work to agents and small presses, and kept doing so after I decided to bring my first novel back into print through Lulu.com in 2009. That’s when I started my fifth blog, My Life on the Mid-List.
In 2009, I also held a fundraiser for dystonia, wrote my first screenplay and took a dream vacation to Italy with my husband. Having a chronic health problem has taught me that life is way more precious than money, and that I need to live and do things while I can.
Around the time I got ready to publish through Lulu, I read about publishing ebooks for Kindle on Joe Konrath’s and Lee Goldberg’s blogs. I decided to do so.
I started off pricing my ebooks at $1.59, but dropped the price to $.99 to see if it would help sales. My sales shot through the roof. Naturally, they would compared to the prices charged by publishers, which were unreasonably high. And who wouldn’t try something new, if it was cheap? I was selling myself short, in the hopes of gaining greater exposure. I knew this wasn’t a sustainable business practice, but I hoped that I could come away with something to show for it.
When the New York Times announced it was going to include indie authors on its bestseller list, I kept my prices low and hoped, despite the scoffing of someone who won’t be named. When I actually hit the list, I couldn’t believe it. The whole experience seemed surreal, yet when I contacted local papers with press releases about the news, no one cared.
Here’s what it boils down to: the only reason I made the NY Times list was that I sold a whole lot of downloads cheap for Kindle and Nook. I get 4 and 5 star reviews, so I write the best books I can. I don’t pay for reviews. But I hit the market at the right time, too.
Early this year, I took a seminar on filmmaking, in which I learned about crowdfunding. I read about how other creative projects were being funded in this manner, so I decided to try doing so with my books.
There are examples of success stories, i.e., other writers who’ve funded books or series this way.
The power of the Internet was made clear to me when I reached a reader in England through blogging.
Amazon has used the publishing business’ bad business practices against it to take over. It’s obviously trying to become the one and only publisher, i.e., the ultimate gatekeeper.
I’ve chosen to make my work available to all readers, regardless of whether they prefer print or ebooks. Many will recommend that you sign up with Amazon’s Kindle Select Program, in order to make more money or better promote your work. I’ve chosen not to do this. My choice is to provide books for all readers, regardless of format or device they use. Signing with Kindle Select is no different than signing with a traditional publisher. The only thing that’s changed is the technology.
I believe authors need to focus on building their online platforms through the effective use of blogging and social media. They can start by wasting less time bitching talking to each other and spending more talking to readers.
Yet, the irony is that, because of the Internet, I’ve made friends in Ireland and England. I myself have sold books and made book donations around the world. Yet, I cannot overlook that Amazon has helped me get where I am today. So thank you, Amazon!
However, I’ve come to realize that I can’t depend on your largesse (sp?) forever. If I’m going to reach all readers, I must establish my own brand or platform. There are readers with Nooks, Kobos, plus Diesel, Sony and Apple products to consider.
There are only 14 days left until the deadline, Dec. 10.
Furthermore, if you’re on Facebook, please login and click the link below to vote in the Indiegogo Contest, which could win $500 for my Sam McRae Mystery Series Campaign. Vote now, if you can. It takes literally 5 seconds. Votes are due by Wednesday, but please vote now! I’m begging you. Just scroll down on the page and click the blue VOTE button. It would mean a lot, and if everyone who reads this clicks that blue button, it would surely make a difference! Click here or copy and paste the link!
"Midlist is a term in the publishing industry which refers to books which are not bestsellers but are strong enough to economically justify their publication (and likely, further purchases of future books from the same author). The vast majority of total titles published are midlist titles, though they represent a much smaller fraction of total book sales, which are dominated by bestsellers and other very popular titles. Authors who consistently publish acceptable but not bestselling books are referred to as Midlist authors." ~ Wikipedia
Well, I think it’s time to drop the proverbial curtain on the show, as it were. Ha ha ha …
