How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing (A Field Guide for Authors) | REVIEW

You've written a book. You thought that was the hard part. But now you must navigate through the rapidly changing  publishing landscape, a quest that may seem like being dropped into Siberia with swimsuit and a snorkel.  It's a Brave New World out there: as bookstores close, longstanding publishing houses merge or fold, and the e-book platform explodes, most of us are left questioning our path to publication. Once upon a time, a writer's dream was to land an agent, a book deal with a big name publishing house (and the advance that came with it), and utilize their vast network of editors and publicists to become a household name.  If you were self-published, it was because you weren't good enough to make it to these big leagues. 

Not anymore.

Many previously traditionally published authors are detouring from the conventional route and self-publishing. Now anyone, from NYT bestselling authors to the crazy cat lady down the street can put their work up for sale on Amazon or Smashwords.  But to poorly paraphrase a quote from Jurassic Park: [Many writers] were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should.

Enter Rachelle Gardner. Like many other aspiring authors, I've read her blog religiously for a while. As an agent with Books and Such Literary Agency, she generously shares her insider's view of the industry, schooling us with a mix of encouragement and straight talk. Her posts cover topics such as the craft of writing, querying, platform building, and of course, publishing.

Gardner crosses over to the self-pub world with the release of  How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing (A Field Guide for Authors). She draws on her years of experience to walk us through the various steps in both publishing processes. She concisely explains the advantages and disadvantages of each method, laying out the financial differences, writer responsibilities, and complications an author can expect. She stress that no matter which method you choose, content is still king: you cannot succeed without a well-crafted book.

As a writer gearing up to enter the publishing arena, I found her checklist worksheet exceptionally helpful. (Apparently, I'm far more equipped to pursue one method over the other, something I hadn't realized until I read this book.)

I also enjoyed the author perspectives interspersed throughout. Jennie Nash's 5 Surprises of Self-Publishing was an eye-opener, reiterating the risks and rewards involved.

If you decide you are destined to self-pub, Gardner provides links at the back of the book to editors, book designers, and cover designers. Some traditional resources for finding agents and general publishing info is provided as well.

As Gardner explains, there is no right or wrong answer any more. Every writer should carefully examine their motivations, skill sets, experience, and personality traits before they decide which path to take. How Do I Decide? is a quick, helpful read I will most likely refer to again before I make any decisions regarding my own path. It's well worth the $3.99 price, and a must read for any writer considering their goals and options.



How Do I Decide? Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing
by Rachelle Gardner
58 pages (est.) 
$3.99 [Kindle]

Rachelle Gardner's website/Twitter/Facebook

Review: Why We Write

 20 Acclaimed Authors on How and Why They Do What They Do

Over four decades ago, George Orwell listed the four great motives for writing in his essay "Why I Write":

1. Sheer egoism. "To be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on gown-ups in childhood, etc."

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. "To take pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story."

3. Historical impulse. "The desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity."

4. Political purposes. "The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."

Thirty years later, Joan Didion addressed the question, and now Meredith Maran asked twenty household-name authors to write their take on the question of why we write. Some answered the question clearly, cohesively, and obviously with much though. Others claimed they'd never been asked the question before, and let the answers flow.

Most of us know why we write: we'd simply wither and die if we couldn't. While most of the award-winning authors wax candidly about the WHY, it's their HOW process of writing and their path to success I found far more interesting.

Isabelle Allende's tale charmed me with its quirkiness and purity; her dedication to her language and storytelling enchanted me and made me want to pull out one of her books for a lazy reread.

In direct contrast, James Frey's piece only solidified my dislike of him. It may be just an arrogant facade, but his condescending nature and disrespect for other writer's AND his audience totally turned me off. He proclaims he's in the same league as Hemingway, Kerouac, and Miller in one sentence, then boasts how he's thrilled to make a buck writing crappy scripts under a pen name the plebeians will eat up. His every word drips with condescension.

Kathryn Harrison's advice seems a direct contrast to Frey: "Don't portray yourself as who you want to be. Portray yourself as who you are."

The authors share stories of their depressions and failures as well as their breakthrough experiences (many of which occur at the acclaimed Iowa Writer's Workshop). All of the authors have reached the level of success where they don't need a day job, but their anecdotes about their early writing days struck home. My favorite must be Sara Gruen's description of the closet writing nook she eked out while stuck on Water for Elephants: hidden from her family, emptied of her husband's clothes, and taped over with old-time circus photos.

Why We Write is a decent book for writers who don't want to feel alone in their insanity, who know no writer is "normal," and who seeks some (dis)comfort in the realization that it never gets easy—even for best selling mainstream writers—we just gain discipline and learn how to hide our fears better. For the most part, I enjoyed the variety of writers selected for the project, but I would have loved to have seen some whose careers took off after the publishing industry started its metamorphosis in this last decade. A few less-mainstream writers, like say Christopher Moore or Chuck Wendig could have livened up the candid prose, but at least Maran didn't include James Patterson.


A portion of the proceeds will benefit 862 National, an innovative youth literacy program.


Why We Write
(release date 1/29/13)
Merideth Maran (editor) 
250 pages, $9.99 [Kindle], $10.98 [Paperback]
Plume (January 29, 2013)

A Day Without Magic: low marks for Universal's Wizarding World of Harry Potter

 
First, let me preface: I am a Harry Potter geek. Though I'm not big into fantasy, MG, or YA lit, that bright boy charmed me from the moment my hubby (who IS a total YA & fantasy geek) convinced me to give the book a try over a decade ago. I've devoured each book since.

 I hate to do this. It's a new year, and I'm trying to focus on the positive in life. But Sunday...Sunday stunk as much as rotten pollyjuice potion.

Over a year ago, I won two tickets to Universal Orlando. It's been a fight to get them (another story, another day) but we FINALLY  marked our calendars for Janurary 20th: the day we'd experience The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

We were more excited than if we'd nabbed tickets to the Quiddich World Cup. Kiddo rushed to finish reading Chamber of Secrets (almost made it—he's only in 3rd grade). We watched a marathon of movies. We hoped for a chilly day so the snow dusting the roofs in  the quaint town of Hogsmeade wouldn't be too ironic due to the sweltering average Orlando temperatures.

The first faux pas came when we tried to buy an additional ticket. We're local, we're Florida residents—we expected to find some type of discount. Nada, unless we wanted to buy three days. Then our local newspaper listed a Florida resident discount in its entertainment section. Yippee. I couldn't find it on the UniversalOrlando.com site, so I called.

They had never heard of it. And laughed when I asked if they'd honor the price.

So we purchased the ticket at FULL PRICE. {Shivers. Those who know me realize I never pay full price for anything.}

Our assigned day of fun arrived with promises of cool weather and slightly overcast skies—a perfect backdrop to mimic Harry's land of enchantment. We rushed through the park gates as soon as they opened for us "regular" guests (hotel guests are allowed in an hour early) and raced towards the castle. My heart fluttered as we passed through the stone arch marking our transformation from mere tourists to muggles. We lingered for a moment to gape at the Hogwarts Express and snap a pic. The Hogwarts Express! A stampede of muggles and aspiring witchcraft and wizardry students in various Potter attire pushed through the narrow alleyway, barely gazing in the shop windows as all prepared to storm the castle. The stately towers of Hogwarts rose above the foliage, yet less than ten minutes after the park opened, the wait for Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey clocked in at 75 minutes. Whaat? Flight of the Hippogriff (a 30-second kiddie coaster) 80 minutes. And the real coaster—The Dragon Challenge—closed for 'area enhancements.' Bloody hell.

Now, since I'm a local, I don't go to any theme park during high season. But it was mid-January. The lines shouldn't be this long...

We checked back several times and the line never wavered. (Oh, what I would have done for a Time-Turner!) By early afternoon we couldn't resist and we joined the queue. I never made it on the ride. Once you wind through the maze of line outside you must deposit all your worldly belongings in lockers for the last hour wait. I'm not good with lines normally, but vicious allergies made the idea of standing in a confined space without any water, tissues, or throat lozenges impossible. With a tear, I fled from the line and crowds to the rainforest of Jurassic Park while the hubby and kiddo waited.

I'm glad I fled. The ride broke twice while they were strapped in and flying high. Holy freakout, Harry.

Instead I waited 25 minutes for a frozen butterbeer (yum!) and saw the tops of the Beauxbatons and Drumstrang students twirl and stomp on the little stage.

{Aside: check out the "Public Convinces" as Moaning Myrtle's voice entertains you in the loo.}

While the shop windows lining the narrow street in Hogsmeade are lavishly decorated with notions and displays that will surely delight any Potter fan, most are merely facades, and "Closed" signs hang behind their  glass paned doors. The shops that are open are excruciatingly tight; expect to push through as if they were giving away free Nimbus 2000s. No one can leave without buying some of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans at Honeydukes. The line for Olivander's (just to watch one of 25 people go through the wand selection process) runs up to 90 minutes long, so we skipped that also. We oohhed and ahhhed over much of the merchandise in the cramped stores, but as expected, the prices seemed as high as a wanted wizard's ransom. Be warned.

 

We bit the bullet and joined the line for Flight of the Hippogriff. Kiddo stood just an inch shy of riding on the massive looping Hulk coaster, and we couldn't imagine leaving Islands of Adventure without at least one spin on the tracks. But we did.  The Hippogriff must have been insulted, because in the first ten minutes we waited, the coaster broke down twice. With passengers aboard, stranded.

Yeeah, we abandoned that line.

Of course, we stopped in for a pint at the Hog's Head Pub. The decor was charming, the beer & cider cold, the line long (Hubby asked if they were brewing it behind the bar), the "suggested tip"  fleecing. (You're pouring a beer behind a counter, you get a buck. It's not table service. You're not earning a 25% tip on a $7.95 pint.)

With a sigh, we left Hogsmeade and dragged the last dregs of our beers along to watch The Eighth Voyage of Sinbad Stunt Show. Cheesy, but the kiddo laughed, and it was lovely to actually sit and relax. Except...fifteen minutes into the show the actors disappeared and the show abruptly ended due to "technical difficulties." Come on!

We were done. We stopped at the Caro-Suess-el as we wandered to the exit. A fifteen minute wait--okay. Except our wait grew as we kept getting bypassed by the Express Pass people. The entire carousel would be filled up by Brazillian tour groups who breezed past as we stood still. You see, for an additional $29.99 - $49.99 (on top of the $96 one-day one-park ticket) you can walk right onto most the rides, leaving all of us people who can't or won't spend the extra feeling like dirty mudbloods. 

For once, I say Disney does it better. MUCH better. Their fast past system is wonderful. Yes, I'll take a FREE ticket to come back to a crowed ride at an assigned time. Works like a charm and makes a theme park visit much more magical.

Universal needs to study harder. Long lines, too tight quarters, poor fast pass system, and at least four attraction fails. Of the three Wizarding World attractions, two broke and one was closed. Though the facades were breathtaking, the magic just wasn't happening.

Review: The Comfort of Lies by Randy Susan Meyers

"Happiness at someone else's expense always came at a price. Tia had imagined judgement from the first kiss that she and Nathan shared. All year she'd waited to be punished for being in love, and in truth, she believed that whatever consequences came her way would be deserved."


Tia is a bright young woman from the South side of Boston who fell hard for a married sociology professor, Nathan. After she discovers she is pregnant with his child, Nathan urges her to take care of it, flees from the relationship, and confesses to his wife. Tia struggles to do what's right. She places their baby up for adoption, afraid she would make a terrible single mother, and even more terrified she couldn't handle the constant reminder of her lost love.

Caving into pressure from her husband, Caroline becomes the adoptive mother to Tia's daughter, Savannah. Motherhood is an afterthought for Caroline, something a woman is supposed to achieve, and she is far more fulfilled in her career as a physician than her role of a mother.

Tia decides to send her old lover a letter telling of their daughters existence. When Nathan's almost forgiving wife, Juliette, intercepts it, the lives of these women suddenly collide with unexpected consequences. The story alternates between the three women's perspectives as they wrangle with the repercussions of that five-year-old affair, matters far more raw than just an out-of-wedlock child.

The Comfort of Lies would make a wonderful book club selection.  The women, instead of falling into rigid characterizations, reveal themselves to be deeply layered and flawed. Each struggles with the pressure to do what's right, even when the answers falls into the grey areas we are often afraid to discuss. The story calls into question what makes a good mother, who deserves to be a mother, and if parenthood is a right or a privilege.  All thought provoking topics ripe for discussion.

I also must add, this book made me reflect upon my own marriage and family, and caused me to treasure these often fragile relationships no matter how imperfect they may be.  The Comfort of Lies is a quietly powerful read, full of heart, both broken and mended.

Release: February 12, 2013

The Comfort of Lies
by Randy Susan Meyers
336 pages, Atria Books
$24 [hardcover], $11.99 [Kindle]



RandySusanMeyers.com/Facebook/Twitter

Rezoning: An Ode to my Neighborhood & School

My newspaper, local television stations, and Facebook feeds are flaming with irate parents throwing temper tantrums over our local elementary school rezoning proposals. It happens every few years, it's just another round of shouting, fist pounding, and chest beating; in the past I've calmly turned my back on it just as I ignored my 2-year-old's fits. Of course no one wants to shift their kids from the schools they love or move them to a bad school, but one of the schools they are outraged their kids may attend is...OUR school.

Why is my son's elementary school worthy of such contempt and outrage? We're not talking about a destitute inner-city facility. It's just another highly-rated suburban neighborhood school. Most of us who send our kids there are not dirt poor, nor are we wealthy. We have a slightly higher percentage of students who receive free or reduced lunch. Some believe that means the education their precious babes might receive at our school would be inferior, and they fear their property values will nosedive if their children are forced to attend a slightly less affluent school.

I disagree.

And frankly, I'm insulted.

A large chunk of the kids come from my neighborhood. And I love my neighborhood. We painstakingly chose this place to be our forever home, the place where we'd settle and raise our family long before we began buying pregnancy tests and pacifiers.

The average home here has 3.5 bedrooms, a two-car garage, a Honda in the driveway, and a swing-set nestled beside an in-ground pool in the backyard. We have basketball hoops instead of tennis courts. Our homes are around my age—and like women my age, some have undergone extensive remodeling and look peppier than when they were twenty; some have let themselves go a bit.

It's a neighborhood where I feel safe with my windows open and my glass door spread wide to let in the babble of the pool and the aroma of orange blossoms.

At the heart of this neighborhood sits a park, where I'm spread out on a blanked with a book in my lap on a gorgeous January afternoon. Sunlight filters through a canopy of oak leaves and shines a puzzle of shapes over the kids tearing up the slide during a fierce game of tag. Over on the baseball diamond, a father plays Frisbee with his kids; he calls out each toss and catch like a Mexican soccer announcer. Another father/son pair passes by wearing matching crisp golf tournament visors.

A toddler's birthday party spills from the new pavilion. Festive balloons and streamers billow in the breeze, and the aroma of something slightly more exotic than hot dog carries on a drift of balmy air. Bratwurst? Chorizo? It smells like heaven.

The kids are as colorful as the party decor; smiles radiate from faces of every shade between marshmallow pale to an ebony rich as dark chocolate. You're more likely to hear the kids calling out names like Aiden or Jack, but chances are you'll  hear a Lashawn and a Jose, too. The kids don't care. You are welcome as long as you know how to play freeze tag.

A girl striking enough to be on the cover of Teen Vogue (should she trade Nike trainers for heels) bickers with her mom in a sing-song Portuguese. Later, when she chats on her iPhone, every cadence of accent evaporates.

Yes, the teens and moms carry  far more Coach bags than Louis Vuittons. I myself am sporting a metal bike basket passed down from my Grandfather, now loaded down with picnic gear. No one has given it a second glance.

Families arrive pushing strollers and pulling wagons, by foot, by mini van, or on bicycles, like us. This park backs up to a 14-mile paved trail, and we're still recovering from our 7-mile bike ride under its cathedral of trees. There's nowhere I'd rather be on a Sunday afternoon than soaking in this tranquility.

During the sweltering summer months, day campers descend upon our park; my son and a few hundred other kids run wild over the four-square court and the kickball fields. It's not a formally structured educational camp; the kid wranglers counselors are local teens. There are no equestrian lessons or overnight escapes to the mountains, but there are plenty of trips to the theme parks and Chuck E. Cheese. He loves it.

This park, this neighborhood, this school brims with good kids and hard-working families. More of us may be social workers than CEO's, but we are good enough for you.

We  love our school, our teachers, our staff. They graciously receive more homemade cookie baskets than day spa certificates come Christmas, but they not only teach our kids, but love our kids just the same. Our PTA does not run the school with a bejeweled fist. I rather like it better that way.

I pity those parents who chose to hold themselves above us, who waste so much precious time fretting over how our school may be detrimental to their kids lives. It's their loss.

If their PTA is better than ours—fine—please come share your success stories and help build our group up. We'll listen. Volunteer here, share your time and knowledge; you'll see you are no better or worse than us. You'll be welcome—if you are kind, and if you care about your kids as much as we care about ours.

We all want our kids to succeed. But the people of this county voted for the elected officials who have gutted the education budget. The school system must adjust to the cuts whether we like it or not. Why cause our school board to spend any of its insufficient funds fighting these battles? Let's take that time, that energy, and use it to help our kids instead of dividing them. Let's keep that money in the classroom instead of the courthouse.

And if my kid somehow ends up shifting schools... Will I be "happy?" No. I'm sure many tears will fall. No one likes change. But we'll accept our fate. We will support our child and his school no matter what.

Fifty Shades of Chicken: Book Review and Recipe {Go Get the Butter Breasts}

Fifty Shades of Chicken. Yes, it's a real book. And in my humble opinion, far better than that poorly written smutty best seller.

What happens when a young, free-range chicken falls under the mercy of a dominating, ravenous chef (who happens to also sport fabulous abs)? You get a delightfully quasi-erotic collection of food porn that will leave you salivating for more.

My review, both tantalizing and freaking hilarious, is up at BookshelfBombshells.com. You know you are just dying to read it.  But first, check out the dominating chef Shifty Blades' abs trussing skills.

Whenever I review a cookbook, I select a recipe to sample. The selections in this book were almost just too scrumptious, too tempting— Dripping Thighs (roasted chicken thighs with sweet and sour onions), Cream-Slicked Chick (crisp baked chicken with honey mustard and lime), and yes, even Cock au Vin (braised chicken with red wine, mushrooms, and onions).

Tell me those titles would not make for some invigorating table conversation.

While many recipes appealed to my rather open-minded tastes, I decided if I was going to sample one of Shifty Blades’s epicurean fantasies, I was going to be bad—not just naughty, but slathered in sumptuous butter, calories, and decadence bad. I went all the way out of my (healthy eating) comfort zone with Go Get the Butter Breasts (sauteed chicken breasts with aromatic brown butter and hazelnuts). These babies just oozed desire—hot, gooey, and utterly sinful. I had to make them early, pounding the breasts into submission, gently spicing them, then slathering them with creamy butter. I tried to resist the fragrant flesh while I photographed them in all their glory, but I gave into temptation. No self-control. Holy shit, they were divine. Perhaps the dish was not my best culinary performance, but it was eagerly devoured by all, and a decadent aroma lingered in the house for hours. One diner innocently announced, “Like, whoa, that had some bang in it.” If only he knew.

Go Get the Butter Breasts 
(a.k.a. sauteed chicken breasts with aromatic brown butter and hazelnuts)

serves 2 to 4

1 teaspoon coriander seeds

2 boneless, skinless (about 8 ounces each), patted dry with paper towels

1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt

¾ teaspoon finely grated orange zest (from one small orange)

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 tablespoons chopped, toasted hazelnuts or almonds (toasting instructions here)

1. Using a mortar and pestle, or the flat side of a knife, crush the coriander seeds and put them into a bowl.

2. Using the side of a rolling pin, gently pound the breasts until they submit, flattening them ¼ inch thick. Put the chicken into the bowl with the coriander and add the salt, orange zest, pepper, and nutmeg and toss to coat. Let marinate in the fridge for at least and hour, or better, up to 6 hours.

3. Melt 1 ½ tablespoons of the butter in a very large skillet over medium-high heat and let it simmer until it turns golden brown and starts to smell nutty. Add the chicken in batches and cook until golden on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the chicken to a platter and tent with foil to keep warm.

4. Melt the remaining ½ tablespoon butter in the pan and add the nuts. Let them heat up and crisp until very fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes. Serve on top of the breasts.

Devour.

You know you want to read the full book review now. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll feel a tantalizing flutter down there which could be hunger...or something else...


And if I haven't won you over yet: GO READ THE REVIEW. You won't be sorry.

And watch this book trailer. (narrated by none other than Sir Patrick Stewart. I think.)

Review: The Art Forger by B.A. Shapiro

"No," I cry, and it sounds like a moan.

I should have guessed from the size of the canvas. This is no ordinary Degas. It's one of his masterworks. After the Bath, the last of five he gave the same name, but by far the most famous.

And that's the least of it. This painting was torn from the walls of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, ripped from its frame. It and all the other works taken that rainy night by a couple of bumbling thieves have never been recovered.

In front of me stands on of the most valuable paintings stolen in the greatest unsolved art theft in history.


Claire Roth is a talented, struggling young artist. She paints in the style of masters such as Degas. One of her works hangs in the prestigious Museum of Modern Art. Unfortunately, that painting is accredited to her former art professor and lover, and by claiming that she actually painted the work, she was blackballed by the art industry. To pay the bills, Claire paints reproductions (legal copies not passed off as originals) of masterpieces for an above board company while she waits for memories of the scandalous "incident" to fade and her own career to come alive.

Aiden Markel, one of Boston's most powerful gallery owners, drops by her loft/studio with a Faustian deal she simply cannot refuse. If she can effectively forge a Degas missing since the still-unsolved 1990 Gardner Museum heist, he will sell the forgery to some shady art connoisseur (who doesn't deserve the real painting anyway), return the original back to the museum for the world to enjoy, and grant Claire her own show at his gallery.  Her rent will be paid, her own works will finally be acknowledged, and the missing masterpiece will be returned to the masses. "There's illegal, and there's illegal." What could possibly go wrong?

Everything.

The Art Forger effectively blends fact with fiction, coloring a vivid world full of obsessed artists, connoisseurs, and criminals...yet who is who?  Shapiro's style is too simple for me to consider it "literary" but I consider that a compliment. When reading about the mysteries I don't enjoy overly verbose clutter distracting me from the plotting. When reading about art I don't want the writer's judgements obscuring my visions.

And Shapiro's descriptions of the forging process are absolutely intriguing. While the missing Degas is a work of fiction (most likely a compilation of several of Degas' bathers series), the techniques used to create the forgery are carefully researched, vividly detailed, and completely absorbing.

Claire is by far the most fleshed-out character. While her reasoning and taste in men might be found lacking, she is engrossing, skilled, and perceptive enough to make her amateur detective skills believable. Correspondence from Isabella Stewart Gardner is interspersed throughout the story, a plot device used to clue the readers in on the true origins of the painting. While I found the tales of  her journeys through Europe acquiring her impressive art collection interesting, her fictionalized relationship with Degas required some suspension of disbelief. Not that she may have had such relationship (although one has never been alluded to in reality), but that she would discuss it so openly in a letter.

While some aspects of the crime story were predictable, there were enough swerves to keep me reading until the wee hours. I'm also a sucker for novels that leave me feeling as if I've gained some knowledge along the way, and Shapiro expertly blends facts into a masterful tale, making me pull out some of my tomes on art history and wish I remembered more from my classes. Any art lover will adore this book.



The Art Forger is the January She Reads book club pick. She Reads is GIVING AWAY 10 COPIES of The Art Forger (courtesy of Algonquin Books). Enter to win and check out more reviews of the book by clicking here.

The Art Forger 
by B.A. Shapiro
368 pages
$23.99 [hardcover] $9.58  [Kindle ed.]
Algonquin Books




*I received this book courtesy of Algonquin Books and the She Reads Blogger Network. All opinions are my own.