I was chatting with someone today who asked how many of my books have been downloaded, in total. I couldn’t answer her. I’d never done the math. So I went back and did the math.
The answer: 22,761
Eighteen months after I published my first book.
Three years and nine months after I wrote my first word.
I suppose the real milestone will be 25,000. Which is why I included "almost" in the title of this post.
If you’re thinking about writing a book, if you’ve always wanted to write a book . . . do it. And finish it. If you can finish it, you’re more than halfway there. That’s the hardest part. Writing it.
If you have another dream . . . do it.
What are you waiting for?
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Monday, April 20, 2015
Every Advantage
I spent a couple hours this morning teaching etiquette to a group of middle-schoolers, primarily about reputations. The class response started off slow, but after ten minutes, more hands were raised.
These are a group of kids who are in a program that guides them through their middle school, high school and even college careers. Their demographic is very different from mine presently, very different from Frank and Beck's.
Most come from single family homes, many are impoverished. Their response to my questions this morning surprised me. What I've come to expect as a relatively unchanged set of answers, was entirely different with today's class. They were more defensive, and even sometimes more offensive. Their problem solving skills were based on self-protection. They tended to look inward rather than outward.
Watch the news, or a tv drama, and you'll see kids who get in trouble from all walks of life. There are kids who have every financial advantage who get into trouble. There are kids who have two supportive parents who get into trouble. There are kids who have no financial advantage and parents who are unsupportive or neglectful who get into trouble. There are also kids who excel regardless of their circumstances.
I don't know enough about the organization I spoke for this morning to talk about them in an intelligent manner, but I do know I believe in what they do.
I had a very schizophrenic upbringing. On the one hand my mother was abusive, disconnected and neglectful. On the other hand, the years I spent with my grandparents were idyllic. I was talking with a counselor years ago, answering the standard introductory questions about my family, upbringing, etc. I talked about my mom first. He took a lot of notes, his brow furrowed.
Then I talked about my grandparents. "Ah," he said. "This makes more sense. You are not your mother's daughter, you're your grandparents daughter." I spent more years with them than I did with her, but I'm her daughter too. When I look at my insecurities, they're more about my mother than my grandparents. I might even have a little PTSD when it comes to loud noises and certain other behaviors. Maybe not diagnosable PTSD, but my reaction is visceral, and superficial. I don't have panic attacks, but I can feel my muscles tightening, my heart beating faster, and depending on the specific circumstance I'm reacting to, I can lose my ability to think clearly enough to speak. Listening to some of the answers this morning, took me back to when I was their age.
When I was eight, my mom and I lived alone for the first time in my life. Prior to that we lived with my grandparents, or roommates after we moved to California. The roommates were often other nurses with children. Typically one parent was home in the morning to help get us off to school.
Once we lived alone, I was responsible for getting myself off to school. My mom was out of the house and at work most days by six in the morning. Sometimes there was food in the house, most times there wasn't. Sometimes she gave me money to buy lunch, most times she didn't. I look at Beckett, who is eleven, and wonder how he would function under those circumstances. I suppose he'd have to learn how to. I was his age when my mother finally agreed to let me live with my grandparents full-time. In some ways it was too late. I was already too grown up for my years. Beck is still a little boy in so many ways, and I'm glad he gets to be.
The last job my mother held was as a nurse in the Riverside County Jail. Never one to hold back her opinion about anything, she would soap-box regularly about how tired she was of hearing inmates complain about their upbringing. She'd say, "What becomes of you isn't your parent's fault." Every time she said it, I'd wonder why she was saying it. Was it for her benefit or mine?
I am not the most successful person who ever lived, but there is one thing I'm sure of, my goals are achievable if I set my mind to them and want them bad enough. I will never be an artist, but I can learn how to draw. There are a lot of things I'll never be, but knowing so doesn't inhibit me from striving to learn about it, or sometimes . . . try it. If there is one thing I learned from my mother it was that I was solely responsible for what I did and didn't do with my life.
I look at these kids the only way I can . . . through the eyes of my personal experience. On some levels I can feel their pain. Their answers can be so telling in terms of what they're dealing with at home. Some of which I have immense empathy for. Sometimes when answering, they'd get sidetracked. What started out as an answer to a very specific question turned the corner into completely unrelated. However, the last thing I would do was interrupt one of them.
One question was about having a friend over, and that friend accidentally breaks something . . . how would they handle it. EVERYONE who answered that question began with, "when my mom got home from work . . ." Most of them said that no matter who broke whatever it was, they'd be the one to get into trouble for it. One girl raised her hand and said, "As long as you were honest about what happened, your mom would understand." Two girls sitting near her both said, "not my mom."
I relayed a story about something sentimental being broken in our house. It wasn't a true story. In reality a friend of mine broke it. In my story, one of my kids did. My reaction in my story was authentic. I was upset. It was something irreplaceable. I was mad more at myself for leaving it out in a place where it was vulnerable. Part of me was irritated with my friend's lack of awareness, and wished she'd been more careful. As I told the story, I inserted one of my boys in place of the friend. I spoke honestly about my feelings, but at the end of the day, I would've felt so much worse if I found it broken and had no idea what had happened.
One girl, who had an answer to almost every question I asked, or a verbal opinion about everything I said . . . mumbled, "it wouldn't be worth it." She reminded me of myself on so many levels. So eager to answer, so eager to speak, so eager to be heard. She probably annoyed her fellow classmates. She was in the second row of the auditorium and I saw many eyerolls from those sitting behind her. I'm sure at her age I elicited an immeasurable amount of eyerolls . . . I'm sure I still do.
I wonder what this one particular girl's life will become. Will she be someone who works hard and sacrifices to better herself? Will she eat ramen noodles for every meal while working at least one job and attending college . . . or will she get lost? As I write this, I can't get her face out of my mind.
What this organization does is give these kids attention, time, and mentoring. They bring people like me in who talk about things that can affect their future. Extra things. Not just grades, not just schoolwork—bigger picture things.
My boys have every advantage. They have every opportunity. If they express interest in something, Doug pays attention and then figures out how they can learn more, do more, experience more of whatever it is. He is a great father. My boys have two parents who are home more often than not. They get a "yes" to most things they ask for, or most things they want to do. More than me, Doug will plan what he wants to do around something they want to do. We went to Denver on Saturday, but planned our day to be back in time to take Beck to Tween Night at the Y. Could he have missed it? Sure. It wasn't a big deal, they have them every month.
I expect a lot from both our boys. I can't define what a lot means. I don't have any particular career aspirations for them. I hope they find something they love to do, that they can make a living doing. I hope they make good decisions, don't lose their way and sidetrack their own lives by not keeping their eyes on their goals. I hope they do good things for other people, and are generous with things like love and caring.
Every advantage or not, we're responsible for what our life becomes. I suppose we all learn that lesson, one way or another.
These are a group of kids who are in a program that guides them through their middle school, high school and even college careers. Their demographic is very different from mine presently, very different from Frank and Beck's.
Most come from single family homes, many are impoverished. Their response to my questions this morning surprised me. What I've come to expect as a relatively unchanged set of answers, was entirely different with today's class. They were more defensive, and even sometimes more offensive. Their problem solving skills were based on self-protection. They tended to look inward rather than outward.
Watch the news, or a tv drama, and you'll see kids who get in trouble from all walks of life. There are kids who have every financial advantage who get into trouble. There are kids who have two supportive parents who get into trouble. There are kids who have no financial advantage and parents who are unsupportive or neglectful who get into trouble. There are also kids who excel regardless of their circumstances.
I don't know enough about the organization I spoke for this morning to talk about them in an intelligent manner, but I do know I believe in what they do.
I had a very schizophrenic upbringing. On the one hand my mother was abusive, disconnected and neglectful. On the other hand, the years I spent with my grandparents were idyllic. I was talking with a counselor years ago, answering the standard introductory questions about my family, upbringing, etc. I talked about my mom first. He took a lot of notes, his brow furrowed.
Then I talked about my grandparents. "Ah," he said. "This makes more sense. You are not your mother's daughter, you're your grandparents daughter." I spent more years with them than I did with her, but I'm her daughter too. When I look at my insecurities, they're more about my mother than my grandparents. I might even have a little PTSD when it comes to loud noises and certain other behaviors. Maybe not diagnosable PTSD, but my reaction is visceral, and superficial. I don't have panic attacks, but I can feel my muscles tightening, my heart beating faster, and depending on the specific circumstance I'm reacting to, I can lose my ability to think clearly enough to speak. Listening to some of the answers this morning, took me back to when I was their age.
When I was eight, my mom and I lived alone for the first time in my life. Prior to that we lived with my grandparents, or roommates after we moved to California. The roommates were often other nurses with children. Typically one parent was home in the morning to help get us off to school.
Once we lived alone, I was responsible for getting myself off to school. My mom was out of the house and at work most days by six in the morning. Sometimes there was food in the house, most times there wasn't. Sometimes she gave me money to buy lunch, most times she didn't. I look at Beckett, who is eleven, and wonder how he would function under those circumstances. I suppose he'd have to learn how to. I was his age when my mother finally agreed to let me live with my grandparents full-time. In some ways it was too late. I was already too grown up for my years. Beck is still a little boy in so many ways, and I'm glad he gets to be.
The last job my mother held was as a nurse in the Riverside County Jail. Never one to hold back her opinion about anything, she would soap-box regularly about how tired she was of hearing inmates complain about their upbringing. She'd say, "What becomes of you isn't your parent's fault." Every time she said it, I'd wonder why she was saying it. Was it for her benefit or mine?
I am not the most successful person who ever lived, but there is one thing I'm sure of, my goals are achievable if I set my mind to them and want them bad enough. I will never be an artist, but I can learn how to draw. There are a lot of things I'll never be, but knowing so doesn't inhibit me from striving to learn about it, or sometimes . . . try it. If there is one thing I learned from my mother it was that I was solely responsible for what I did and didn't do with my life.
I look at these kids the only way I can . . . through the eyes of my personal experience. On some levels I can feel their pain. Their answers can be so telling in terms of what they're dealing with at home. Some of which I have immense empathy for. Sometimes when answering, they'd get sidetracked. What started out as an answer to a very specific question turned the corner into completely unrelated. However, the last thing I would do was interrupt one of them.
One question was about having a friend over, and that friend accidentally breaks something . . . how would they handle it. EVERYONE who answered that question began with, "when my mom got home from work . . ." Most of them said that no matter who broke whatever it was, they'd be the one to get into trouble for it. One girl raised her hand and said, "As long as you were honest about what happened, your mom would understand." Two girls sitting near her both said, "not my mom."
I relayed a story about something sentimental being broken in our house. It wasn't a true story. In reality a friend of mine broke it. In my story, one of my kids did. My reaction in my story was authentic. I was upset. It was something irreplaceable. I was mad more at myself for leaving it out in a place where it was vulnerable. Part of me was irritated with my friend's lack of awareness, and wished she'd been more careful. As I told the story, I inserted one of my boys in place of the friend. I spoke honestly about my feelings, but at the end of the day, I would've felt so much worse if I found it broken and had no idea what had happened.
One girl, who had an answer to almost every question I asked, or a verbal opinion about everything I said . . . mumbled, "it wouldn't be worth it." She reminded me of myself on so many levels. So eager to answer, so eager to speak, so eager to be heard. She probably annoyed her fellow classmates. She was in the second row of the auditorium and I saw many eyerolls from those sitting behind her. I'm sure at her age I elicited an immeasurable amount of eyerolls . . . I'm sure I still do.
I wonder what this one particular girl's life will become. Will she be someone who works hard and sacrifices to better herself? Will she eat ramen noodles for every meal while working at least one job and attending college . . . or will she get lost? As I write this, I can't get her face out of my mind.
What this organization does is give these kids attention, time, and mentoring. They bring people like me in who talk about things that can affect their future. Extra things. Not just grades, not just schoolwork—bigger picture things.
My boys have every advantage. They have every opportunity. If they express interest in something, Doug pays attention and then figures out how they can learn more, do more, experience more of whatever it is. He is a great father. My boys have two parents who are home more often than not. They get a "yes" to most things they ask for, or most things they want to do. More than me, Doug will plan what he wants to do around something they want to do. We went to Denver on Saturday, but planned our day to be back in time to take Beck to Tween Night at the Y. Could he have missed it? Sure. It wasn't a big deal, they have them every month.
I expect a lot from both our boys. I can't define what a lot means. I don't have any particular career aspirations for them. I hope they find something they love to do, that they can make a living doing. I hope they make good decisions, don't lose their way and sidetrack their own lives by not keeping their eyes on their goals. I hope they do good things for other people, and are generous with things like love and caring.
Every advantage or not, we're responsible for what our life becomes. I suppose we all learn that lesson, one way or another.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Write Every Day
It has been several days since I’ve written a blog post. It’s easy to come up with excuses as to why I haven’t, but none justify how I feel when I don’t write. The days blend into one another, with miles-long to-do lists that result in my feeling too exhausted to sit down and write. Sometimes it is body-fatigue, more often than not, brain-fatigue is my excuse.
Doug was away for a few days, which meant I was solely responsible for getting the boys where they needed to go, and back again . . . coupled with my own set of work-related responsibilities. Letting myself off the writing-hook was easy . . . too easy. The days I planned to devote to writing while he was away were soon in my rearview mirror. And I hadn’t written a single word.
After my class last night, I celebrated the six work-free days I had ahead of me. I told myself that the few items on my USAFA to-do list would take minutes to do, and then I'd have all the time in the world to write. It is now 1:25 in the afternoon, and I haven’t done either. I did get word from Frank that I won't be picking him up right after school as he has a project to work on. He’s not sure about swim practice either. Neither of these affect me that much, except afternoon pickup usually gobbles up a half hour. This way, if I can manage my to-do list so I can start writing by 2:00 or 2:30, I won’t have to take a break moments after I start.
It is important to me to write every day. When people tell me they want to write a book, and ask me how to get started, I always say the same thing. Write. And after that, write some more. The only way you’ll know whether you can do it or not is to write. If you want a legitimate (spelled money-making) writing career, you have to write. Every day.
When I wrote my first book, LINGER, I wrote every day. I carved out specific writing time. I was disciplined and intransigent about that time. I didn't let anything interrupt it. That’s what’s so great about NANOWRIMO. Fifty thousand words in thirty days. While some achieve their goal in a few days time, it takes most of us all thirty days, and making sure we write every, single day. Without doing so, there is no way to achieve the goal in that amount of time.
I’ve lost track of DARE's word count (I looked it up, it’s 18,113). I’ve lost track of the last time I wrote (that’s more difficult to figure out). I read and edited yesterday, which means I’m caught up and ready to write.
This was my warm up . . . by the way, I love this book. I say it every time, but I do. I love it. I hope you will too when I finish it.
Doug was away for a few days, which meant I was solely responsible for getting the boys where they needed to go, and back again . . . coupled with my own set of work-related responsibilities. Letting myself off the writing-hook was easy . . . too easy. The days I planned to devote to writing while he was away were soon in my rearview mirror. And I hadn’t written a single word.
After my class last night, I celebrated the six work-free days I had ahead of me. I told myself that the few items on my USAFA to-do list would take minutes to do, and then I'd have all the time in the world to write. It is now 1:25 in the afternoon, and I haven’t done either. I did get word from Frank that I won't be picking him up right after school as he has a project to work on. He’s not sure about swim practice either. Neither of these affect me that much, except afternoon pickup usually gobbles up a half hour. This way, if I can manage my to-do list so I can start writing by 2:00 or 2:30, I won’t have to take a break moments after I start.
It is important to me to write every day. When people tell me they want to write a book, and ask me how to get started, I always say the same thing. Write. And after that, write some more. The only way you’ll know whether you can do it or not is to write. If you want a legitimate (spelled money-making) writing career, you have to write. Every day.
When I wrote my first book, LINGER, I wrote every day. I carved out specific writing time. I was disciplined and intransigent about that time. I didn't let anything interrupt it. That’s what’s so great about NANOWRIMO. Fifty thousand words in thirty days. While some achieve their goal in a few days time, it takes most of us all thirty days, and making sure we write every, single day. Without doing so, there is no way to achieve the goal in that amount of time.
I’ve lost track of DARE's word count (I looked it up, it’s 18,113). I’ve lost track of the last time I wrote (that’s more difficult to figure out). I read and edited yesterday, which means I’m caught up and ready to write.
This was my warm up . . . by the way, I love this book. I say it every time, but I do. I love it. I hope you will too when I finish it.
Friday, April 03, 2015
Eighteen Months
March 31 marked eighteen months since my first book was published. I remember every bit of the excitement I felt seeing my first book published. I remember the Facebook messages I got that day, congratulating me.
March 31 also marked the end of my best month of book sales ever, by far. Almost five thousand people read or purchased my books in March. The sales surge started February 28, and while it's slowed down a lot, I still average over sixty books a day in sales. VERY exciting.
One month ago, I wrote a blog post about having an angel on my shoulder. Every day something happens reminding me that she is there. Yesterday it dawned on me that if the March sales surge hadn't happened, I would still be doubting whether it would be plausible for me to attempt writing full time. It isn't that I'm not concerned about making a living as a full-time writer, it's more that I'm less concerned. I know what it will take to make it a reality . . . writing more. It's as simple as that.
It remains difficult to find time to write, with everything I still have going on. Case in point, I started this blog post three days ago, and didn't find time to finish it until just now. I'm not feeling great today . . . there is a cold circulating its way through our family. Most recently, Doug had it. Now Frank and I do, and both of us are down for the count. I'm writing this while snuggled up in bed, on my laptop. In between naps today, I may even find time to work on DARE.
I write often about when I started writing. It will be three years in August. It is likely I'll have at least one more book finished by then, maybe two. What is more amazing to me, is that it's only been eighteen months since I published my first book . . . six books in eighteen months, a book every three months.
There are lots of authors who write and release books that often. There are also lots of authors who write one book every five years. And there's Harper Lee, who writes one book in fifty years. Thank goodness for all three author types, right?
I'm thrilled beyond words effective enough, that today, and yesterday and the day before that . . . over sixty people bought one of my books. It is mind-bogglingly wonderful. I hope that eighteen months from now, it is still happening.
March 31 also marked the end of my best month of book sales ever, by far. Almost five thousand people read or purchased my books in March. The sales surge started February 28, and while it's slowed down a lot, I still average over sixty books a day in sales. VERY exciting.
One month ago, I wrote a blog post about having an angel on my shoulder. Every day something happens reminding me that she is there. Yesterday it dawned on me that if the March sales surge hadn't happened, I would still be doubting whether it would be plausible for me to attempt writing full time. It isn't that I'm not concerned about making a living as a full-time writer, it's more that I'm less concerned. I know what it will take to make it a reality . . . writing more. It's as simple as that.
It remains difficult to find time to write, with everything I still have going on. Case in point, I started this blog post three days ago, and didn't find time to finish it until just now. I'm not feeling great today . . . there is a cold circulating its way through our family. Most recently, Doug had it. Now Frank and I do, and both of us are down for the count. I'm writing this while snuggled up in bed, on my laptop. In between naps today, I may even find time to work on DARE.
I write often about when I started writing. It will be three years in August. It is likely I'll have at least one more book finished by then, maybe two. What is more amazing to me, is that it's only been eighteen months since I published my first book . . . six books in eighteen months, a book every three months.
There are lots of authors who write and release books that often. There are also lots of authors who write one book every five years. And there's Harper Lee, who writes one book in fifty years. Thank goodness for all three author types, right?
I'm thrilled beyond words effective enough, that today, and yesterday and the day before that . . . over sixty people bought one of my books. It is mind-bogglingly wonderful. I hope that eighteen months from now, it is still happening.
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