Moving on

Almost a year has gone by since my last posting. In that time, I finished writing another novel, Project Purple, completed many short stories, and just finished the first draft of a book-to-be-named-later. I've also come to a decision about publishing: I'm not! The entire business of publishing, from researching agents and publishers, to being a one person marketing team--whether traditionally or self-published--isn't my cup of tea. Besides that, it devours time that could be spent writing.
Do I want my writing to be read? Of course! So I'm working on polishing Project Purple, putting my stories and poems into collections, and learning how to design a web page, on which all of my writing will be described. Anyone interested in reading a novel, story collection, etc. will be able to send me an e-mail pledging to make a donation of any amount to any charity they want, and I'll reply with an attachment of whatever literature they request. It will save time, paper, help charities, and hopefully get my material read. What more could a writer want? I'll let you know when the new website is up and running!

Holiday Greetings: Free Reads!

As we turn to a new year,

we wish you

Good Health

Happiness

Hands to hold

A healing planet

World-wide peace

And above all,

Hope!

Happy Holidays!

With all our love,

Ellen and Irwin

 

 

 

Contents

Page

 

3. To Santa from Abby, Age 8—A letter from an eight year old with an attitude.

 

5. Leaving Eden—The snake's eye-view of the Book of Genesis

 

9. The School Slut—People of my generation will feel at home in this story…

 

12. The Competition—A peek at the future?

 

13. Death by Editing—Writers will understand.

 

15. Remembrance—Everyone seems to empathize with this poem.

 

16. The Builder—Some thoughts, in fiction form. You'll agree or disagree, but no one will be neutral!

3 blank pages. Only my computer knows why. Sorry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Santa from Abby, Age Eight

Dear Santa,

    I hate you. Mrs. Porter says we have to write you a letter and say what we want. I want you to go away--you and your fat belly that's going to give you a heart attack, I hope soon. And I hate your silly laugh--don't you know what a ho is?—and your stupid beard that maybe will get caught in a fire, and your sweaty hot red suit—only a crazy would wear a suit like that here in Florida.

    Most of the kids here hate you. Judy hates you because she's Jewish and you don't come to Jewish kids, but you don't say it's because they're Jewish because that would get you sent to Time Out or jail, so you say it's because she's bad, but she's my best friend and I know she's good. You won't come to Omar either because he's Moslem, and same thing—you say he's bad and I know he's not—he shared his M & M's with me last week. You won't come to Peter because he lives in his mother's van, and vans don't have chimneys, and besides, how would you ever find it?

    Chris hates you because it's Christ's birthday and he should be who everyone in his religion is excited about, not you poking your beard into Jesus' special day. And I hate you triple for all those kids all over the world in wars and droughts and poor places where Mrs. Porter says we're lucky we're not. You don't come to them either. I'm so sure you don't I'd bet all my Harry Potter books including the one I'm still waiting for and maybe you'll bring it but you probably won't.

I was good last year and did you bring me anything? No. And you know why? Because I happen to know you're not real. Know how I know? Because last year, my mom was saving to get me a Harry Potter and then she saw this outfit and bought it for herself and then you didn't come to our house. That's how I know.

So I hate you because you're not real and because you made Judy and Omar and Peter and especially the kids in poor places feel bad because you or whoever's wearing that dorky suit tells them they're bad and they're not.

So here's what I want for Christmas: I want you to go away and never come back, at least until you're ready come to all the kids all over the world with what they want. And bring Mrs. Claus with you because it's not fair for her to have to sit home alone and freeze in the North Pole while you're traveling all over the place and getting to see all the interesting places and everything.

Then, maybe I'll like you and maybe even believe you're real.

                    From,

                    Abby, age 8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving Eden

The Snake

    They've got it all wrong. Yes, I told that stupid woman to eat the apple, and yes, she learned something when she ate it, but it was absolutely, totally, not what they think she learned.

    Look, sooner or later the man and woman were going to discover each other, if you know what I mean. Fact is, they discovered each other and were quite knowledgeable in the way the scholars all think of knowledge, way before I suggested a bite of the apple. That's not what the apple is about. In fact, I suggested she try the apple because I was getting pretty tired of the constant fornicatings, and getting pretty scared that all the fornicatings were going to lead to begettings, which would lead to more fornicatings, and then more begettings—which made me downright terrified the garden would get so crowded it wouldn't be pleasant at all.

    So the apple. You see, I'd already tried it, and I knew exactly what it would teach.

 

The Woman

    She walks through the garden, swathed in nothing but wonder. Each breath brings a newness, a freshness. Something is different about each one—the scent, the temperature, the dampness. Each different, and each perfect.

    Her eyes can barely take in the wonder of the colors, textures, shapes around her. Each time she blinks, or turns her head, or takes a step, some new marvel, some new perfection, fills her senses.

    Each taste of food brings her taste buds to orgasm. How is it possible for anything to be this good? And yet, the next taste, in its uniqueness, is as rare, as marvelous.

    And the man! The ecstasy of their couplings! She is moved to tears each time their bodies and souls touch, certain that nothing could be better, but then they couple again, and it's different, and every bit as miraculous.

 

    She is enraptured by the reptile, resplendent, with the sun shimmering on his scales; is delighted when he speaks to her.

    "Have you tried the fruit of that tree, yet?" he asks.

    "But I thought that was the one we were not to taste," she says.

    "Oh, that's because it's so beautiful, so radiant, so tempting," the snake says. "If you were allowed to eat it, would you ever taste the fruit of the other trees? Look what you would have missed. Now, you know how scrumptious they are, so if you eat it and like it, you'll continue to eat all the others, because you've had time to learn that all fruits are good. Here. Try it."

    She reaches out her hand. What the snake said makes perfect sense. She looks at the fruit, sparkling in the sunlight, beads of juice almost bursting through its skin. She takes it, bites into it.

The Snake

    What she learned from that bite was—well, more of an unlearning. Before the apple, everything was fresh, and new, and perfect, because every experience was lived as the first, experienced wholly as itself. What she learned was to compare, to judge, to set standards. What she learned was eternal disappointment.

    Let me put it another way. She bit into the apple, let that man she hung out with take a bite, and together, they walked out of the garden. Good riddance, I say.

The Woman

    She bites into the apple. It is—what words are there? Nothing she has experienced can approach this. What she thought of as perfect is as nothing compared to this. This is perfection.

Something this stupendous must be shared. She runs to her mate, hands him the apple, tells him to try it. He does.

    He hands it back to her, she takes another bite, but—What is wrong? It is still sweet, but, not like before. Not like the first bite. Something is missing. He tries another bite, and yes, he agrees, the first bite had a juiciness to it, or maybe an undertaste of salt—something isn't quite there.

    They run to the tree, pull down apple after apple, try a bite of this, a bite of that, but none has the perfection they remember from the first. Perhaps they have the wrong tree? They try tree after tree, but find nothing but disappointment.

    "It's your fault," she says. "It was fine, until you sank your teeth into it. Something about your teeth, or the way you held it. Your fault entirely." She looks at him, and wonders how it is she never noticed the bump on his nose, or the way the hair on his hands look like patches of dirt. How silly his genitals look.

    Quickly, she gathers leaves and vines and winds them into a garment to cover the most grotesque parts of him. He does the same for her. It's better this way, she thinks. Together, they walk on, finding fault with each other, finding fault with their surroundings. Never noticing when they leave the garden.

    
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The School Slut

    Liane Lester was the school slut. Not too many kids knew it—I didn't until she turned what was supposed to be a session working on a class project into a sex-ed lesson. Ask any student at Fieldrock High in 1959 who the most Biblically known girl was, and you'd get an easy "Angie Howeveryoupronounceit." Angie, with her shabby clothes, level three classes and parents from some country that twisted syllables and strung together consonants, was the get-it-for-free girl.

    Talk about sluts, and no one would think of Liane Lester, who was pretty—but pretty much unknown before the afternoon of the project. A complete non-standout. Her dark brown pony-tail was the requisite length, her plaid pleated skirts hit her calves in exactly the right spot, her bras were just pointy enough—unknown whether natural or padded—her cashmere sweaters were appropriately clingy. Some marking periods she made low honor roll, some she didn't. Enough clubs to look good on college applications, but not a cheerleader, editor of anything, or class officer. Lived in the right part of town. Mother stayed home and belonged to the sisterhood of her father's organization, father wore a suit to work. As I said—as average as you can get. Until the day:

    

We were divided into committees for a social studies project. The teacher grouped us according to the elementary school we'd gone to, so we could walk to each other's houses and he wouldn't be responsible for some irresponsible sixteen year old driving into a tree. So Liane and I ended up on the same committee, along with Susan, Karen, Jane and Myrna. We wanted to be assigned "Literature of the Westward Movement," but the boys, who wouldn't know a good book if it were served for dinner, were assigned it. We got "The Geography of the Oregon Trail."

    We met in Myrna's basement on a Saturday afternoon. We'd finished the report—we'd each written a chapter. Now we had oak tag sitting on top of the newspaper that was covering a ping-pong table. Andy Williams crooned on the genuine juke box in the corner. Liane, who it turned out could draw, was outlining a map of the U.S. onto the oaktag. Myrna was playing hostess—trying to get Rice Krispies Treats that had baked too long out of the pan, and ice cream that hadn't been out of the freezer long enough into the bowls. Susan and Jane were mixing the plaster of Paris while Karen and I tried to pry the tops off paint cans with pennies.

    I forget who started it, or who said what, but the conversation began with Kruschev banging his shoe onto the podium, and went on to whoever it was saying "What would you do if they did bomb us—if you heard the bomb was headed for New York and there were only a few hours left?" Most of us started out with good-byes to family and stuff like that, until—was it Karen?—said "I'd grab the nearest guy and ask him if he wanted to have intercourse." That's what we called it—intercourse, or It, or all the way.

    No one said anything for a minute, then we all started talking at once. Agree, agree, agree. "I want to feel what it's like before I die." "At least once." "It's supposed to be. . ."

    "It is," Liane said. Sudden silence. We knew she was dating a college guy, but still. "It is." We put down whatever we were doing, and clustered on the floor with our hard-as-rock Krispies Treats, and bowls of now-soupy ice cream. Liane swore us to secrecy—OK to tell girls—she'd be happy to answer questions—but absolutely no guys. She didn't want to get a reputation. It became clear as she talked that she probably already had one. The college guy was far from her first.

    Worlds opened up that afternoon, for the five of us on Myrna's linoleum floor. Petting, kissing, French kissing ("yuck!" "for real?") and It. All the way to orgasm. ("What's that?" Susan asked. Liane told.)

    The plaster of Paris hardened in the can. We all piled into Karen's car to go for more. Karen could have gone alone, but who can blame her for not wanting to leave the group—for not wanting to leave Liane—for even ten minutes. So we scrunched into her ancient Ford, and picked up a pizza along with the plaster. We all got into trouble for getting home late for dinner: We put too much water in the plaster of Paris and it took forever to dry, and the paint showing the Oregon trail kept seeping into the background, but somehow we finished it and got it into the trunk of Karen's car. I think it got an A. It hardly mattered then, and not at all now. We formed "lifelong" friendships that day, which ended less than two years later, when we went off to college.

    But on the day, that Liane opened up, worlds of possibility for all the rest of us, Liane stopped being just another Fieldrock junior, lost in the crowd, and became the most venerated girl in the school, the highest rung on the social ladder.

    I never stopped then to wonder what made her different from Angie Howeveryoupronounce it, the lowest. Only in looking back, do I understand.

 

 

 

 

 

The Competition

    There is no way. Simply no way. One day left before the competition, the whole world tuned in, and nothing—simply nothing to present.

    Joeli listens to the thoughts of her Caltech teammates, and their minds are as blank as hers—at least with regard to a new communications invention. Lots of chatter about what the hell are they going to do, but beyond that, nothing. It doesn't help that Mitch hacked into the MIT team's thought-cell, and learned that they're as lost as Caltech's team. In fact, Joeli thinks, that makes it worse. Sara agrees—the best and the brightest, and all that crap. How can both of the finalists come up with nothing?

    But what's left, Todd asks, and they all scan the history of communication, from smoke signals to telephones to the internet to the present implant-chips. Where is there to go when you can send your thoughts to anyone anywhere, and call up any person or information you want, Sara asks.

    And then Joeli screams. Her teammates shake their heads and send "come on—a little consideration" messages.

    "But I've got it," Joeli shouts. "What about turning it off?"

    "Silence?" Todd asks.

    "Why not?" Sara asks.

    "You mean, totally out of reach?" Mitch asks.

    "Totally!" Joeli says.

    "What are we waiting for? Only twenty hours left," Sara says.

    "Piece of cake," Todd answers.

    The next day, the whole world tunes in to see Caltech win. Within a year, phones that may, or may not be answered are ringing, again.

 

Death by Editing

 

    The first draft is always easy, Mona thinks. Just put down the story, let the words flow. Editing is the hard part—reshaping the story, fine tuning it, fixing the grammar. She hates everything that happens after the first draft, but it must be done. First drafts by definition are, well—drafty. She laughs. Insubstantial. Full of holes.

    She sits at her desk, opens her computer, and starts to write. The magazine wants a story about a trip taken by an adult, to a place that was important during childhood but has not been visited since. Her fingers fly across the keys. She finishes the three hundred or more word story in time to watch Dancing With the Chimps.

    She prints it out, takes it with her to edit during the commercials. The magazine deadline is tomorrow.

In the first commercial, she takes out her red pencil, and crosses out all the ands,
that, buts and becauses. It's a long commercial. Mona opens her notebook to the list of Don'ts, and sees "adjectives and adverbs." She quickly runs red lines through every one on the page.

    During the next commercial, she scans the story for things that could get her sued. Felice Rappaport, Pete Lipman and Susan Pratt , kids she went to school with, probably wouldn't be too happy with the way she used their names. She crosses them out. She's reluctant to do so, but she also deletes Starbucks, Coca Cola and Marshalls. You can't be too careful when it comes to potential lawsuits, her writing teacher told her. She goes back and scratches out Chevrolet.

Then there's the matter of plagiarism. It breaks her heart—it is, after all, the punch-line of her story, but you can't go home again has got to go. She almost sobs as she realizes the assholes who run her town could also sue.

    It hits her, as a chimp swings his partner over his head, that she once read something about prepositions and things like that being indicators of amateurish writing. In the next commercial, she circles everything that would hang down below the line in a diagrammed sentence. "Keep it simple, nouns and verbs," Mrs. Jones used to say in English 101.

    Next, she attacks every passive verb—all the is makings, had comes, and the like.

    When the show ends, she reads what she has left: a collection of unrelated nouns and verbs that make no sense at all when she reads them aloud, no matter how much expression she infuses them with. There is nothing to do but cross them out, because everyone knows you can't submit words that don't fit together in a meaningful way.

    She looks at what remains, puts a blank piece of paper into an envelope, and addresses it to the magazine, sure she has finally produced a piece no editor can reject because it has not been fully edited. She lets out a crow of delight. She can't wait to see her story in print.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembrance

I hated your guts:

    the way you twisted my words

    or made them disappear on a whim;

    the way you froze

    and refused to hear a word;

    your hardness, coldness—

    the way you knew the motions

    but knew nothing of emotions

    behind my words.

 

I loved your mind:

    the way it held onto thoughts

    when I'd misplaced them;

    your flexibility and willingness to change—

    to forget what I'd said and accept

    revised intent;

    the way you would respond

    to the slightest touch,

    exactly as I'd dreamed it;

    the way we could be together

    and never tire of one another.

 

Until you did the unthinkable:

    closed your eyes,

    closed your self off from me,

    and died.

 

I have tried to find another

    I could know with the intimacy

    we shared.

    I have only met frustration.

 

I miss you, Compaq,

    Windows XP, Word 2000.

 

 

The Builder

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall..." R.Frost

"Imagine..." J. Lennon

"If there's any hope for love at all, some walls must fall" Some Walls by M.A. Kennedy, P Rose, R. Sharp, sung by Peter, Paul and Mary

 

 

We've never been introduced, but you know my productions. They're everywhere. You help me build them. My walls. My fences.

    It's you who give me the raw materials to actually create the bricks, mortar, boards, cement. You, who feed me your need to separate yourselves into discrete groups. You who nurture me with your need to prove your little group better than all others. You give me the words I pile up to build my wondrous walls, my fabled fences.

    Words: Bigotry, hate, war, anger, enemies—oh, the list goes on and on. You know them all. No need for me to belabor the point.

    But there are other words, and these are even more precious to me. These are the words that make my walls and fences the most dangerous things in the world; that make me the most dangerous creature alive. Potent words, reeking of demonic power. Words that give the spark of life to wars, riots, pogroms, ethnic cleansings, or merely the sad separation of people who could have loved, could have befriended, could have lived in peace.

    Chant these words along with me, as I point out their consequences:

        Patriotism         Religion     Team         

Creed     Cult Club Community

Lovely words devised to denote inclusion, when their only effect is to exclude.

    

You know me, the Builder of Walls, as dangerous a spirit as you will ever meet. Think of me when you speak the words I mold into fences, think of me when a slight difference causes you to turn your head, cross the street, or simply, not hold out your hand in welcome.

 

    And then imagine what the world could be, if my favorite words were deleted from your lives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi, Everyone—

A gift-giving opportunity for all my friends, and my friends' friends:

The holiday season is fast approaching. Books are inexpensive, and when carefully chosen, are genuinely appreciated. Books inscribed with a personal message from the author to the recipient make unique, memorable gifts.

Inscribed Books Make The Best Gifts Ever!

My friends and I, the Never Too Late Authors--all women who published our first book after the age of fifty—want to make this gift-giving season easy for you. Just scan the material below, visit our websites and blog, and if you wish to give the best gifts ever, contact me or the author(s) you've chosen at the address(es) below, and your purchase will be in the mail as soon as we receive payment.
My thanks—
Ellen

The Never Too Late Authors invite you to read our books.

Perchance to Feast by Ellen Belitsky: A deliciously different novel about relationships. A tongue in cheek story of alternative universes impacting on our own. (adults and teens.)
blog: www.perchancetopublish.com, contact: belbook1@gmail.com price: $15

Once Again, Now by Charmaine Gordon: A widow finds romance and suspense in this coming-of-age novel and proves that life isn't over until it's over. (adults)
website: www.charmainegordon.com, contact: cgordon3@verizon.net price: $15

Krndija One Village from Creation to Destruction by Donna Kremer: A gripping and fully human historical novel of one community's struggle in war-torn Yugoslavia during the world's most shattering era. (adults and teens.)
website: www.krndija.com, contact: dkremer@verizonmail.com,
price: $15

Neither Sand Nor Sea by Kathleen Kubik: A year of discovery for one woman in this tender romance set in Manhattan, Montauk and the Caribbean. (adults)
website: www.kathleenkubik.com, contact Kathy0505@aol.com,
price: $15

Images From a Life by Barbara Werzansky: Poetry that touches the heart. (adults and teens)
contact: beediebobbi@optonline.net,
price: $10

Please note: All prices below include tax. Unfortunately the cost of postage will have to be added.

Now that we've helped you, please help us and forward this to at least ten people...
Thanks,
Ellen

Happy Holidays to All!

The Marymount Manhattan Conference

My aplogies. It's been a long time. Blame time--not enough of it, and working on short pieces and the fourth draft of my next novel is a more compelling way to use it. But also, to put it quite bluntly, there's been nothing worth reporting going on in my life re: marketing.

Not exactly true: There's been so nothing going on in several of my published friends' lives that we've banded together: The Never Too Late Authors, a group of women who have all published our first books after the age of fifty. Some of us have published with POD's, some with independent publishers. Our books are extremely diverse, ranging from poetry to historical fiction, to romance, to romance/suspense, to my tongue-in-cheek contemporary fantasy.

It doesn't seem to make a difference. In our little corner of the world, there are few places/opportunities for getting our books "out there."

So I went to the Marymount Manhattan Conference to get ideas and positive energy, and came away with the absolute understanding that if I want to write, it's a great hobby--the odds are overwhelming that it will never be anything more. I'm OK with that. In fact, that's all I want. All right, I'd like to have people read what I write, but even if no one did, I couldn't stop writing. I'm addicted. Besides, there are my peer-writers' groups....

Back to Marymount. Let me sum up some of the things I learned:

I started with The Publicity Panel--I was enjoying gridlock while the first panel, and the keynote speaker were in session:

I was told to believe in my book; to "get out there," and self-promote. It was stressed that no one else will. I was told to have book parties--that parties get publicity, whereas books don't.

It was thrilling to hear, "There is a shrinking market of local media that will take authors as guests." Readings in book stores are paid for by publishers. The print media is shrinking--few publications review books these days.

I was told that no publicist can guarantee anything, but that every author must have a publicist, minimally for six months, at a cost of $2000 a month or more. That kind of leaves me out. I'm still trying to recoupe my original investment.

Then there's blogging. It seems it's supposed to be a full time job. When, then, do I do my fiction writing??? Of course, no blog is worth anything if other blogs don't talk about it. Is there anyone out there who wants to form a blogging circle? I'll write about you if you'll write about me? At least we'll be reading each other's blogs...

The publicity panel put me in a really good mood for lunch, where I met some friendly people. We commiserated and swapped desserts.

Next came the Agents' Panel, chosen because I may want to try that route for my next novel.

It won't happen. If I want to have any success in this arena, I have to become "a public commodity." I have to go on facebook, myspace, be published in places like the New Yorker, even if it's just a letter to the editor.

"Fiction is very difficult to sell in today's marketplace." Did I need to be told that? Authors need platforms. One agent who spoke deals primarily with "famous people." Perhaps I'll rob a bank. At the very least, it would get me some name recognition.

But even that won't help because you "can't be midlist today." To be considered by an agent, a book must have "blockbuster potential." When the book is presented to an agent, it must be fully edited and in its best possible state. Many books that would have been grabbed five years ago won't be considered today.

With the consolidation of publishing agencies, there are a maximum of twenty places for agents to go with a book. Once an editor at a large house has turned down a book, other editors and imprints can't be approached.

"Business is not good. People don't read, especially young people." There is no market for paperbacks. So much free literature is available on the internet that it is "very hard to sell books."

And if that wasn't discouraging enough, I wrote the word "young," as in the age of desired authors, in the margin, after I'd heard it several times. I checked "young" six more times. Is 65 the new twenty? If not, I'm not the author agents seek, no matter how brilliant my work.

So--onward to the Fiction Panel.
The question was raised as to how the authors got their starts. One author did it the old fashioned way--she wrote "hundreds of letters" to agents before getting a bite.
The second author to speak initially wrote and published her book in Chinese, and it was a best seller in China. Authors three and four were Meg Wolitzer (daughter of novelist Helma Wolitzer,) and Carol Higgens Clark (daughter of Mary Higgins Clark.) Which wasn't very helpful or hopeful for authors whose mothers' most creative writing was their children's school absence notes, and those of us who haven't had a best seller in some other language. Writing hundreds of letters to agents might be good advice, but I suspect that the youth of the author also helped.

Writing tips were also offered which were useful and appreciated,(Meg Wolitzer is always worth listening to.) After all the other things I learned at the conference, I wonder how much good writing enters into the picture, if it is in the kind of cross-genre book loved by some, but never intended to be a mainstream blockbuster.

Enough said. Time to hit my "documents" icon and retreat into the world of fiction. Maybe I'll write a story about a bestselling author. Whoops--did that already--there's one in Perchance to Feast. Now, writing about Bronte Dickens was fun! Hope you've met her. If not, contact me at belbook1@gmail.com or go to iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, or BN.com and order yourself a copy of Perchance to Feast, which will take you out of the depression this entry has walloped you into.

A Review Worth Reading

Finally! Validation! Someone other than my friends has read Perchance to Feast! Someone has not only read it, but taken the time to review it. So, a huge thank you to Devon Kappa, whoever, wherever you are. Of course, it helps that the review was well written, insightful, interesting, and POSITIVE! I am so touched to know that someone out there cares enough to seek out and review POD books. I urge everyone reading this (is anyone besides Devon?) to check out nonemaysay.blogspot.com. I predict that you'll be glad you did. It's a treasure-trove of a site.

On the negative side, things seem to be grinding to a standstill. As I've said, libraries aren't being supportive, although local bookstores are. But let's face it, how many people go to independent bookstores these days? One of the stores carrying my book is famous locally for having just about any old, or out of print book anyone could want. Viewing the merchandise, new books seem to make up a fraction of this wonderful store's business. The other store is located in an antiques mall, and seems to sell a little of everything. It's a newcomer, and I wish the owners luck. Anyone willing to include new books in their stock is praiseworthy, and I'm grateful to both stores.

Not much more to say now. Gotta get going and work on draft 3 of my next novel!

Marketing Woes

Flying duck feathers!! Nothing seems to be working when it comes to letting people know my book is out there. All these great ideas I had!

I tried a service organization I've been active in for years. "Sorry"--would violate their constitution for me to sell books at meetings, even when my intent is to give them at least fifty percent of my profit. Huh??? Can't leave a few copies at their thrift shop either, again, with profit-sharing. What do they have to lose? I'm totally befuddled. On the plus side, they did say I could be the speaker at a meeting, which I jumped on. But they haven't scheduled it yet. Have to have more meetings. We'll see...

Then there are libraries. I donated copies to three, then asked if I could do a reading. Whoops! Went about it backwards. Could have saved two books. One library said they don't do readings--and not only that--before they put my book out, they had to be sure it's "appropriate for their collection." Other than advocating treason, teaching terrorism, or blatent obscenity, what criteria are there for censoring what is offered in a public library?

The librarian at the second library was more honest. She's love to do a reading--she really would. She's done so many in the past. But they were--how could she say it? "Embarrassing," she blurted. "No one came." So. "No." She was tired of being embarrassed. Tired of being the only one in the audience besides a few of the writer's friends who had already read the book.

The next libarian I approached was delighted to have my book, and receptive to the idea of a reading--but the librarian thought it would draw more people if several authors were to speak. No problem. Four of the other women in my peer writers' group are published authors--and most of the remaining five are working on novels or collections with an eye toward publication. "Terrific," the librarian indicated, "let's schedule for the summer, when more people tend to come out." OK. So I have a gig. Again, with no date. "Call back in May." You can be sure I will!

So I have two possible, maybe, perchance, dates. Will let you know if/when...

Also on the plus side, the local American Cancer Society allowed me to place fliers in their office, in exchange for profit-sharing. Well--more than profit sharing. When it comes to the ACS, all I want to do is recoup my investment. They can have the profit. They deserve it. As a breast cancer survivor, I owe them. Big time.

Also on the plus side--my fish store owner, who barely has room for his own merchandise, took a bunch of magnets advertising Perchance to Feast. (Did I mention that I invested in refrigerator magnets--and that the smallest quantity I could get was 1,000?!) He even said he'd make space for the book. I left him with a pile of magnets, but after some thought--Would anyone like to buy a pound of salmon and a nice yellow book? I think I'll leave 2 when I shop next week, and see what happens...

Meanwhile, there's this blog. Does anyone read it? Please--if you did, let me know at belbook1@gmail.com. It would be nice to know whether there's life at the other end of cyberspace, or if I'm wasting time talking to myself.

Reminder--If you want a copy of Perchance to Feast, it's available at iUniverse.com, BN.com, Amazon.com, or an autographed copy from me at belbook1@gmail.com, for $15, all inclusive.

Marketing--Or Not

OK, so a little over two weeks have gone by, and the piles of books are significantly diminished, thanks to my friends and relatives. Of course--(of course? What kind of business woman am I?)--I couldn't bring myself to charge my closest friends and relatives--the people who supported me all through the writing process, could I? Then again, I couldn't afford to purchase books for them all, which is what giving them away would amount to. Compromise: I sold them at cost.

Two weeks later, I realize that was a mistake. The book retails for $15.95. Forget the 95--who wants to deal with change? Besides, I think anything over $15 for a 225 page book is unreasonable. So I'm charging $15, and anyone reading this who wishes to get a signed copy can e-mail me at belbook@g.mail.com to order a copy--for $15 plus $2 for shipping. (Actual shipping is $2 plus change depending on where.) I'll throw in the tax--and the handling.

Right there is one of the problems with my decision to charge friends and family a mere $11, which includes my cost of the book, the charge for shipping the book to me, and NYS tax.
Fine. I may recoup the purchase price of the books. But what about the cost of publishing the book in the first place? What about advertising costs?--I ordered terrific refrigerator magnets (if you order a book from me, I'll throw in a magnet,) I ran off great fliers to place wherever anyone will let me place them. It all costs. So does the postage. It seems that half the people I know live
all over the country--anywhere but where I can simply hand them a book.

Then there are the free copies--there are people I owe--for so many reasons. People who have done things for me and--how can I charge them anything? A book is small payment for what these people have contributed to my life. So....free.

Now, if you're reading this, and you've received an $11 or free book, not to worry. No need to feel guilty. In point of fact, I wrote Perchance to Feast for fun, and published it for the pleasure of sharing a story my pre-publication readers found enjoyable. There is, however, one thing you can do for me. If you actually read the book you bought, and if you enjoy it, please spread the word. The only way this book is going to sell is by word of mouth--Or by reviews posted on Amazon.com and BN.com. If you have something good to say, SAY IT! In every way you can, to as many people as you can. On the other hand, if you don't like the book--and many people won't--a lot of people purchased the book who I know would never pick up a work of contemporary fantasy if it weren't written by a friend. This is quirky stuff, and not everyone's cup of tea. Or feast--so if it's not yours, kindly keep your mouth closed! (Be honest with me--just don't broadcast it.)

Making money was never an object. Losing money was always a possibility--hell no--a probability. Realistically, what I've spent on this book is within the range of what I could afford to spend on a hobby--certainly less than many of my more athletically inclined friends spend on golf or skiing.

If you're reading this with an eye toward self-publication of your own work, here's what I've learned so far:
1. Never spend more on self-publishing (or anything, for that matter,) than you can afford to lose.
2. Select one price, and charge everyone the same thing.
3. Don't procrastinate--get going on marketing from day 1. (A marketing plan sitting on your desk doesn't count.)
4. Unless you're a born salesperson, or are writing a nonfiction book and have a built in platform, view self-publishing as a hobby.
5. Find the fun! Feast!