1WriteWay

Despite the disparaging of e-books as cold, hard, unfriendly sources of reading, traditional publishers apparently think there’s money to be made through publishing in “electronic book publishing formats.”  The authors may be long-dead, but their publishers are in a tussle with their estates over who owns whose rights.  In the case of William Styron’s books,Random House expects to “continue to publish the Styron books we own in all formats, including e-books.”  (Click here for the full story.)  Hmmm … the Styron books they own?  OK, I understand that traditional publishers invest capital and even some sweat equity in an author’s work, but just who wrote Styron’s books?  Could they maybe express it differently … say, they expect to publish to the books that they bought rights to?  I know I probably sound like I’m splitting hairs, but wouldn’t any author wince to hear a publisher say that he “owns” the author’s books?

In a recent post, Fiona Robyn mused, “Most of the time being a writer is about looking out at the frosted grass, and sipping earl grey, and not writing.”  Sometimes I think I do my best writing when I’m knitting or crocheting or sewing, when my hands are occupied with something other than typing.  Even playing mindless computer games sometimes brings forth the crucial bit of action to move my story or novel forward (if I can ever pull myself away from the mindless computer game).  I grew up with the notion that a “true” writer is constantly writing, at least scribbling in a notebook at every free moment.  A “true” writer cannot do anything but write, write, write.

I wonder.  Part of what drives me to write is the joy of creation, much the same joy that I feel when I knit, crochet, sew (but not when I play mindless computer games).  Writing is like piecing together a quilt, or watching a deceptively simple looking pattern unfold from an eye-crossing knitting schematic.  Unfortunately, I cannot wear my writing (except on my sleeve) like I can wear the scarves, shawls, sweaters I create.  I can’t even use my writing to cover my bed like I would a quilt (well, technically I could, but it wouldn’t be as warm and cozy).  If I were a full-time writer, or even a full-time knitter, crocheter, sewer, this would not be too much of a problem.  But I am a writer with a day job, something that has nothing to do with writing novels or stories, or knitting up scarves and shawls, or piecing quilts.  Time is finite and I want to do it all — the whole creative process that, for me, starts with the hands (knitting, crocheting, sewing, typing, hand writing) and continues through the mind.  However and whenever the words make it to the page, I am a writer.  It’s not the frequency of my writing.  It’s just the fact that I do write.

I am slowly … ever so slowly … getting back into writing.  I’ve been on a self-enforced hiatus for the last several months, where I allowed myself to be suck up into a lifestyle that I wasn’t enjoying a whole lot because it left virtually no time (or energy, which is more important) for writing.  I’m writing this post with a bit of trepidation … am I really ready to take up my blog again?  Or am I just going to make one lame post and then disappear from the blogosphere for an undetermined length of time?

Well, I’m here now, and I think that’s all that really counts …  And it’s not like I’ve been totally unproductive.  During my hiatus, I’ve had the pleasure of coming across a delightful blog called Dollar Bin Horror.  It’s a fun blog by “Rhonny Reaper” (not entirely her real name, of course) where she writes about finding great horror films for cheap and also interviews horror writers.  Yes, one of my (many) guilty pleasures is horror films, especially the old classics with Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi, and Roger Corman films.  Check out Dollar Bin Horror and see why I’ve been smittened.

The Saturday Evening Post has “revamped” and is looking for new fiction.  With the dwindling newspaper and magazine market, this is a bold effort by the Post.  Hopefully, readers will be rewarded by good, fresh writing.  Click here for the Post’s submission guidelines.  My thanks to fellow blogger, Georganna Hancock of A Writer’s Edge, for tweeting this truly news-worthy info.  This is great news for someone who has fond memories of reading the Post when she was much much younger than she is today

Another website has opened up, to give self-published authors more visibility:  IndieReader.com.  Read the article here in the Christian Science Monitor.  IndieReader.com describes itself as being “For self-published and print-on-demand books and the readers who love them.”  Founder Amy Holman Edelman proposes to do for self-published books what Sundance has done for independent films.  For an annual fee of $149, IndieReader.com will “promote, market and sell your book” on its website, if they deem your book to have met “certain standards of quality, both in terms of basic spelling and grammatical errors and content. All books must be well written and offer something of value to our customers.”  Be sure to always read the fine print when $$ is involved.  From the IndieReader.com Terms of Service:

2. Annual Fees and Costs. a. The fee for inclusion on the website is $149.00 per year, regardless of the number of books that each author features on the IR site. The fee for submitting the first book is included in the annual fee, however, there will be a submission fee of $25 for each book after the first. b. This fee is NON-REFUNDABLE.

IndieReader.com is a business and as such should charge fees, and it should reserve its right to reject books that don’t meet its standards.  Yes, that makes it sound more like traditional publishing with all its gatekeepers, but IndieReader.com holds the promise of access to good writing, regardless of the author’s name recognition.

This is off the writing track, but it’s one of my pet peeves that gets peaked now and then:  fat as in body weight and body image.  Here’s an excellent article in the Sunday NY Times revealing how celebrities contribute to our (at least, women’s) shaky self-image:  Bingeing on Celebrity Weight Battles

My suggestion:  Why don’t we start by not using the word “fat” to describe people.  It’s derogatory, not descriptive.  It demoralizes rather than motivates.  And it’s an industry fed by celebrities, Big Pharma, agribusiness … (pun intended) that needs consumers to be self-conscious about their weight in order to survive.  Best quote: “Americans equate body size with Puritan values. Thin means self-discipline and hard work; fat implies laziness, gluttony and lack of willpower.”  Watch enough TV and you’ll see ads for weight-loss gimmicks following ads for all you can eat country buffets. How can we demand self-discipline when our society relentlessly throws temptation in our way?  Maybe I’m just bitter because I know I’ll never see 120 again (unless I get ravished by cancer), or maybe I just want to enjoy life (and some chocolate) while it’s here.

“Depression, truth be told, is both boring and threatening as a subject of conversation.”  So writes Daphne Merkin in her essay on depression in this Sunday’s New York Times Magazine.  As someone who has struggled with depression and anxiety off and on (and, lately, fortunately, it’s been mostly off), Merkin’s essay resonated with me in a far deeper way than any essay I had read before.  Perhaps it’s the cold truth of her insights:  “Surely this is the worst part of being at the mercy of your own mind, . . .:  the fact that there is no way out of the reality of being you, . . ..”

For most of my life, I found the reality of “being me” often hard to bear.  Like Merkin, “I was fascinated by people who had the temerity to bring down the curtain on their own suffering,” people like Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath, who also just happened to be writers.

Merkin takes us on a journey from her most recent bout of deep depression, through her attempts at recovery in a clinic, and, finally, to a seemingly spontaneous resolution.  Granted, this is her own personal story, and others who suffer from chronic depression might have very different experiences.  As with so many other ailments, both physical and psychological, one size does not fit all.  But I finished Merkin’s article feeling heartened, at the least because the fog lifts just enough for her to imagine a life without it.

No, I’m not going to bash Twitter.  The application, like Facebook, is great in and of itself.  But how these apps are used begs the question of mundanity.  See Matt Bai’s essay in today’s New York Times:  “The Chatty Classes.”   Bai poses the irony of how, back in 2004, presidential hopeful Bob Graham’s meticulous (and mundane) daily diary was used to criticize him as “weird”; and yet only a few short years later, that same meticulousness and mundanity is embraced by both celebs and the hoi polli on apps like Twitter.

I’m a daily user of both Twitter and Facebook, and I love how these apps have expanded my world to include like-minded souls that I might otherwise never have “met.”  I find both to be necessary to my growth and exposure as a writer; yet, I use them quite differently.  With Facebook, I’m connected to family and friends, not just writing groups and colleagues, so my expectations of “status updates” are quite different than they are for Twitter.  But I initially joined Facebook as an aunt wanting to be more connected with her nephews and nieces.  I joined Twitter as a writer, with a very different set of expectations.

Bai likens Twittering to the “jabbering [of Tom Hanks on his island] to his battered volleyball so as not to lose touch with his own existence.”  I am perpetually surprised by how many Twitterers feel compelled to note their every move and thought.  I’ve considered “unfollowing” some Twitterers simply because the ratio of mundane vs profound tweets is much too great.  How many tweets about “going out for coffee” or “just woke up” must I slog through before I can find that one good tweet that links me to a good blog or essay or article on writing?  I can’t imagine anyone (not even my friends and family) caring a twit about whether and when I got out of bed; whether I liked my coffee or think it’s a lovely day; whether or not I’m going to shave my legs or try to wax them.

I realize that many if not most Twitterers are communicating with friends and family and so such comments might actually be encouraged and enjoyed.  Then why not have separate Twitter accounts–one personal, one professional–and spare those follow you out of professional interest from having to scroll (seemingly endlessly) through tripe.  It can be done.  It wouldn’t be difficult, and it would be interesting to see how your camp of followers might divide up.

My thoughts are taken up with the plight of journalist Roxana Saberi, who has been imprisoned by Iran for “espionage.”  Ms. Saberi was arrested on Jan. 31 and currently is serving a sentence of 8 years.  Recently, she began a hunger strike.  Ms. Saberi’s original trial was behind closed doors, and the charges against her are considered baseless.  Hers is just one example of the danger that journalists face worldwide.  Please visit www.freeroxana.net for more information and to learn how you can join the effort for her release.