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The Fair and Foul Cover Reveal

Patience is not a virtue of mine. I hate waiting. I realize it is a necessary part of the publishing process, but oh, how I dislike doing nothing. So I don’t. I find other ways to stay busy.

Last month, I nervously waited for beta readers to get back to me with their comments. I started outlining follow-up projects and writing a few placeholder scenes, but I didn’t want to go too far away from my current project, just in case another round of major revisions was needed. I didn’t want to lose my sense of the characters or the story’s timing. So instead of jumping fully into my next project, I spent some of that time creating covers for my manuscript.

It may sound like I was procrastinating, but it makes the work feel more real and seeing a cover, even a fake one, helps keep me motivated to push through bouts of writer’s block. The mock-up process also helps me with the project’s final development even if I ultimately don’t use any of my creations. For example, if the title doesn’t look good on a cover, I consider changing it altogether, not just the placement. If the back blurb doesn’t stand out, I refine it. Additionally, my designs help me focus my elevator speech and discuss must have elements with graphic/interior artists.

As useful as my mock-ups are, I usually don’t share my actual graphic designs with anyone except the hubby who has been trained to smile and say, “nice work,” even if he is thinking please don’t quit your day job. Only this time he said, “you might have something.” I tinkered with it some more, and then some more until I realized I agreed with him.

Feeling proud, I showed the cover design to my younger sister over the weekend. “Hmm, it looks nice,” she said with a shrug before returning her attention to something else.

Publishing a book is easy. All you have to do is hit the Publish button on any number of publishing sites like Smashwords, Kindle Direct, CreateSpace, Lulu, etc, but pushing that button yourself is hard, really hard. One of the reasons the traditional publishing route is so appealing in the face of lower royalties and smaller advances is because other people are helping you push that button. You get instant street cred. You get to feel shiny and validated. That is until the first negative review comes in. Then you start questioning your work (and worth) as much as the self-published author, but at least the self-published author has the power to make quick changes if needed. The key is to trust your gut and always remember your audience.

While my sister reads often, she is not what anyone would describe as a book nerd. I trust her to tell me when something I do is terrible, but sometimes her polite indifference is as glowing of an endorsement as I am ever going to get. Therefore, without further ado, I would like to reveal my cover (or at least the title) of my second novel – The Fair & Foul: Project Gene Assist Book One.

FairandFoulFrontHQ2_02

After all is said and done

sunset highway
Image courtesy of Unsplash

“You are going to die,” kiddo announced rather matter-of-fact the other night as I helped him get ready for bed.

I see. It was time for one of those talks. “Yes, I am,” I answered, “but hopefully not anytime soon.”

“I am going to live forever,” he replied, “because I eat healthy foods.”

“So do I kiddo, or at least I try.” Okay, so I don’t try quite as hard as he does. Kiddo has always eaten more healthy than I do. The only craving I had while pregnant with him was for tilapia and asparagus and now his favorite meal is salad with a balsamic glaze and a side of strawberries. My six-year-old is a bit of an odd child at times.

“Then why are you going to die?”

“Because that’s what happens when you get older.” Preferably much, much older, but unfortunately you can’t ever quite count on time. Earlier this year a friend was diagnosed with a terminal illness which has now progressed beyond treatment. It doesn’t matter that she is only five years older than me or that one of her sons is near the same age as mine. Her illness neither cares about her age or her children’s.

As I hug my children tighter, I wish that we didn’t need such stark reminders that every moment is precious.

Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.~Chinese Proverb

I love TED talks and was recently reminded of a question posed by David Brooks of the New York Times, who asked in his “Should you live for your resume…, or your eulogy?” In it he mentions that most people when asked, reply that they place a higher value on the virtues they hope their friends and family cite during their eulogy over the accomplishments of their resume. Put differently, when your time comes, do you want your family to announce that you streamlined processes by 85% while meeting and/or exceeding performance goals, or that you never missed a tee-ball game? And yet, the resume accomplishments are what we focus on.

“Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants.”
― Margaret Atwood, Der blinde Mörder

When I began writing, I will admit a driving force was the knowledge that when I was done, I would have something tangible on the shelf with my name on it. I put in the work to prove to myself I had what it takes. Proud as I was of my accomplishment, I gave one of those early copies to the woman who watches LT during the day. She flipped through the pages and saw my children’s names in black and white. “You’ve given them a great gift.”

As we talked, I realized she meant I had given them more than just a thing to remember me by. I had ensured that some small piece of them would be remembered too.

“When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.” ― Jorge Luis Borges

I like to think I am teaching my boys resilience, determination, and the importance of hard work, but maybe just maybe when all is said and done I’ve taught them to dream big, and yet to never forget the value of the small everyday. If I can do that, what other accomplishment do I need?

“The life given us, by nature is short; but the memory of a well-spent life is eternal.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero

Unexpected summer surprises

I barely recognized the boy who walked through my door. It was my eldest son returning from yet another outing with a set of his grandparents, an event that has become so commonplace over this summer break that it barely makes sense to unpack his bag. His hair was now more white than yellow and his normally pale skin was brown. It was only the tell-tale scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and up the side of his cheek that convinced me that it wasn’t some random changeling.

Summer Camp Agenda

“We’re happy you are home,” I told him, which was a massive understatement. He had only been gone this last time for three days and yet, unlike his first solo trip, this one felt like forever. I had expected to miss my son, but I was taken aback by how much I had missed the noise, the mess, the smells, the sheer chaos incarnate that is boy this summer.

“I’m happy to be home too!” he said with the gap-toothed grin I remember. His big boy teeth sure are taking their time coming back in.

“You know, you won’t have any more trips except for one last one with mommy and daddy before school starts.”

“I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

He’s had a great time with every single outing, but I can’t blame him for the sentiment. I wouldn’t mind travel nearly so much if I only had a teleportation machine to ensure that I got to sleep in my bed at night. Sure, the hospitality industry might suffer, but I would get such a better night’s sleep, and sleep makes me happy, which makes me more productive, and if more people were productive, wouldn’t that help the local economy – but I digress.

His school will resume in less than one month. Summer is almost officially over as far as we are concerned. After the bags were in, I went outside to check on my garden. As I stepped off the porch, a bit of white caught my eye in the hanging planter. It was a strawberry bud.

budding strawberryStrawberry season in North Carolina begins in April and runs through the month of May. It is pretty much over as soon as the temperatures begin to rise, and we had hit triple digits in June. After the heat wave in June, I hadn’t even bothered to care for the planter beyond the occasional watering when the leaves wilted even after temperatures stabilized in the 90s (or 32+ for my non-US friends). The season was definitely over. But there it was. A flower, with another stem beside attached to the green triangular shape of a forming berry.

No one told my strawberry plant that its season was over. Or if someone did, the plant didn’t listen.

Another blog I read posted an amusing piece this week briefly touching on the subject of acceptance. Acceptance of others for their differences, acceptance for the liberties the film industry takes with history for the sake of drama, and also acceptance that more than likely only half of winter’s audience would take the time to read the message.

“Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, but a thing to be achieved.” – William Jennings Bryant

I accept that there is a season for all things, but I know I can’t fall into the trap of doing nothing while waiting. The easy season may come and go, but I can (and do regularly) dance like no one’s watching (or write like no one is reading). Who knows, but if the conditions are right, the work I do today just might yet bear fruit.


Book update. I’ve gotten most of my beta reader’s comments in and am in the process of making yet another round of final tweaks and read-throughs. It is difficult to express exactly how very grateful I am for my reader’s feedback. I believe my story is significantly stronger for their suggestions and I am now even more excited to release it to the public in the not to distant future.


 

 

Caution: Training in process

I know my hubby loves me, but I am beginning to suspect he may also be trying to kill me.

Lamont got it into his head that he would like to run at least one marathon in each of the fifty states before he dies. He’s already run a few, but still has a long way to go (in quantity and in kms). Unfortunately after breaking his toe earlier this year, an event triggered by a freak increase in the corner of our kitchen island’s gravitational pull (and definitely not clumsiness on his part), he fell out of the running habit. He decided that in order to get back into shape, this time he would hire a personal trainer.

Lamont prides himself on treating our whole marriage thingy as an equal partnership, and wanted me to have the same opportunity to improve as he did, so he took it upon himself to hire a personal trainer for me as well. Oh, joy! Sometimes I have to wish he were a little more selfish.,

Medieval torture rack
Medieval rack or equipment only found at a premium gym? Both will cost an arm and a leg. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My previous experiences with personal trainers haven’t exactly been fantastic, so the day of my appointment I waited a tad nervously in the gym’s lobby. Minutes ticked by without any sign of my torturer trainer. Was he a no-show? FANTASTIC! It was like being given a get out of jail free card. (I still get ice cream for showing up – right?) I started gathering my things to bolt out of there.

As I was making my escape plans, I heard a man say. “You must be Allie.” My heart sank. Must I?

Pepe wasn’t anything like I expected. He wasn’t some muscle-bound giant. Instead, he was thin and my height (poor man). We hit it off immediately (vertically challenged people of the world unite!) I explained up front that I hate sit-ups with a passion and he admitted he did too. We worked on my core for thirty minutes without a single crunch. At the end, he offered a follow-up session free of charge. Sure. Why not? I had a good time. It wasn’t like he was asking me to sign a contract or anything. I could still stop at any time (and this, kids, is why personal trainers are like drug dealers, only they offer a different kind of high)

The second time, when Pepe came around the desk I was actually excited to see him. What were we going to work on today? He directed me to one of those aerobic step platforms and handed me a kettlebell. This looked like it was going to take some grace or at least some coordination. Clearly Pepe has not visited my blog before. “Ummmm…yeah…er…Pepe, I believe you may have little more confidence in my abilities than I do.”

“Don’t look at the step. Don’t look at the weight. Just look up and jump. You’ll be surprised at how your body naturally follows a straight line.”

Somehow, not only did I not throw the weight into the face of a passerby, I actually managed to land on the platform without breaking it or my leg. More than thirty times. I know. I am as equally shocked as you are.

When I woke up the next morning, I realized that I must have left vertebrae on the gym floor because my back? It wasn’t bending. I have discovered that it is remarkably difficult to write creatively when you are moving like Frankenstein’s monster, but I still think there was a lesson worth sharing. Yes, we all have weights holding us down or disrupting our sense of balance, but when we keep our heads up, we are more likely to land on our feet.

(Oh – but lift with your legs and not your back)

Oh the places you’ll go…

Child's drawing of an airplane
We all live in a green aeroplane, a green aeroplane, a green aeroplane…

I found myself once again jammed elbow to elbow with strangers several thousand feet in the air as our airplane rocked like a cork upon the water. So began yet another glamorous business trip, this time to America’s heartland. I guess that when I told my boss earlier this year that “I’m not the biggest fan of business travel,” he heard “I haven’t traveled enough.” Clearly, frequent flyers are exposed over time to something mixed in the recirculated air.

Upon arrival, I took one step out of the sliding doors and was nearly knocked down. I can deal with humidity. To call the air that met me outside the airport “humid” is like saying a tsunami is wet. Accurate yes, but the word just doesn’t do it justice. (According to Google translate, in Zulu, wall of water is translated as Udonga amanzi which for some reason feels more appropriate.)

A van, probably white when factory new but was now more ecru, pulled up. I assumed it was the hotel shuttle, however, wasn’t entirely sure as the logo was beginning to peel from the vehicle’s side. The driver came around to help stow my bags. “You’re the only one today, so feel free to sit up front if you’d like,” he said. Eager to get my lungs out of the oppressive air, I jumped in.

As we turned down unfamiliar streets it occurred to me that I had willingly hopped into the kind of van one might see in a movie’s kidnapping scene. I glanced at my driver. The cuff of his long sleeved shirt was rolled down, exposing a large tattoo. The look didn’t exactly boost my confidence.

Oh, I can hear my mom now as she reads this…

A couple of stop lights later I arrived at the hotel safe and in one piece (see mom – no need to worry about me at all!) There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot. Either I was arriving well ahead of check-in, or most people were staying at home after the holiday weekend. It reminded me of the empty hotel from The Shining (if I saw a pair of creepy twins, I was out of there).

I was told my room was ready. My room was ready. The room across from me? Not so much. Large fans whirled in the hallways while a radio blasted classic rock from the other room. The door was wide open and I could see that it was in the process of being refurbished from top to bottom. I decided I’d rather not know what kind of hi-jinks must have taken place on that side of the hall.

Between the fumes and the easy jams, I decided to vacate my room while the workers finished for the day. I decided to try out the gym (see mom – I do occasionally make healthy choices). One of the footplates on the elliptical machine had given out, the backrest on the stationary bike was set to permanent recline and the treadmill sounded like a chainsaw (the ‘art’ in this ‘state of the art’ facility was still in the surrealist period). Perhaps I should run outside. Rain began to pelt the windows. Perhaps not. I was motivated to work off some holiday excess, but not that motivated.

Image from my actual expense report

I ventured downstairs to see what this fine establishment might have in the way of dining only to find a small mini-mart stocked with frozen meals instead of a restaurant. Sigh. I grabbed a dinner and returned to my room. Sometimes you just need to call it a night.

And unlike my last trip, I slept like I did back in the time before kids. It is amazing how a little extra rest helps your mood. The food might have been less than ideal, and the accommodations worthy of the term economy, but, I’m not really complaining. I’ve been on worse trips.

It comes down to the people I meet along the way, and all people this time were friendly. Especially my tattooed driver, who, in addition to being exceedingly polite was living in this city/fishbowl to be closer to aging relatives (and wasn’t scary at all). It was a good reminder not to judge based on appearance. I would have preferred to stay at home, but it was an experience. I may not get to travel like the rich and famous, but as I’ve said before, at least I get to keep my miles.