Kindle Envy
I’ve wanted a Kindle for just about three years. I’ve been watching the electronic reader market in Publisher’s Weekly for at least the last ten years – watching it go from disbelief and negativity to raves.
It’s the death of the book! It’s renewed life for the book!
I’ve always figured there was room in the marketplace for books whether they were on an electronic reader, hardcover, trade paperback or mass market PB. The more formats the merrier.
So I’ve wanted one for a while.
My wife never wanted one but… as fate would have it her family (sister and father) decided to get her one for Christmas two years ago. She is on her second one already. She upgraded. She won’t even let me borrow it. I can’t even touch it. Or turn it on.
Now my son has one too.
I have Kindle envy.
I hope I have one by the time my book comes out in electronic format.
I’d better put another order in with Mr. Claus.
A Somebody
Around my house we’re using this saying. I used to be a nobody – now I’m a somebody. I know. I know. It’s kind of trite but it’s what I’ve come up with to explain the change in my life since getting my debut novel accepted for publication. Now, I’m a somebody.
Here’s what I mean.
Before the acceptance any letter I wrote to an author asking for help, like with a please-buy-my-book blurb, or a request for a review of a manuscript, or even a request for a suggestion about an agent to send it to – these all would have been met (unless they were a friend or a writer I knew well) with a friendly … no. I understand this and it’s a good rule. Stephen King can’t be reading all his fan’s, who also happen to be writer’s, manuscripts and give them a blurb. He’d never get any work done if that were the case. Okay. I’ll admit it. I was once so desperate for a contact, any contact with the machinery of publishing, that I wrote a letter to Stephen King. I never sent it. I read, after pouring my heart out in two single spaced pages, about his no answering letters policy and decided, reluctantly, against it.
After acceptance I was fortunate enough to get blurbs from six writers I had never met before – all award winners and really nice people who took a chance on reading my debut novel without knowing anything about me or the book. I was a fan of their books but that’s my connection to them, not theirs to me. But my book had been accepted for publication and WestSide Books’ name was on it. My publisher said, “Just give them my contact information if they want to make sure about the press.” I don’t think anybody called her. They just wrote me blurbs. Mind you twenty plus other authors did not write blurbs for me but they were also very nice in writing personal notes to me when they said no. I’m a somebody.
Before acceptance who would want to interview me about writing? Yes, I’d published a bunch of short stories and articles of different sorts – but nothing about the art and process of writing. I guess you could say I’d been living the life of a writer in my after full-time job work hours, but that doesn’t count for much until you can hang your hat on a book with your name on it. I’m the same guy I was eight months ago in August before I got the call from my agent telling me she’d sold my book. I’m the same guy I was two months ago before the publicity campaign began and my publicist starting getting interested bloggers and interviewers to contact me. A debut novel is a line in the sand that I am passing over. I’m a somebody.
So… for a little while I’ll be a somebody. My son laughs when I tell him this and wonders if it will make me any better at spelling. Probably not. That’s what spell check is for (thank the great cosmic entities for spell check). My wife wonders if it will make me any better at taking out the garbage, putting my dishes away, helping in the organization of the household, or being more aware of our financial situation. Let’s just say these are areas of growth I need to work on. My dogs don’t seem to notice any difference at all. To them I’m still the guy who takes them out at 6am every morning. Two days ago, Spike lifted his leg and peed on me. They keep me grounded.
A writer friend said to me recently, “Don’t forget to enjoy it.” It – being the being a somebody. Oh yeah.
I’ll try not to.
ARCs
Open Wounds ARC
Open Wounds ARC
ARCs are advanced reader copies. They are trade paperback size versions of my book that will be sent out to reviewers for pre-publication reviews. The ones sitting in front of me have the old cover on them (which although not as cool as the final version that will be going on the hard cover – is still pretty impressive to me).
I opened the box left on my door step by UPS from Everbind (where WestSide Books is housed in New Jersey) a few moments ago and five copies are staring up at me. I am sitting writing this and my fingers are tingling and I’m a bit light-headed. I can’t believe a book with my name on it is staring up at me. It’s beautiful.
When I was 16 and first started to write (I entered an essay contest and was a finalist but didn’t win because, as a judge told me later confidentially, “You could have won – we all loved what you wrote – except your spelling was so bad it put you out of the final spot.”) I hadn’t really imagined this moment. As I wrote and sent out stories and received one rejection after another over the next thirteen years I still didn’t think of myself with a book in front of me with my name on it. But by the time I was thirty I had written my first book and had begun my second, and although I hadn’t found an agent yet (I would write to 74 before I found my first) I’d published a few short stories and all of a sudden I realized I was capable of writing longer works and could be a… novelist. Over the next fifteen years the dream crystalized as I found an agent, then lost one, then found another and lost that one too. Two more agent later and the dream had almost faded. Too many rejections, too many agents, too many disappointments. I had written five novels the last one taking seven years to write, and not one had sold. I had just about given up last summer when my agent called, out of the blue – as they say – and all of a sudden – seven months later and I’m staring at an ARC of my book.
There are blurbs from eight author’s on the front and back covers saying how much they liked it. Most of these authors I’ve never met before but they did this wonderful thing for me.
There’s an acknowledgements page – a dedication page.
I can’t believe it. There’s a huge smile on my face. A huge smile.
Cosmic Unconscious
In Open Wounds there is a letter written from Lefty to Cid that was one of the most difficult pieces of writing I’ve ever done. It was difficult because it was so painful to write. It is a letter of madness, loss, and love written by someone who could never say the words out loud. Even now when I read it I can feel my heart ache. I don’t know if it’s a great piece of writing – but I do know when I read it I believe that Lefty wrote it and that I did not. Does that sound strange to you? It does to me. My publisher, Evelyn, said to me today that she thinks sometimes people pull from the great unconscious when they write. I don’t know if there’s a great cosmic unconscious – though I’d like to believe there is and I really like the phrase cosmic unconscious. But Lefty’s words came from some part of me and I don’t know where or what that part is. It hasn’t happened too often in my writing.
I re-read my book again for the last edit a couple of weeks ago and I found myself drawn to that letter again. In his blog ghostmedicine, Andrew Smith talks about being in love with his latest book, Stick (soon to be released). I wrote to him that it makes sense that writers love their work because it is such intimate work and pulls from intimate places within us – places not easily explored.
Lunievicz 