Signs of the Times

Jenny, The Best Dog

Six months ago, Jenny was going on long mountain walks, splashing around in Cherry Creek and running away after deer. She'd slowed down considerably since the days she'd raced against motorcycles, but she was still way ahead of us on the trail. Then she slowed down even more. By March we had to wait for her to catch up when we went for long walks. By April she refused to go on long walks at all. Arthritis in her hips, the vet said.

We tried various medicines, in various dosages, but Jenny got increasingly feeble. By her 13th birthday in mid-June she couldn't even walk around the block. Nor could she get upstairs to sleep on the floor at the foot of our bed, which she'd done since she was a puppy. After the last vet visit 2 weeks ago, I took Jenny to her favorite park. We'd only walked 5 minutes when she turned around and headed back to the car.

After that she wouldn't walk more than 50 yards from the house, and spent most of her time stretched out on her side on the bare living room floor, panting. Whenever I petted her she emitted the faintest high-pitched whine.

Friday morning I called the vet to ask for an end to Jenny's suffering--and our anguish over her. He said he'd be here at 8:00 a.m. today.

At 7:00 this morning I sat on the front steps, with Jenny stretched out at the bottom because she couldn't make it back into the house. At 7:30 I brought out a cup of tea and yesterday's NY Times Magazine. At 7:45 Darling Husband came out to sit with us. Jenny moved into the shade along the north side of the house and barked for the last time at Snowy, the cat next door, who was walking along the fence. At 8:00 we were more than ready for the vet, but no one showed up.

At 8:15 I called the vet's office. The receptionist said they had us down for an appointment there. She was unswayed by my tears of grief and rage; no way was anyone coming to our house today.

Jenny was always terrified at the vet's; she'd start panting and trembling as soon as we pulled into the parking lot. Which was only as far as she was going to go today, we decided. If the vet wouldn't come to our house, he could at least attend to Jenny in our car. So she'd be calmer for her final trip, I shoved 10mg of Valium down her throat (like a cat, she always spat out pills). When I pulled my hand out, a big chunk of one of her molars came with it.

DH pulled the car around in front, close to the curb. I had to lift Jenny's hind end so she could get onto the floor, and then again so she could get up onto the back seat.

There was quite a crowd at the vets'. My eyes were so blurred with tears that at first I couldn't read the euthanasia form I was given to sign. For a half-hour, DH and I sat with Jenny in the car, petting her and telling her what a good girl she is.

Finally the vet came out. He had the good grace to apologize profusely for the screw-up. Then he and the tech injected Jenny with a sedative, and then something lethal.

I kept my left hand under Jenny's neck, my fingertips buried in the fur at her throat, where I could feel the vibration of her breathing. I stroked her head with my right hand and kept telling her it was okay to let go, that she'd always be my baby.

"This'll only take 4 or 5 minutes," the vet said. But it didn't. It took a good 10 minutes, plus 2 more injections. The reason was most likely circulatory problems--"probably her lungs," which fit in with Jenny's rapid decline and harsh, labored breathing.

The vibrations in her throat grew fainter and fainter, then stopped. In another minute I could feel Jenny was gone. Now my baby can rest without pain.

Spit Take/Quote of the Day

An AP story on developments in Iran had me guffawing. Good thing I read it before I had my morning beverage, else I would have sprayed tea all over my computer.

[The Guardian Council] said Monday it found irregularities in 50 voting districts, but that this has no effect on election outcome. Council spokesman Abbas Ali Kadkhodaei was quoted on the state TV Web site as saying that its probe showed more votes were cast in these constituencies than there were registered voters.

But this "has no effect on the result of the elections," he said.

As the Brits say: Pull the other leg--it's got bells on it.

Weekend Lit Crit

Better than a thousand words--and ditto for zombies, werewolves & other undead:


see more Funny Graphs

Tears of Laughter (and suppressed rage)

Photographer Miriam Berkley sent me a link to the ultimate freelancer's video, which had me howling:

The Vendor Client relationship - in real world situations

Same Old, Same Old

I haven't been posting lately because not much has been going on in my life, except:

1. I went to NYC for 4 nights for BookExpo, and also gave a "Polish Your Pitch" workshop with Ron Hogan at Backspace Writers Agent-Author Day.
2. Then I spent 3 nights in the Kingston, NY, area, where I hope to live in the not-too-distant future.
   
3. Just as I was returning the rental car in Poughkeepsie, Darling Husband called to say that he'd been laid off his job of 8 years--the one we'd moved to Denver for 3-1/2 years ago.
4. I have to crank out the text (some 17 K words) for the Bella Terra Massachusetts Lighthouses map so it can go to press in 10 days.
   
5. I'm giving another phone seminar on June 28. (Details in sidebar.)
   
6. Last Thursday, I had 3+ hours of excruciating nerve tests on my dysfunctional right arm, which has had 3 surgeries since I broke it 3 years ago. Preliminary results: Further neurosurgery would probably do more harm than good; my 3 middle fingers will remain numb forever.
7. I had 8 days of debilitating headache (technically neuralgia), caused by Denver's unusually damp & stormy weather. On the plus side, my garden has never looked more lush.
   
8. Tomorrow I go back to Dr #13, a hand/arm specialist at Denver Health's Center for Complex Fractures (which I wish I'd known about 3 years ago, GRRRR...), who will tell me whether further orthopedic surgery will help. If he says not, I'm giving up.
9. My wonderful dog Jenny, who turned 13 yesterday, is rapidly succumbing to arthritis. Once upon a time she'd run for hours without stopping. Now she can walk--slowly--for 10 minutes at most, and can barely make it up the 3 steps into the house. We've tried all sorts of meds, to no avail. Today I started her on Dog Gone Pain as a last-ditch effort, and tomorrow she'll get codeine too. There's a wonderful new book, HOW SHALL I TELL THE DOG? I keep asking myself (and the vet): How shall I kill the dog? And when?

As a palliative, I've been gardening and immersing myself in novels written or set in the 19th century:

• PRIDE & PREJUDICE
• RUDE AWAKENINGS OF A JANE AUSTEN ADDICT by Laurie Viera Rigler
  
• CONFESSIONS OF A JANE AUSTEN ADDICT by Rigler (again; even better after RUDE AWAKENINGS)
• LITTLE DORRIT, though Dickens's sentimentality & weakling heroines may have me reaching for Trollope's Palliser novels before too long
  

The Best Wedding Vow of All

I got all choked up reading this piece in today's LA Times by YA author Kerry Madden, who's spoken at my workshops:

Our wedding vow -- to my mother--in law
Our elopement included a promise we would never lose our ambition. We kept it.

Off to BookExpo...and beyond

BEA checklist:
1) Get teeth cleaned at dentist.
2) Do laundry.
3) Get online boarding pass.
4) Dither over what outfits to pack.
5) Print out "Polish Your Pitch" workshop program.
6) Confirm party & dinner dates.
7) 9:15 pm - Plant sunflower & morning glory seeds outside in the dark.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll find time to do some blog posts from BEA. Then again, maybe not...

Showdown at the Kitty Corral

Snowball the trespasser beats a slow-motion retreat from Max the Mauler.




























While I was making sales calls for Bella Terra Maps this afternoon, some high drama was playing out next to the house. Next-door neighbor Snowball came over, and as usual, had a faceoff with Max.

We can't figure out whether Snowy is really stupid or just stubborn. Max almost always beats up on him when he comes over, and Jenny almost always barks at him and chases him away. (She didn't today only because she was napping.) Still, he's constantly in our yard, and sometimes even sits on a kitchen windowsill and peers inside.

We have feline rock-paper-scissors going in the neighborhood: Max clobbers Snowy, Snowy clobbers the black cat across the alley, and that cat clobbers Max.

Update: Next day, the Boy Wonder found Snowy in our basement. He beat a hasty retreat out the window we'd left open for Max, who apparently needs to get a lot tougher.

It Was 20 Years Ago Today

My one and only child was born at 12:26pm on May 23, 1989. He was due on May 13, but--setting a pattern for later life--arrived in his own time, well after I was completely exasperated. (That's him at left, age 5, styled by himself, down to the sticker on his right shin.)

Those last 10 days were the longest in my life. I lay like a beached whale, reading a one-volume collection of Jane Austen, interrupted by phone calls from family and friends to see whether I'd given birth yet. I got so fed up that I started responding, "Yeah, I had the baby and didn't tell you," or "I decided not to have the baby, and just stay pregnant forever."

I went into labor around 6:00am on May 22. It felt like mild menstrual cramps. Wow, I thought, this is going to be easy! How wrong I was. After 30 hours of fruitless and often agonizing labor, I had a caesarean section, and the Boy Wonder was pulled squalling into the world. At 9 lbs, 12 oz, he was 50% bigger than the next-largest baby of the 6 in the nursery at Wayne County General Hospital, in Honesdale, PA (best known as the home of Highlights for Children). Those 10 extra days in utero gave him a roll of fat at the back of his neck as thick as my pinky, huge round cheeks and a crease in his chubby chin. The discharging doctor called him "Moose."

That was the last time the Boy Wonder was fat. As I've often joked over the years, my plump little dumpling stretched out to be a long piece of spaghetti. More like capellini, as he's now 6'4" and 132 lbs. I call him "the human hummingbird," because he has to eat his weight daily to stay alive. Well, almost: 4 meals, plus big snacks. When he was with the Obama campaign, he managed to lose weight while having 2 super-sized Big Macs and a milkshake for lunch, plus an equally big breakfast and dinner.

Now my little baby is an Economics major. Today I was working in the garden, dressed in the Carhartt men's overalls (women's pants are never long enough) I bought as my first maternity outfit. And tonight I'll continue rereading Pride and Prejudice, from the same volume I read in what was truly a lifetime ago.

The Boy Wonder at Obama's acceptance speech in Denver (detail of photo that ran in NYT 8/30/08).

Follow the Apple

A couple of years ago I planted a Stayman Winesap apple tree in my backyard. I since found out that it's self-unfruitful, meaning it needs another variety to pollinate it. Yesterday I bought two Cortland apple trees at Home Depot, instead of a Cortland and a Jonagold, (mis)remembering that they were good pollinators for Stayman. I just did some online research and found out that Cortland and Jonagold are the absolute wrong trees to plant with Stayman, as they won't cross-pollinate. Not that the Stayman has produced any flowers to date. But, ever the eternal optimistic (or deluded) gardener, I want to be ready for next year.

Deep into my Google search, I found this tidbit on a website about old apple varieties:
During the American Revolution, captured Hessian soldiers held near Winchester VA planted an orchard with Fameuse (aka Snow) apples.

My curiosity piqued, I did a search for Hessian soldiers Virginia, and found some fascinating--and appalling--stuff.

In a Wikipedia article on Winchester:

Hessian soldiers were known for walking to the high ridge north and west of town and purchasing and eating apple pies from the Quakers. Thus, this ridge west of town became affectionately known as Apple Pie Ridge and the Ridge Road built before 1709 leading north from town was renamed Apple Pie Ridge Road.

In the New York Times there is a March 31, 1912, article with the innocuous headline Virginia Mountains Shelter Colony of Lost Hessians.

And then there's the subhead:

Descendants of Hirelings in Revolutionary War Who After Their Release Took Refuge in Gloomy Hills Near Charlottesville, Live There in Rude Huts, A Law to Themselves and a Forgotten Band.

Those would be the same hills that visitors ooh and aah over when I take them for drives around C'ville.

The article tells how, after the Revolution, Hessian soldiers who had been imprisoned in Charlottesville (which named Barracks Road and Hessian Hills after them) took off and settled in the nearby Ragged Mountains, "a small range of black, gloomy hills." The Times's anonymous reporter then wrote, apparently forgetting that Hessians were, um, Saxons:

As we have recently learned, the Blue Ridge mountaineers are a fearless, lawless folk of the purest Anglo-Saxon blood. They have a native intelligence and furnish the best kind of material for a civilization to be built upon. A good citizen can be made out of a Blue Ridge dweller when put in the right environment....

The Hessians are quite different. They have little if any understanding of modern morality. Marriage is a luxury, which has seldom lingered at their doors.

There is hardly a cabin in these mountains which does not harbor an idiot, the result of atrocious family relations.

Wow! It gets even better:

When neighbourly quarrels arise they usually fight it out with sticks and stones and their big bony fists. Firearms are reserved for the wild turkeys and quail.

The Hessian women do most of the heavy work. The men cut a little wood and train the coon dogs. If the women become unruly they are whipped by their husbands.

The reporter supposedly heard a woman being beaten by her husband. Next day the reporter asked her brother what he was going to do about it. The supposed reply?

"Well, I reckon I can't do much. Fact is, I was a beatin' my own wife last night."

In the Good Old Days at the Newspaper of Record, I guess reporters weren't required to actually report and cite sources if unsubstantiated opinions and vaudeville jokes would do just as well.

P.S. Now I'm on the lookout for Delicious, Lodi, Honeycrisp, Golden Delicious or Fuji apple trees.

I'm Psychologically Distoibed!

Glenda Jackson in Marat/Sade.

Today I went for a 10th(!) opinion on my right arm, to Dr M. As a welcome change, she was polite, kind & respectful. Unfortunately, she didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, nor give me any great hope for the future. She wanted me to see the partner of Dr Schmuck, who's in the same building, for "pain treatment" (e.g., physical therapy and drugs, which haven't been effective this go-round). I told her I wouldn't set foot in that office, nor have one dime of my money go into his pocket. So she referred me to someone else, whose name I've filed away.

Dr M looked at the results of Dr C's EMG nerve tests (i.e., "torture") and, just as he did, told me that the median nerve was doing better. I told her my response to him: "Sez you. If the nerve is 'better' why does my arm hurt more, and why are my fingers more numb?"

"These things take time," said Dr M, echoing Dr C & several others. She repeated that nerve tissue heals @ 1mm/day. My arm is a good 24" (610mm) from shoulder to middle fingertip. I finally did the math: I have to wait 610 days after last June's surgery, i.e., till February 1, 2010, to see whether the median nerve has regenerated. But if it hasn't healed by then, it'll be too dead to repair. So I'll be stuck with a sore arm and perpetually numb fingers.

My quandary: Should I have surgery that might fail & leave me worse off, or wait another painful year & maybe miss the chance to fix the nerve?

Last week I left a message for Dr C, asking for a referral to a neurosurgeon "who isn't arrogant & condescending" like Dr B. His office manager called back with contact info for Dr X. After I got home from seeing Dr M, I Googled Dr X. And--what's this?--he's not a neurosurgeon, he's a neurologist and...PSYCHIATRIST.

Official diagnosis: I'm psychologically distoibed!

Official reaction: Nothing makes me crazier than being told--always by a MALE doctor--that I should see a shrink.

Darling Husband agrees that if he were the one seeking help, he'd have been treated with a lot less condescension, and offered surgery rather than palliatives and psychotherapy. I feel a Third Wave of feminism raging within me.

The Never-Ending Story 2: Arm-ageddon

So yesterday I went to see neurosurgeon "Dr B" (actually Dr L, but he was B in The Circle Game and so he shall remain), for the first time since November.

Within 30 seconds, the truth was revealed to me in a blinding flash: Most surgeons are arrogant boors.

I told Dr B that I'd been passed along from one crony to another in his medical center, with no resolution.

"Why do you think that is?" he shot back.

"Because they don't have any answers, so they send me along to the next guy?"

"Why do you think that is?" he said again.

"Um...because they can't figure it out?"

"Did you ever think that maybe it's because your case is very complicated, and there are no easy answers?"

He had the same patronizing tone as Dr Schmuck. What the hell is it with these guys?

"So you're saying that nothing can be done?"

"No, I'm not saying that. Surgery can be done, but I'm not waving any magic lollipops. So if you're in horrible pain afterwards, don't say I made you any promises. And don't call me begging for more pain medicine, because I won't prescribe any."

(Note: Back in November, Dr B insisted that I take Elavil, "whether you want to or not!" I lasted all of a day on it.)

Let us draw a discreet veil over the rest of Dr B's speechifying, which brought me to tears yet again.

In summary:

1. My fingers are unlikely to regain feeling without surgery.
2. The pain in my arm is unlikely to go away without surgery.
3. Odds are 50-50: surgery may make my arm feel a lot better, or a lot worse.
   
4. I don't want to give my money to doctors who are mean to me.
5. I don't want mean doctors poking around inside my body.
   
6. I shouldn't have to see my shrink after every doctor appointment.
7. I hope that Dr M (I see her next week) is nicer and has some bright ideas.
   

Meanwhile, Darling Husband and I are running away from home for the day. The aptly named Fairplay is on our itinerary.

Still Shattered, or The Never-Ending Story

The glasses I was wearing on May 1, 2006.

Today marks the 3rd anniversary of the day Gomez the thoroughbred failed to kill me. We had only been in the ring for 10 minutes when I nudged him to go from a walk to a trot. Instead he went ballistic, and the next thing I knew I was in a helicopter in excruciating pain, with my eyes bloodied shut. Later I was told that he'd thrown me into the steel-pipe perimeter fence.

My injuries:

1. Broken right humerus and split humeral head
2. 2 broken left floater ribs
3. Broken nose
4. Broken palate
5. Broken right palatinate bone
6. Broken right maxillary sinus
7. Broken right brow bone
8. Smashed-up front teeth, 3 top & 1 bottom
9. Nerve trauma to head
   
10. Severe concussion

In the ER at Swedish Hospital I got stitches in my forehead and upper lip (my teeth had gone through it), then spent a week in the multi-trauma unit. (Best memory: a card on my meal tray with "Happy Cinco de Mayo from your Swedish volunteers!") While there, I was given the choice of having a titanium plate put in my arm, or wearing a brace for 6-8 weeks. I chose the brace. Why have needless surgery?

The next month I had 3 root canals on my top front teeth, 2 of which died and turned a lovely shade of gray.

By August my arm hadn't healed, and my thumb and first two fingers were floppy. So I had a 6" steel plate installed, inspiring the late, lamented Miss Snark to run a Get Humerus Poetry Contest (see Well and Truly Screwed). My hand still didn't work after that, so in November my arm was sliced open again to release the median nerve.

When I went to see "Casino Royale" that Thanksgiving weekend, I discovered that violence made me nauseous and panicked. So did sirens, helicopters, ambulances, squealing tires, TV sports, news reports, combat photos...

I started getting therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder.

In August 2007 I had to have more surgery on one of the top teeth, plus root canal on the bottom front tooth, which also turned gray. In October I had surgery to fix the dent in the side of my nose and remove bone spurs from my sinus. (The dent caved back in.)

In January 2, 2008, I had a bonus lipoma (fatty tumor) the size of a half-baseball, which had been discovered in the ER, removed from deep under my right shoulder blade. My middle finger and inner sides of the index and ring fingers had gone numb and the base of my thumb had atrophied, then the steel plate in my arm started giving me trouble. So on Friday, June 13, my arm was sliced open yet again to remove the steel plate, plus carpal tunnel release was done in hopes of returning feeling to my digits.

My fingers stayed numb as ever, but my arm started feeling better immediately. Then in late September it suddenly got much worse. The doctor who did the 2nd & 3rd arm surgeries gave up on me. Thus began The Circle Game of trying to find someone who could actually fix the arm, instead of just giving me drugs to mask the pain.

In March, while in Charlottesville for the VaBook Festival, I went to see my former osteopath, the wonderful Mark Dean of Osteopathic Pain Management. He suggested that I might have a traumatic neuroma (why didn't the neurologist and neurosurgeon I'd been seeing in Denver think of that?). When I returned home, my D.O. here sent me to another D.O., "Dr Schmuck," for diagnostic ultrasound.

No neuroma, announced Dr Schmuck, but the lipoma is growing back in the same place, under the scapula by the infraspinatus muscle. No need to have it removed, though, nor for any surgery on the arm.

Oh joy! But...now what?

I soon found out. Last week my fingers abruptly got more numb after I'd been swimming for just 5 minutes. The area around the original break in my arm also turned dark, like a bruise--a symptom that no doctor had been able to figure out. I made an appointment to see Dr Schmuck the next day.

I felt like crap when I showed up: I hadn't slept well because of my hurting arm, my dog had awakened me twice in the night and I was spaced out from a new pain med I'd taken (never again!). Schmuck questioned the necessity of having the first lipoma out, even though my surgeon called it a "big-ass tumor" and you could see the lump through my shirt from across the street. Then without even touching my arm (an osteopath is supposed to do physical examination & manipulation), Schmuck crisply told me that my problem is "brachial plexopathy" and that the only solution is to see his buddy Dr T, 45 minutes from my home, for an injection of corticosteroid and anesthetic.

"What's that going to do to me?" I asked.

Whereupon Schmuck berated me for "choosing to see the glass half-empty instead of half-full," and for having a bad attitude, and for being a "cantankerous New Yorker."

"You fell off a horse," he scoffed. "I have patients with head injuries who can't add two and two, or who are missing limbs."

Which made me feel SO much better. Who am I to complain about pain and dysfunction after 3 years, 8 surgeries, PTSD and depression? I shouldn't have been wasting Schmuck's precious time with my little problems.

Just kidding! Actually, my tart reply was, "I didn't fall off a horse, I was thrown with great force. And I know what it's like to have a head injury."

Whereupon he berated me some more, and as he walked me out said that I had to have hope.

In tears, I snapped, "If I didn't have hope all this time I would've just taken a bottle of Percocet and killed myself!"

That elicited shocked expressions from some of the patients in the waiting room, but nothing from the charming and empathic Dr Schmuck. I vowed never to darken his door again.

But...now what?

Time to make another appointment with "Dr B" the neurosurgeon. And for backup, one with Dr M, arm specialist to Denver's sports stars.

Poetic License

When I pick up a new poetry book
I always glance first at the biographical note
If the poet has children I don't read the book

--Bill Knott

Watch for These Books

Look what some of my YA clients have been up to!

Katie Alender, BAD GIRLS DON'T DIE


Tanya Egan Gibson, HOW TO BUY A LOVE OF READING


Fran Cannon Slayton, WHEN THE WHISTLE BLOWS

Quote for the Day

“People think it’s so hard to leave New York, but it’s easy. You just pack up all your stuff in boxes and call a truck.”

--Garth Stein (THE ART OF RACING IN THE RAIN), quoted in NYT State of the Unions

That's what The Ex and I did 20 years ago (to our friends' horror), only we had our own truck so didn't even have to make a call.

The hard part is moving back to the city. Which I'm not about to do, though living two hours up the Hudson would be fine by me.

Happy April 1

Much-needed laughs for April Fool's Day:

Twitter switch for Guardian, after 188 years of ink
• Newspaper to be available only on messaging service
• Experts say any story can be told in 140 characters

If the Dogs Had Twitter (ROFBOL!)

Some jokes just write themselves:
Sebelius admits errors, pays $7,000 in back taxes

The Saddest Song

When in New York two weeks ago, I went to the musical revue, "Brother Can You Spare a Dime?" at The Triad on W 72nd St. (More about that in another post.)

Afterwards when I congratulated the show's director (and tenor) Bill Daugherty, he gave me a CD of his previous production, "When the Lights Go On Again." It's a lovely compilation of WWII songs, some of them little-known, with fantastic harmonies.

I was listening to the CD in the car this morning and this song wrung my heart--so much that I listened to it twice. Change just a few details and it could apply to many refugees today.

My Sister and I
Lyrics by Joan Whitney Kramer & Hy Zaret
Music by Alex Kramer

My sister and I remember still
A tulip garden by an old Dutch mill,
And the home that was all our own until ...
But we don't talk about that.

My sister and I recall once more
The fishing schooners pulling into shore,
And the dog-cart we drove in days before ...
But we don't talk about that.

We're learning to forget the fear
That came from a troubled sky.
We're almost happy over here,
But sometimes we wake at night and cry.

My sister and I recall the day
We said goodbye, then we sailed away.
And we think of our friends that had to stay,
But we don't talk about that.

One Degree of Shock

"It's been a long time. How are you doing?" my old (actually young) osteopath in Charlottesville asked me at his office this morning. He hadn't seen me in more than three years.

"I'm alive," I said.

He chuckled. A few minutes later, after he'd looked over the many pages of reports detailing the injuries I suffered in May 2006 and the many surgeries since, he said, "You're lucky to be alive."

"Yes," I answered. "It's been bad, but at least I'm here."

A few minutes ago, I read the news that 45-year-old actress Natasha Richardson died today from an unspecified head injury suffered when she fell during a ski lesson on Monday. According to the Quebec ski resort's spokeswoman, quoted in the NYT, “It was a normal fall; she didn’t hit anyone or anything. She didn’t show any signs of injury. She was talking and she seemed all right.”

In early August of 2005, I was in London and went to the theater with my long-lost cousin Larry. I'd gotten tickets to see "The Home Place" with Tom Courtenay, who'd acted with my father in the mid-1960s. I'd bought the cheapest tickets, but through some fluke was upgraded to mezzanine seats.

There were very few people in the mezzanine, so Larry and I moved up to the first row, by the railing. A couple of minutes later, he nudged me and gestured to the section to our right.

"Who are they?" he whispered.

I looked over to see a very glamorous couple getting seated. He was tall and craggy-handsome, with light-brown hair. She was gorgeous: blonde, tan, impossibly thin and dressed in impossibly spotless white from head to toe. Very L.A., I thought.

"You can tell they didn't take public transportation to get here," I muttered. (Larry and I had arrived via Tube.)

Then I looked a little harder.

"Oh, my God," I said. "That's Natasha Richardson and Liam Neeson. Her father Tony directed my dad in 'St. Joan of the Stockyards' in this theatre--or one just like it--in 1964, and in 'The Loved One' in 1965."

"Wow," breathed Larry.

After the play, we went backstage to see Courtenay, whom I'd been in touch with beforehand. Who else should be there but Richardson and Neeson, so I had a little chat with her. When I approached, she looked grim, probably thinking I was a fan, but warmed up when I told her of our connection. We exchanged names and everyone shook hands all around, greatly impressing Larry.

I then had a little chat with Courtenay, especially admiring the kiddie-print pirate sheets on the twin bed in his dressing room. Then the three famous people got into waiting limousines, and Larry and I walked to the Palms of Goa restaurant, where we ate cheap (for London), spicy food and marveled at our brush with the stars.

And now today Natasha Richardson is dead from a seemingly minor head injury, and I'm alive after a major one that left me with a concussion, PTSD, broken facial bones and nerve damage. The "family statement" to the news media from Liam Neeson came via Hollywood publicist Alan Nierob, who announced my father's death nearly 15 years ago.

It's all too close for comfort. But at least I'm here.

Quote of the Year...and It's Only March

"The one regret I have is we ended up losing money."

--Ronald G. Insana, back at CNBC as an "analyst" after failing as a hedge fund manager. Quoted in the NYT: Back on TV, and Back in the Black.

Brava, Booksquare!

Kassia Kroszer at Booksquare offers a devastating critique in New Think? Not So Much, beginning with:

Nutshell analysis of the “New Think for Old Publishers” panel at South by Southwest 2009: there was a not a single new think in the room.

She ends with advice for publishers that works just as well for authors seeking to promote their books:

Might as well address the blogger question. It’s quite simple. Find the bloggers big and small in your various genres, develop a relationship with them, understand their tastes, like, dislikes, deadlines, lead time, preferred method of communication, preferred formats for books.... Treat the bloggers with respect — you need them more than they need you. And note, the publishers [and authors!] who are already doing this well are leaps and bounds ahead of you.

Evolution

Darling Husband got a Blackberry and yesterday sent his first message--to the Boy Wonder, in real English, with whole words & punctuation--saying that he was no longer a dinosaur.

BW's response, from his cell phone:
OMG lrn2txt :(

After DH & I nearly died laughing, he answered:
K

Odds & Sods

Too occupied with consulting, editorial work (I'm done with Maine & on to editing the Mid-Atlantic Lighthouses Map now), sore arm (don't ask) & being knocked out at dentist today (ditto) to write any coherent blog posts.

So here are some tidbits I picked up during free moments at Twitter, plus a BONUS! photo.

1. Clichés cluttering your manuscript? Sweep them away with ClichéCleaner.
2. It's cyber Titania & Oberon: Robot Programmed to Love Goes Too Far.
3. Jason Pinter decodes Blago's book deal and Phoenix Books publisher Michael Viner's HuffPo column about reaction to said deal.
4. Headline of the day: Octopus gets inside lunchbox at Boston aquarium. Takeaway: A 7' long, 30-lb octopus can slither through a 2" hole.

Best of all, a photo taken in my backyard yesterday, where it was 70+F:


My little apricot tree started blooming today. But this being Denver, there's talk of snow in the foothills tonight, with a high of 40 on Saturday and a chance of rain. We sure could use it, the ground is dry as dust.

Out on the Town (up the block)

Agent Kristin Nelson, author Jamie Ford & yours truly, channeling Jack Bruce, Eric Clapton & Ginger Baker (at bottom).

Jamie Ford, author of the new bestseller HOTEL ON THE CORNER OF BITTER AND SWEET, had a reading at Denver's Tattered Cover on Tuesday evening. His agent, Kristin Nelson, hosted a reception beforehand at Encore Restaurant next door.

Naturally I was at both events, because:

1. I consulted with Jamie last year.
2. I am the Party Girl.
3. I live 130 paces from the TC/Encore--didn't even have to cross the street.
   

More than 60 people came to the reception, then packed Jamie's reading and bought lotsa books.

Note to agents:
Host receptions for each of your authors when they do events in your hometown. It doesn't cost all that much, and is a swell way to bump up book sales (and maybe get your clients on a local bestseller list), plus have some fun. And it's all tax-deductible!

Note to authors:
You don't have to do much--if any--reading at your readings. The idea is to be entertaining. Jamie read for all of 5 minutes, spoke for 25, with the rest of the time for Q&A. And the audience ATE IT UP.

Last week I went to a "reading" by Jacqueline Winspear, out on tour for her new Maisie Dobbs mystery, AMONG THE MAD. Every seat was taken, the audience was rapt and Winspear didn't read a single word from the book. In fact, she said precious little about it, other than that there's an explosion and some of the action takes place in a madhouse. She mostly talked about World War I, its aftermath in the UK (the series begins in 1929; it's 1931 in the current book) and about her grandfather, a veteran of the Battle of the Somme who was picking shrapnel out of his legs into his seventies.

The Яolcats Are Coming! The Яolcats Are Coming!

The Boy Wonder turned me on to Яolcats, billed as "English Translations of Eastern Bloc Lolcats."

Not only can those kitties spell better than their Amerikanski counterparts, but they have a deep understanding of poetry and political dialectic. For example, there's this post from February 15:





















"Your inactivity is criminal, porcine gastropod…

Go back to Oklahoma!"

To the Lighthouse...And Take It to the Bridge

Last summer, Darling Husband confided that his dream was to someday own a little publishing company. Being a good, supportive wife who has learned much in therapy, I said, oh so supportively, "Is there any way to make that happen?"

He said, "Well, as a matter of fact, I happen to know of a little publishing company that's for sale right now."

"Well," I replied even more supportively, "why don't you look into it?"

So DH did, and as of late December we became the owners of the newly renamed Bella Terra Publishing LLC, with the eponymous yours truly as publisher, editor, website designer, salesperson, order shipper, etc. DH, who has a day job that enables me to support the Denver medical community, is the silent partner and chief financial officer.

I've learned just enough HTML to be dangerous, and today posted the new website: Bella Terra Maps. The product line at present consists of illustrated guide maps to lighthouses and covered bridges.

We are in the midst of producing an updated and redesigned version of the Illustrated Map & Guide to Maine Lighthouses, due to go to press next month. I am editing and rewriting descriptions of each of the 60+ standing lighthouses in Maine, plus 2 each in New Hampshire and Campobello Island, Canada. Hence the recent posts on Maine lighthouses.

Now I'm having second thoughts about wifely supportiveness. But the work keeps me off the streets and out of the pool halls--and drinking tanks of coffee.

Pity the Poor Book Reviewer

Ed Champion (aka Bat Segundo) channels my experience as a book reviewer in a video that had me laughing out loud: The Occupational Hazards of Book Critics.

I'm still groaning about the 900-page piece o' crap I reviewed for People in 2001. The book's bestselling author was so incensed at my unflattering assessment that she exhorted her legions of fans to bombard the People books editor with nasty emails. Then she got a multi-million-dollar, multi-book deal--further proof (as if any was needed) that my opinion didn't matter a damn.

This should be screened at next month's NBCC members meeting--or better yet, at the book awards ceremony.

Looking for a Book Publicist?

According to an author I consulted with today, her agent is saying that EVERY author should consider hiring an outside publicist.

"Yeah," I replied. "Especially if it's your publisher. Sorry to say, but that was true even before the meltdown. I've heard stories."

But how do you find a book publicist to hire?

Funny you should ask...

I have a selective listing of publicists here (people get delisted if I get bad feedback from authors I've referred). And inhouse pub Yen just posted a lengthy list (in a handy spreadsheet!) on The Book Publicity Blog.

Closer than Ever

My friend Stefanie, the artistic, social & culinary doyenne of Schuyler, VA, sends this update on Onslow (at right above) and best pal Snickers (left), who despite all appearances does not officially live at her Gracious Home.

Whether it was the therapy sessions or the sudden realization that there is no "I" in "Dog," our favorite duo has a more harmonious relationship than ever.

Report from the Trenches: Don't Worry. Just Write!

Writer Bill Peschel responded thusly to my post asking people how the publishing slowdown is affecting them, How are YOU doing?

In brief, it hasn't affected me. Here's the situation: Decided a few months back to pitch the "Writers 365" book I've been posting at my blog. Prepared a proposal, sent it out to about 40 agents. An agent at a respected agency thought it wasn't for him, but thought it was salable. Two agents called, and I signed a contract with one of them after rewriting the proposal three times with her suggestions.

As of last week, the proposal is in the hands of two editors, both at reasonably large publishing houses. So it's good news, but I guess the real answer comes when:

a) we hear back from them; and
b) what, if anything, will they offer.

But so far, it's been good. And as Lauren Baratz-Logsted commented, the only thing you can control is writing the best book possible.

There's a great lesson that I'm trying to learn about control and worry. The philosophy is to not worry. Period. If you're doing the best with what you can control, what is there to worry about? And for those things you can't control, why worry about them? So why worry at all?

I answered Bill that I admire his "don't worry" philosophy. But the only times I've been able to follow it were when I was recovering from concussions. I knew my brain was returning to normal when I started worrying again.

He wrote back:

The "don't worry" philosophy is one that took me a long time to understand, and even now I still fret. But I'm getting better. Last week, I received a poisonous e-mail from someone objecting to an essay I posted. Years ago, it would have left me a puddle on the floor. Now, hardly mild irritation.

Age probably has a lot to do with it. I'm just too tired to deal with other people's nonsense when I have so much nonsense riling me already.

My Past, In Paperback

You know you're getting old when someone writes a book about The Scene that played an important part in your misspent youth--and your kid gives it to you as a present. The Boy Wonder, who's really into neo/proto/post punk music (he loves The Cramps, just like his daddy the Ex did), gave me a copy of NO WAVE by Marc Masters for my birthday in November.

I'm finally getting around to reading NO WAVE now, though of course I leafed through the book when I first unwrapped it. Was BW ever surprised when on one page I showed him a reproduction of a flyer with one of the Ex's bands listed at the top, and on another page a photo of the Ex himself in a poster for a well-known (between Max's Kansas City and Barnabas Rex) underground movie.

Once upon a time in 1979 I thought I wanted to be a music promoter, and I hung out with (or very near) a lot of the people featured in Masters's book. Looking at these 30-eek!-year-old photos is eerie; I remember many of them so well. How skinny everyone was then! (Sigh...as was I.)

I gave up on being a music promoter once I discovered that it was barely a step up from fight promoter. "These people don't read!" I remember exclaiming in disgust. Not to mention that club owners had to give a cut to the Mob in order to stay in business. Friends of mine shut down their Alphabet City bôite rather than pay protection money, then (ironically) fled to rural Italy for a year.

But I still have fond memories--and the Boy Wonder.

Fun Fact for the Day

Enterprise, Alabama, is home to the world's only monument to an agricultural pest: the boll weevil.

By destroying the cotton in Coffee County (named after a general, not the beverage), the weevil caused farmers to start growing peanuts and thus regain prosperity.

Wikipedia tells more.

The Perfect Summer Job

Looking for an isolated spot to complete your magum opus--or just enjoy some of Elmer Fudd's "nice west and wewaxation"--from Memorial Day to Labor Day?

How about this: Be a summer caretaker at Maine's Seguin Island Lighthouse.

The job requires "two compatible people" to live on the 64-acre island, 2 miles out from the mouth of the Kennebec River, near(ish) Popham Beach. Specs are here (scroll down); stipend may be $75/week.

NB: Must like foghorns. Seguin's blows three double-blasts per minute on the many foggy days. The concussion is said to knock nearby gulls from the air.

How are YOU doing?

Headlines from the publishing world make one reel: layoffs, budget cuts, book review sections cancelled, conventions cancelled (BookExpo Canada was axed yesterday).

I'd like to get a peek behind the news. How is all this affecting you people in the trenches: agents, editors, publicists, writers?

Leave a comment or email me: blog (at) bellastander.com.

"Awww" for the Day

As counterprogramming to The Big Game (since I'm not an official sponsor, I can't mention the Super Bowl), here's a genuinely heartwarming story, courtesy of the Friends of Pemaquid Point Lighthouse, Maine: A True Whale Tale

Counterweight to Publishing's Chicken Littles

The sky is falling! Just this week we have:

• major layoffs at Publishers Weekly
• the demise of Washington Post "Book World" as a stand-alone section
  
• "voluntary retirements" at HarperCollins
• and for good measure, a monster storm in the Northeast

Novelist Jason Pinter provides a welcome tonic for all this on his blog by asking:

What is one thing you would do to change book publishing for the better?

See the (mostly) intelligent responses in The Future of Publishing.

Ten Cents a Dance Makes ALA Top Ten

Last week, I detailed consulting client & workshop alum Christine Fletcher's outreach efforts to YA bloggers in It's an Honor (and a bunch of work) Just to be Nominated.

When I opened my email this morning, I found this euphoric message from her:

Just had to tell you...Ten Cents a Dance was just named one of the 2009 Top Ten Best Books for Young Adults!

TOP freakin' TEN!!

I'm so glad to have events scheduled in Chicago next month!

I'd steered Christine (who'd cleverly set aside her advance so she could spend it on promotion) to publicist Kelly Powers of Obie Joe Media. She posted this comment:

Effort begets awards...especially when the book is as good as Ten Cents a Dance!

And the book is good. Set in Chicago at the outset of WWII, it's about a girl from the stockyards who drops out of high school to become a "taxi dancer" (dime-a-dance girl). I couldn't put it down. A little birdie told me that the Denver teens who met with the ALA BBYA committee last weekend were raving about it. Here's hoping it wins a Cybil Award as well.

The Circle Game

As ardent fans may remember, I've had three surgeries on my right arm since breaking it--along with 2 ribs, nose, sinus, palate & browbone--when I was thrown off a horse on May Day 2006. The last surgery was in mid-June, when I had the 6" plate removed from the humerus, and carpal tunnel release done on the wrist. (See I've Lost That Magnetic Feeling.)

The surgery went well and my arm soon hurt much less. Things were going great, though I never regained feeling in the numb middle finger. Then on the morning of September 27, I woke up with my right hand horribly asleep. It took a good 10 minutes for the feeling to come back and when it did, my arm was hurting worse than it had in months. On a drive to the mountains with Darling Husband that day, I went nuts trying in vain to find a comfortable position for my right arm on the shotgun seat armrest, and had to put the shoulder strap under my arm because I couldn't bear to have it touch my shoulder.

A few days later, I went to see Dr H, who did the 2nd & 3rd surgeries.

Me: "My arm's killing me. What's going on?"

Dr H: "Well, you'll have good days and bad days."

Me: "Why am I suddenly having bad days after three months of good days?

Dr H: "Hmmm... Maybe you should get psychological counseling."

Nothing makes me crazier than a doctor (and it's always a man) telling me I should see a shrink. I pointed out to Dr H that the pain is in my arm, not my head. Then he basically told me to suck it up and get lost.

So I called Dr A, the orthopedic specialist who removed the lipoma from my right shoulder a year ago. Her assistant told me to see Dr B, a neurosurgeon.

Dr B examined me in early November, but he wasn't sure surgery would be helpful. So he sent me to Dr C, a neurologist/physiatrist at the poetically titled Amputee Services of America. (There's nothing like seeing people missing half a leg--or two--to give one perspective.)

Dr C had me get MRIs of my right arm and shoulder. The one of my arm had him concerned, so last week he sent me to see Dr D, an arm/shoulder specialist at the busiest orthopedic practice ever. My appointment was for 1:00 and I didn't see Dr D till after 2:30. Good thing I brought a thick book.

Dr D: "Hmm... looks like edema on the humerus. Maybe the bone is infected."

Me: "Great. Now what?"

Dr D: "Go for some blood tests, then I want you to see....

[ARE YOU READY FOR THIS?]

[REALLY???]

...Dr A. She's a specialist in bone infections."

So this afternoon I went back to Dr A. (She always wears the snazziest shoes. Today she had on cowboy boots of some exotic leather. Orthopedic surgery sure must pay.)

Dr A: "There's nothing I can do for you. I told you that last year."

Me: "What about my blood work?"

Dr A: "Looks fine. No infection."

Me: "I figured as much. But now what? My arm's still hurting."

Dr A: "You're never going to get back to the way you were before."

Me: "How about just the way I was on Sept. 26?"

Dr A: "Never happen. Maybe you should see a pain management specialist. Or go see Dr E, the neurosurgeon. He does amazing things with spinal implants that interfere with pain transmission to the brain."

Me: (No f*cking way!) "I have an autoimmune disorder. Implants mess me up."

Dr A: (shrugs) "Then Dr B and Dr C should settle this between them."

On the way to the elevator, I passed by Dr C's office. Amazing fact: HE HAS TIME TO SPEAK TO PATIENTS, EVEN WHEN THEY DON'T HAVE AN APPOINTMENT. So I stopped in and gave him the happy news that now he has to confer with Dr B.

In the meantime, I'll suck it up and get lost.

There Will Be Blood

Call me gullible or impressionable, but I'm actually feeling kind of hopeful this week. It's not just the new year or the inauguration (which I loved most for its goofs and gaffes) or even that—please, please—publishing business firings are coming to an end, at least for a while.

So wrote Publishers Weekly editor-in-chef Sara Nelson in her column last week, entitled "Change I Believe In." Now call her "fired," as she and other PW staffers were let go today when corporate owner Reed Business Information laid off 7 percent of its workforce. (See story in Portfolio.com). Executive editor Daisy Maryles, who'd been with PW--her sole employer--for 40 years, was laid off as well.

RBI also owns Variety. Bloodbath At Variety: Hammond, Thompson Let Go is one of the lead stories on the opening day of website TheWrap, founded by former NYT & Washington Post entertainment reporter Sharon Waxman.

I won't comment on the irony of niche websites reporting on the demise of the very publications they're supplanting. (Disclosure: I was a PW contributing editor for 14 years and stopped reading it in favor of the more timely and interesting GalleyCat and Publishers Marketplace.)

Media Miss

Media trainer extraodinaire Eileen Winnick, a frequent speaker at my NYC workshops, recently started a blog. Check out her post A Media Miss: Lucy, the Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes for a tale of how not to prepare--and what not to wear--for a TV interview.

How NOT to Seek Fame

Think before you pitch! From the NY Observer:

Fashion Photographer Senses Opportunity
in US Airways Plane Crash

Cri de coeur

The author quoted in Team? What Team? filled me in some more. Alas, it's a story I've heard far too many times--most recently from participants in the Teleseminar I gave yesterday--and it always makes steam come out of my ears:

I've done everything you suggested, to no avail. At a marketing meeting with my "Acme Publishing" crew before the book was published, I told them what I was planning. They told me nothing of what they intended to do. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue.

My agent told me not to believe anything the Acme publicist promised, but to follow up on everything myself. I thought my agent was exaggerating; it was unbelievable to think that the publisher who had paid thousands of dollars for my work wasn't going to promote it.

But it seems my agent was correct, because all of the interviews, newspaper articles, book signings and speaking events I did were set up by me. Distribution was excellent, but publicity? Zero.

I suspect sales are below my publisher's expectations, and worry that Acme is going to blame me. I feel like a failure, even though I know I did everything I could to promote my book.

"I can imagine your crushing disappointment," I wrote back.

Then I started wondering: How can a business survive by spending oodles of money to bring a product to market, only to ignore it? WTF are publishers thinking???

And how do agents manage to keep doing business with people who always lie? I'm not saying agents shouldn't, else they wouldn't do much business. (Though it sure would be nice if publishers' toes were held to the fire.) How do agents--and authors--keep themselves going amidst such falseness?

Remember, I wrote to the author:

1. You're not a failure.
2. You did your best.
3. The world is filled with wankers.

More Inauguration Theme Songs

Sung by the crowd as the helicopter flew off with ex-president George W. Bush:


The songs echoing in my head today:

Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead!


I'm So Glad

Inauguration Theme Song

I've been watching a lot of old movies lately, as I've found escapism great for the soul. Therefore a phrase in Barack Obama's inaugural speech sounded especially familiar: "pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again." Perhaps not coincidentally, it echoes a song that was popular during the Depression, sung by Ginger Rogers & Fred Astaire in the 1936 movie "Swing Time." Nearly three-quarters of a century later, the lyrics are still fresh and timely.

From "Pick Yourself Up," words by Dorothy Field, music by Jerome Kern:

Nothing's impossible I have found,
For when my chin is on the ground,
I pick myself up,
Dust myself off,
Start all over again.

Don't lose your confidence if you slip,
Be grateful for a pleasant trip,
And pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

Work like a soul inspired,
Till the battle of the day is won.
You may be sick and tired,
But you'll be a man, my son!

Will you remember the famous men,
Who had to fall to rise again?
So take a deep breath,
Pick yourself up,
Dust yourself off,
Start all over again.

The End of an Era

YA author Sally Nemeth sums it all up in this blog post.

January 20 is a doubly big day chez Bella: Not only does Barack Obama become president, but the Boy Wonder (who helped elect him) begins college at Metro State Denver. Darling Husband, who's taking a vacation day to watch the inauguration on TV, is going to send my little boy (6'4") off to school right with homemade waffles.

BW will be wearing a Married to the Sea T-shirt ("No kidding. I hate voting.") to his Intro to Women's Studies class. And on Wednesday, he'll wear The Communist Party T-shirt to Intro to Critical Thinking. I'm so proud I raised a wiseguy!

It's an Honor (and a bunch of work) Just to be Nominated

Book Promotion 101 workshop & consulting client Christine Fletcher recently wrote to let me know that her 2nd YA novel, TEN CENTS A DANCE, had been nominated for a Cybil Award. I quickly went online and learned that the Cybils are the children's & young adult bloggers' literary awards.

I congratulated Christine, then asked how she got nominated: "I'm assuming it's because you reached out to teen bloggers. Please tell me more."

Here's her response. Take notes!

I found out about the Cybils from a YA blogger conference I went to last September. I never would have heard about it otherwise. Initial nominations were made by the public; once the books were nominated, a panel of judges from the YA blogging world chose the finalists. Winner will be announced Feb 14.

One thing I learned at the conference: There are teen YA bloggers, and then there are adult YA bloggers (librarians, many of them, although some just love kidlit). The conference was by and for the adults. Before that, I wasn't aware of them (they don't seek out authors on MySpace and Facebook, like teens do), and I think many weren't aware of me.

At the end of the conference was an authors' hour in which attendees could browse our titles. Many authors sold their books, but I gave mine away because I wanted to get copies into as many hands as I could. There I met one of the bloggers and conference speakers, Jen Robinson. [Check out her EXTENSIVE blog roll.] After we chatted a bit, and I promised I wouldn't hassle her for a review, she took a copy of my first novel, TALLULAH FALLS. A few months later, she posted a lovely review on her blog. I offered to send her the second novel, she accepted, and she gave that a great review, too.

So between meeting people passionate about kidlit, learning about the Cybils, and having the chance to raise awareness of my books, it was a Saturday very well spent.

As far as the teen reviewers, I sent Ten Cents a Dance to five or six, hoping I could get some online buzz going. It did get picked up by others and so far, they've all given the book great reviews. One blogger, Reviewer X, invited me to participate in a week-long celebration of strong heroines on her blog. I wrote a guest post, which went up the same day as Reviewer X's interview with Libba Bray (she of A Great and Terrible Beauty trilogy NYT bestsellerdom.) It was fabulous exposure--lots of comments on my guest post, lots of hits on my website, tons of people entering the contest for my book.

Long story short: When it comes to YA, I am a BIG believer in online promotion.

Stylin'

What you say is important, but so is how you look. Don't believe me? Consider that people are still talking about how the pasty-faced, sweating Richard Nixon lost to the cool, Max Factored JFK in that first televised presidential campaign debate. As a friend of mine once said: "Presentation is everything."

In the Roundtable on today's "This Week with George Stephanopoulos," check out Donna Brazile's & Gwen Ifill's elegant and beautifully coordinated clothing, jewelry and makeup. The guys are well put together too: George Will's & host George S's outfits are subtle and tasteful, while EJ Dionne's is snappy and tasteful (love that red tie!). Kudos to the ABC stylists.

And then we have Doris Kearns Goodwin, who has an unfortunate affection for eye-popping trim and clashing accessories, per below. She wore the chain-collared jacket at left today on "Meet the Press" (see closeup at 5:46) with a screaming yellow shirt and gold-bead necklace. EEEEK! Somebody make her stop!












The men looked much better, though David Brooks's pale mauve shirt didn't complement his sallow coloring (his colors work better online than on my TV.)

Team? What Team?

At the Backspace forums, where I answer publicity questions every month, an author asked:

I read your blog post [Frame These Words!], and while I certainly agree with an author's viewing their relationship with their inhouse publicist as a partnership in theory, in my experience, the reality was much different.

I asked my publicist how they wanted to work together when they were first assigned to me, and only got a vague answer. I kept them informed of all of the publicity I had lined up; they told me nothing of what they were doing (and aside from their sending out arcs and galleys for review, I saw no evidence of any initiative on their part). At one point, I asked for a copy of the press release they'd been using, and was told that sending out press releases was my responsibility.

It's all well and good to advise authors to try to be a team player, but what's an author to do if there's no team to play with?

My response:
Ugh. This is the sort of story that gives publishers a bad name. How easy would it be for them to sit down with an author--or at least send an email--detailing EXACTLY what they're going to do to publicize the book and what they expect the author to do? But then I'd be out of a job...

You can tell pretty early on if the publisher is unenthusiastic about your book and isn't going to be doing much for it. Vague responses, no marketing/publicity timeline, late (or no) answers to your emails & phone calls are all dead giveaways.

So what to do? To quote publicist extraordinaire Kim-from-LA: "Give them energy, not problems." Act as though you're all on the same team and working together--because you are, even if the other players are deadbeats.

Charge full steam ahead with your own plans, but make sure EVERYONE is in the info loop. Send periodic (weekly or monthly) emails to your agent, editor & publicist with updates of what you're doing & your upcoming events & media. This will lessen the chance for ugly surprises, such as you & the pub pitching the same media; or you doing a radio interview in a big market & there being no books in area stores.

Most important: NO WHINING. And thank your publicist for all her help, even if you think she's done nothing. Thanking her might make her feel guilty, which might get her to do more. If you yell at her she'll feel resentful, even (or especially) if you're right, and she'll do even less. As an author I know said, "Making a publicist--even a bad one--angry at you is shooting yourself in the foot."

Keep in mind that if your publicist isn't doing much for your book, it may be because that's what her boss told her. If your publicist is the boss, well, you're SOL & you know it's all up to you.

Frame These Words!

One of my clients ("Jane") had a bad experience with her former publisher ("X"). Now she has a book coming out this summer with a new publisher ("Y"). She's busy writing a marketing plan, putting together an extensive mailing list and lining up promotional events. All good. (If you haven't started doing this for your own forthcoming book, get cracking!)

BUT...Worried that she'll get the same lackluster support from Y as she did from X, Jane wrote a press release for Y to use "as a first pass suggestion." (X hadn't bothered to write one, so Jane wound up doing it for them.) Fortunately, she asked my opinion of it before she sent it off.

I responded, in several emails:

Writing the press release is Y's job; don't step on their toes. Ask--very politely--if they've written one yet, and if so, could you see it. If they haven't, only then say that you took a crack at it yourself, to serve till they do a better one. (Note the flattery.)

You have to walk a very fine line: There's a lot they won't do for your book, but it's insulting to them--and needless additional work for you--to assume they'll do nothing. This is why you have to have a meeting--or at least a conversation--in which you find out exactly what they plan on doing for the book, and what you can do to augment their efforts. [Note augment, not replace.]

Jane said she's going to frame my final words:

Remember: You are business partners, not adversaries; working together, not at cross-purposes. What happened with X is ancient history; you're with Y now and have to make the best of it there.

Oops

I accidentally double-booked myself. My next phone-in seminar will be on January 22--not the 21st as originally announced. (I've corrected my website & the post: Phone It In with Bella!)

Larry Flynt Gives Good Headline

From the CNN Political Ticker:
Porn industry seeks federal bailout

Hustler publisher Larry Flynt and Girls Gone Wild CEO Joe Francis said Wednesday they will request that Congress allocate $5 billion for a bailout of the adult entertainment industry....

"People are too depressed to be sexually active," Flynt said in the statement. "This is very unhealthy as a nation. Americans can do without cars and such but they cannot do without sex."

"With all this economic misery and people losing all that money, sex is the farthest thing from their mind. It's time for congress to rejuvenate the sexual appetite of America. The only way they can do this is by supporting the adult industry and doing it quickly."

Here's my slogan for these troubled times:
Porn is Patriotic!

Wouldn't it be funny if it caught on? Though honestly, there's nothing sexier than having enough to eat and a roof over one's head.

What to Tell Your Would-Be Readers

"You can find my book at your favorite bookstore, and if it isn’t there, find a new favorite."

--Joan Rivers, author of MURDER AT THE ACADEMY AWARDS, in Sunday's NY Times (but don't follow her advice on plastic surgery!)

Phone It In with Book Clubs!

MATRIMONY author Joshua Henkin ("the hardest-working guy in the author biz") was recently featured, along with STANDING STILL author Kelly Simmons, in a Philadelphia Inquirer story, Author, your group is calling.

Henkin has spoken by phone or in person to 80+ book groups. Wow! However does he do it?

Oddly, Henkin's latest visit with yet another group of women he had never met - by speaker at the Jersey Shore group - was entirely initiated by . . . Henkin.

Here's what happened.

One member had rated the book on Goodreads.com, a social-networking site based on books. Despite the mixed review she gave (3 out of 5), she found herself on the morning of the meeting with an e-mail from the author himself.

"Shelley - Thanks for rating MATRIMONY on Goodreads. I don't know if you're in a book group, but I've been participating in a lot of book-group discussions of MATRIMONY, and I'd be delighted to participate with your book group. Let me know if you'd be interested. Best, Josh."

Wow. Um, OK. Well, Josh, as a matter of fact, it's tonight....

Though most of the visits are initiated by readers, Henkin said he also contacted people through various book blogs that have reviewed Matrimony, that have done Matrimony giveaways, and where he has guest-blogged. Henkin is also on Facebook.

Hardly rocket science, but ferreting out book groups and speaking to them does take quite a bit of time. Not coincidentally, Henkin told me back in March that he was way over deadline on his new book. I wrote him today whether I dared ask him how it's going.

His reply:

The new book? What new book! Actually, it's finally coming along pretty well....

So we have a happy story all around.

Phone It In with Bella!

My next author TeleSeminar will be on January 22, 6-7:30 pm EST. (Date was originally Jan 21.)

The session is limited to 10; includes Q&A. Each participant gets an individual 15-minute follow-up consultation.

To make it more affordable, I've lowered the price from $90 to $65. FULL INFO HERE.


Photo by Robert W. Kelley for LIFE.

Quote of the Day

From the NY Times review of Carrie Fisher's new memoir, WISHFUL DRINKING. She's the daughter of Hollywood stars Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher ("the Jennifer and Brad of their day"), who left Debbie for Elizabeth Taylor ("Angelina, plusher and without the tattoos").

When the author was 15, Ms. Reynolds gave her a vibrator for Christmas, and also gave one to her own mother, who declined to use it for fear it would short out her pacemaker.