Jackie Barbosa

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve decided to follow the self-publishing path for a while and see where it takes me. I am currently writing The Lesson Plan, a novella (about 25,000 words, give or take) that’s related to Grace Under Fire and Taking Liberties, the two stories I sold to Spice Briefs. I’d originally pitched the idea for The Lesson Plan to my editor at Harlequin, but he chose Taking Liberties instead, and I’m rather happy about that because I’m happy to write it free of the pressure to get it in under 15,000 words. Having a little more space to play with is very freeing.

But it’s also SCARY.

When I put out The Reiver, I had literally NO expectations. I hoped to make back the cost of the cover art. That was it. Through a combination of blind luck and the fact that I picked a great cover artist, the story has now outsold anything I’ve ever published–even, I believe, combined print and digital sales of Behind the Red Door, although of course my numbers on that book’s totals are about six months out of date, so it may be closer than I think–and even managed to get me into the Top 20 in Historical Romance on Amazon for the past few days.

So, as I write this new story, I worry. Because now, I have expectations. This is, after all, a brand new, never-before-released novella. It will be several times longer than The Reiver. I paid more for the cover art (and was happy to do so, because it makes me swoony, lol), and I will be paying for professional editing as well as taking much more time with formatting and validation (simply because it’s longer and has chapter breaks, I MUST spend more time). All of this means I will have more invested upfront, which means there will be more pressure to earn it back.

But more than that, I am more emotionally invested in this story doing well than I ever was in The Reiver. That title’s sales seem like proof of concept in some ways, but what if they aren’t? What if they’re a fluke? What if the people who bought that story have no interest in The Lesson Plan and don’t buy it? What if NO ONE buys it?

Gah. /flails in self-doubt

The problem with success of any kind is that it doesn’t always breed more success. Sometimes, it just breeds a more spectacular opportunity for failure.

Despite the fact that I’m published primarily in digital form (only one of my books has ever been released in print), I’ve always considered myself someone who preferred paper books to digital. I have a particular preference (or so I thought) for mass-market paperbacks, not so much because they are cheap (although that weighs into the equation), but because they are lightweight and portable. As a result of my belief in my love for the mass-market paperback, I have an mmpb TBR pile several feet high.

And yet, I’m not reading those books. Instead, I’m reading the digital books I’ve downloaded onto my iTouch. What’s more, I tend to FINISH the digital books that I do start reading, whereas the print books are far more likely to be picked up, paged through, and put down, never to be revisited.

I’ve been puzzling over this phenomenon since I realized I have read several novels and novellas start to finish in the last month while I have not finished reading a single print book in twice that time. Why should this be so, I wondered, especially since reading on the tiny screen provided by the iTouch isn’t exactly the most aesthetically pleasing experience?

One reason is actually pretty easy to ferret out: the light on my side of the bed is burnt out and I can’t be arsed to replace it, which means I CAN’T read paper books in bed, but I can read digital books on the backlit iTouch without a hitch.

But that doesn’t explain why I’m more likely to FINISH reading them, even those I find to be flawed in ways that would likely have me giving up on a paper book within a few chapters. The answer finally dawned on me yesterday, though.

You see, I’m currently reading a historical romance on the iTouch that I suepect I would have set aside long ago in paperback. It’s not that it’s bad, mind you. There are just…issues with it. It’s one of those books that might pan out and might not. And if I had it in print form, I’d have already looked ahead in the book to see if it would be worth my while to finish it. (Yes, I’m THAT kind of reader. For shame, I know.)

But on the iTouch, skipping around in the book is a pain in the you-know-what. Oh, I know I could do it, but it’s more effort than it’s worth. And so, I keep on reading. Which means, eventually, I read through to the end, even if the book doesn’t wind up panning out.

I’ve said for a long time that I won’t pay mass-market paperback prices for digital books, which meant agency-priced romances were strictly off my list. For all the reasons others have explicated in the past, I have always felt that digital books should be priced lower than paperbacks, and if I couldn’t get the digital version of a book for around the $5 mark ($6 at the absolute most), I wouldn’t be buying.

But this morning, I went to Amazon and picked up Julie Anne Long’s What I Did for a Duke, a book I’ve been dying to read for a long time but haven’t run across in paperback yet, for the exorbitant (in my former mind) price of $7.99? And I suspect it’s going to be worth every penny, because if I’d bought it in paperback, there is a good chance I’d never have finished it. But I KNOW I’m going to finish it in digital, and that means it’s worth as much or more as the paperback. To me.

In about twenty minutes, I’ll be heading over to my kids’ middle school to watch my 11-year-old daughter compete in the 6th grade spelling bee. I have not attended a spelling bee in (mumble mumble) years. Not since I competed in one. Because, you see, it was one of the greatest injustices of my life and I have never really wanted to be reminded of the experience. Nonetheless, here I am, going to a bee again.

As I’m writing this, I’m not 100% sure whether my Spelling Bee took place when I was in 6th grade or 8th grade. I’ve always remembered it as 8th grade, but now I’m having visions of the elementary school library. But it really doesn’t matter to the story. It goes like this: The field of contestants was whittled down to three kids, me and two others. One of the others was the boy who ultimately won. I no longer remember his name or his face. But I remember…oh, I remember how unfairly he won.

You see, I got out (third to last) on the word “connoisseur.” I came very close to spelling it correctly, just reversing the o and the i. I was disappointed, but, hey, that was okay, I didn’t spell it right, I was out. But then the final two kids duked it out. In a spelling bee, the last two contestants receive a word to spell until one misspells the word. The other contestant then has the opportunity to spell the word that was just missed. If he/she spells it correctly, then another word is given, and if that word is also spelled correctly, that contestant wins.

I don’t remember what the word that was originally misspelled was, but I do remember that it was something I could have spelled easily, which was disheartening. But then came the final word, the word on which the bee was won. And that word I remember. Because it was… Are you ready?

SPOILER SPACE

Hermit

That’s right. After I am eliminated from the competition for misspelling a complicated word of French origin, the boy who won gets the word HERMIT!? There is something profoundly not right with the world!

Anyway, painful memories notwithstanding, I’m off to support my daughter in her first (but hopefully not last) spelling bee. And if she is eliminated on a hard word and the person who wins gets thrown a softball…well, we’ll have one more thing to commiserate over and laugh about when I’m in the nursing home !

I’m bad at New Year’s resolutions, which is why, as a rule, I don’t make them. It’s not just that I seldom KEEP my resolutions that makes me eschew them, however. It’s also that I figure if it’s a good idea to do (or not do) something, it’s just as good an idea on December 31 as it is on January 1 and why wait?

Notwithstanding, I did realize I have one goal for myself in the coming year, although I had already implemented it before the end of 2010. Quite simply, it’s this: NO NEW SHINIES. In 2011, I will allow myself to write anything that already has at least a page written, but I will not start any new manuscripts. No matter how awesome a new idea seems, no matter how tired I am of the stories I have to choose from.

The reason I’m making this pact with myself is simple: I’m a great starter and a lousy finisher. I’ve always been this way, and I’ve always known it was a tendency I’d have to struggle against. But now, with 2010 behind me and only two completed manuscripts to show for that entire year (although I wrote several hundred thousand words, I’m sure), it’s very clear to me that I have to confine myself to the books I’ve already started writing. And there are a LOT of them. I mean, A LOT. In fact, in no particular order, here is a list of manuscripts I could tackle this year if I ONLY choose from the ones I have started (not including my active WIP, a category-style romance I’m determined to have done by mid-February at the latest):

• Single-title contemporary romance, currently at 20,000+ words
• Middle grade mystery, currently at 16,000 words
• Historical (Edwardian) urban fantasy, currently around 10,000 words
• Book 1 in futuristic series, currently at 7,000 words
• Historical (Regency) romance, currently at 8,250 words
• “Boy” YA, currently at 5,000 words
• Category romance, currently at 3,000 words
• Contemporary romance novella, currently at 4,500 words
• Short historical (Ancient Greece…yes, really) romance, currently at 2,500 words

And those are just the ones I remember off the top of my head. There are undoubtedly a dozen more at one stage or another, just waiting for me to give them my attention. Which means there is absolutely no excuse for starting anything new this year unless (and this is a caveat I don’t would love to have to employ but don’t particularly expect to) I were to finish and sell one of the books on this list, in which case, I might be obligated to write more in that vein to satisfy the contract.

So, that’s my goal for 2011. It’s simple and straightforward and I will consider it a major success if I can adhere to it. (My fingers are already itching!)

So, everyone’s been posting their “best reads” lists for the year. I kept putting mine off because I hoped to finish a couple more before the end of 2010 so they could be included on this list. Alas, it’s only five days until the end of the year and I am 99.9% sure I am not going to finish any more books before then. So, without further ado, in no particular order, here are my favorite books of 2010. (No, it’s not a top ten list. It’s a top eight list. That’s not because there couldn’t have BEEN ten I liked enough to mention, but because I’m a slow reader and there are still a LOT of unread 2010 books in my TBR pile!)

• Proof by Seduction by Courtney Milan
• Trial by Desire by Courtney Milan
• Sinful Surrender by Beverley Kendall
• I Kissed an Earl by Julie Anne Long
• Warrior by Zoe Archer
• Butterfly Swords by Jeannie Lin
• One Dance with a Duke by Tessa Dare
• Hell Fire by Ann Aguirre

I also have a ringer list of a few books pubbed before 2010 that I read this year and wish I’d read long ago:

• Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell

  Masterpiece Mystery has been airing adaptations of Mankell’s Wallander series, starring Kenneth Branagh in the lead role. I LOVED the first series, which was on back in 2009, so when I saw this book (the first Wallander mystery published) in Barnes and Noble, I bought it on impulse. My husband and I have since been sharing the remainder of the series. I love the spare but evocative writing and the way Wallander solves mysteries not with great flashes of intellect and insight, but through slow and careful thought. If you like mystery novels, you should definitely be reading Mankell!

• The Grand Sophy by Georgette Heyer

  Faced with the prospect of losing my “historical romance reader” card for never having read a Heyer, I asked around and was told by several people that this was one of her best. I positively ate it up. I had a few niggles with some of the elements in the story (particularly the evil Jewish money-lender), which I mostly allowed to pass on the grounds that it was written in the 1950s. Overall, though, it was about the most fun I’ve had reading a book in a very long time. (And why isn’t PBS adapting Heyer for Masterpiece Theater, huh? Seems like a natural!)

• Hank the Cowdog by John R. Erickson

  Yes, a kid’s book made my list of favorites. We’re now reading the second book in this very long series, and, holy cow(dog), I adore them. They are hilariously funny, and it’s absolutely impossible to read them aloud without adopting a “countrified” accent. Now that’s what I call “voice,” people! A special thank you to author Margaret Mallory, who mentioned the series on Twitter. If it weren’t for that tweet, I’d never have known these books existed and that would have been a major loss!

As some of you may know because I know I occasionally mention it on Twitter/Facebook, we have cats. At one time, we had five, but one (a gorgeous black cat with the most wonderful personality) went missing a few months ago (sadly). Today, we darn near lost another, but it’s almost as funny a story as it is harrowing.

My husband rented a truck this weekend to move some furniture. He still had it for a few hours today and there was a bunch of stuff we needed to take to the dump. He opened the truck this morning and loaded it, then closed it up and we drove to the dump to pitch everything out. Shortly after we got to the dump pad and started unloading, we caught sight of something running away from the truck. It was one of our cats—Pumpkin Patch, a tiny little calico. Obviously, she climbed into the back of the truck when my husband wasn’t looking and got shut in.

So, there we were, watching in horror as she ran away from us right toward all the huge, noisy dump trucks and big rigs. The poor thing had to be terrified! I’m sure she was wondering where she was, not to mention how on earth she’d gotten there.

I jumped down off the truck and called her, but I had absolutely NO confidence she’d come to me in that situation. (Plus, I was pretty sure this cat has used up all her nine lives and then some, as she has stayed out overnight far too times because she refuses to come in at dinner time.) I had visions of having to tell my children she’d been squashed by a tractor or simply run away from us.

To my utter amazement, however, she turned and came toward me—slowly, tentatively, but close enough that I was able to lean down and nab her. Phew!

We got her into the cab of the truck, and then one of the dump workers pointed out a pet taxi that had been dumped by someone before us. It was perfectly serviceable, and although I have some worries about the possibility that it was discarded because the previous occupant had some sort of contagious illness, we took it and put her in it. Driving home with a loose, terrified cat in the cab of the truck didn’t seem like such a good idea.

Needless to say, she’s home now, safe and sound (actually, she’s sleeping on top the monitor right in front of me), but that was a close call!

I know a lot of authors who consider writing their “jobs.” I have nothing against this mindset. If it gets you to sit in your chair and put your hands on the keyboard on a regular basis, if it gets you to finish your manuscripts, if it gets you to take writing seriously, I’m all in favor of it. And for some writers, writing really is their job–after all, it’s their primary source of income.

In the past few months, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that writing is not my job and most likely never will be. A few years ago, I’ll admit that I dreamed of selling for good money and being able to quit my day job to write full-time. When I sold Behind the Red Door to Kensington, far earlier in my “career” than I ever anticipated selling anything to a New York publisher, I thought maybe I was on my way to achieving that goal. Now, not quite two years later, the possibility seems more remote than ever.

But my reason for concluding writing isn’t my job isn’t really because I haven’t made a lot of money from it. It’s also because, quite honestly, I don’t want to see writing as a job.

Here’s the thing about jobs. A job is something you do to earn money, to make a living. A job is something you’re obligated to do in exchange for a paycheck. And even if you love your job (and I do love mine), you probably wouldn’t do it if no one were willing to pay you a reasonable wage for it. I know if my employer suddenly told me they wanted me to earn my wages the way the publishing industry does–if they decide they like my work enough to buy it–I would quit. As great and rewarding as my job is, I wouldn’t keep doing it without a guarantee of remuneration.

And it’s for this very reason that writing is not a job for me. Sure, I can (and sometimes do) earn money from my writing, but remuneration isn’t the reason I write. I write because I’m driven to. Because I have to. Because if I don’t, I’m miserable.

On other words, writing isn’t a job for me. It’s an avocation. And no matter how “successful” I do or don’t become as a writer, I want it to stay that way.

Hey, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about those kind of balls; I’m talking about the ones we often have to keep simultaneously in the air so our entire lives don’t crash to the ground in a pathetic heap of broken glass.

I’m in heavy-duty balls-mode right now. In addition to juggling my kids’ school and homework schedules (always a source of pain for me even though it’s nice to get a few hours of peace and quiet each day while they’re at school), getting them to various activities (I’ve got a Cub Scout, a Boy Scout, and a Girl Scout, yikes!), and keeping food in the house/getting meals on the table, next week is my company’s conference for our clients and I’m a major player in that event. This means I’ve spent most of the past three weeks making final preparations for various presentations I have to give (researching content, rehearsing, and tweaking as necessary). And next week, I will be knee-deep in the conference, which means I have to line up after-school care for all three kids, since I won’t be home when they get out of school as I normally am.

Needless to say, this puts a huge crimp in my writing style. Oh, I’ve been trying to beg, borrow, and steal a few hours here and there, but honestly, I’m so mentally exhausted from keeping track of everything else, the well’s pretty much dry. So, I am hoping that once this craziness wraps up next Friday and I’m down to just the “regular” balls, I’ll get my brain back and actually be able to dig back into writing. Because not writing gives me sad.

So, tell me, how do you keep the “balls” in the air? Do you ever find yourself just too exhausted from all the effort to keep them up there that you can’t do the things you really want to (whether it’s writing, reading, or something else)? Tell me about it .

I have to say, one of the hardest things for me about having many friends who are also writers is that there are writers who I dearly love on a personal level, but whose books, for whatever reason, just don’t work for me. I actually live in a kind of perpetual dread of the release of my dearest writer friends’ books, because I want to love them, but sometimes, I don’t, and then I feel stuck. Can I tell you, my dear friend, that I didn’t like your book and STILL be your friend? Should I lie and say I loved it? Hedge? Or just say nothing at all?

Now, I have to say that if one of my friends (writer or not) told me she didn’t care for one (or even all) of my books, I would not hate her. I would not cut her off and refuse to speak to her ever again. I would still consider her a friend and be happy that she felt she could be honest with me, because I value honesty above empty flattery. And I actually believe, in my heart of hearts, that most of my writer friends feel the same way.

Still, it’s tricky, and one of the reasons I don’t review books and rarely ever really enthuse about a book online. I will do it in certain cases (Jeannie Lin’s Butterfly Swords is a recent example of a book I’m raving about, but although I’ve met Jeannie and consider her a friends, I didn’t know her before I heard about the book, so I feel a little more sanguine going ape over it), but by and large, I don’t talk a lot about the books I’ve read–whether I liked them or not–because I don’t want anyone to feel criticized by omission.

It’s a sort of crazy world I live in, then. Am I a lunatic? Too worried about the fragile feelings of others? Or just being prudent?¹ I honestly can’t decide.

In honor of all authors who’ve recently experienced a series of rejections, whether from agents or editors, I offer the following somewhat tongue-in-cheek (and somewhat NOT) overview of the process of moving on.

The Seven Stages of Grief

1. SHOCK & DENIAL

   You read the rejection letter for the third time. Then a fourth. And it really IS a rejection, not an offer disguised as one. You double-check the envelope. Maybe it was meant for Mrs. Hinklemeyer, who lives next door. Granted, it’s unlikely she also wrote a romance novel titled LOVE IN THE TIME OF DYSENTERY, but then, they do say there’s no such thing as an original idea. But no, the envelope is definitely addressed to you. But still, there must be some mistake. This just can’t be right.

2. PAIN & GUILT

   After the shock wears off, you feel like crap. Plus, you get five paper cuts from reading and rereading that damn rejection letter. You start to second guess yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have killed your hero off on page 5 of the manuscript (but hey, you did resurrect him on page 15!). Maybe you shouldn’t have used the word “turgid” quite so many times. And trying to write a historical paranormal comedic thriller horror mystery romance might not have been the best idea, but damn it, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time!

3. ANGER & BARGAINING

   What do these publishing professionals know anyway? They wouldn’t know a good book if someone hit them upside the head with it. They’re all a bunch of risk-averse weenies who wouldn’t buy the Bible if God submitted it for publication. But hey, what if you sent chocolates with your submission? Or maybe if you promise you’ll give up chocolate…

4. “DEPRESSION”, REFLECTION, LONELINESS

   Aw hell, they’re right. Your book sucks used tea bags. You’re a complete loser who couldn’t even write the phone book. You lose all hope and motivation. Writing is a waste of time, effort, and emotion. You feel like a whiny crybaby and refuse to log into any of the social networking sites or your email for fear someone will ask you how you are. Or worse, announce they’ve just sold in a ten-book deal for seven figures.

5. THE UPWARD TURN

   Just when you think you’ll never write again, you get a glimmer of an idea. Something so good, you can’t NOT write it.

6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH

   You slowly put the pieces back together. You start writing because you have to. With some help from your friends and critique partners, you realize that there are a lot of reasons your previous manuscript was rejected, and none of them are that it was actually bad. Plus, the only way to be sure you’ll never sell a book is to quit. And that’s just not an option.

7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE

   You put your much-rejected manuscript in the Magical Mulch Pile* under the bed. The publishing world just isn’t ready for it yet. But wait until they get a load of your new project, a historical paranormal comedic thriller horror mystery young adult romance. Working title: LOVE IN THE TIME OF ACNE. Yeah, this time, you’ve got it nailed!