Since I last blogged, I was successful in obtaining one book review. And, praise Jesus, it was favorable. Marc from Small Press Reviews critiqued Scattered Pieces, and I could not have asked for kinder words to be written. It felt wonderful knowing someone out there really understood my work, and it secured in me faith that I may have a future as an author, after all. Let's hope that other reviewers or any audience at large will also be able to decode the message I am bringing forth.
S.P.R. is the second written review I've thus far received. In the next few weeks, I am anticipating a couple more. Stay tuned!
Until I Blog Again,
Flora
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Familial Pieces: The Family's Reaction to the Book
This morning I spoke on the phone with my mother. She was elated that she was reading a novel for the first time in years. Normally, she reads books on biblical counseling or on Christian dating, books that can impart her with knowledge on how to help people. But today, she decided to read a novel for pure enjoyment. I was happy for her. I told her I just picked up a new novel myself, The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Similar to my mother, I read only what is required of me to read. Being an English major, seldom do I have time for extracurricular reading. I don't mind very much because I enjoy the works of American classicists; never does it feel like a chore to study their greatness. Of all of our American greats, I must admit Hawthorne is my favorite. His works entertain and causes readers to give pause to thought. He wrote with a purpose other than to sensationalize his audience. He remained true to his conscious and to his God.
To my surprise, my mother told me she had to put my book, Scattered Pieces, down for a minute and decided to pick up the novel instead. I had no idea she was reading my book. I mean, I knew she purchased one of my very first copies, but she gave that one away to one of her friends before she even read it. When my grandmother passed, my mother took the copy my grandmother was reading. I didn't think she was reading it because she kept trying to promote my book to churches and Christian bookstores. I figured if she read it at all, she would know that those were not the appropriate platforms for promotion. Don't get me wrong, my memoir and my message definitely has Christian undertones, but they are delivered in a very REAL way...(if you know what I mean). But, when my mother said she needed to put my book down for a minute, I knew she was really reading it. She had definitely got to the chapters where I wasn't her biggest fan. I knew I would have to cross this bridge eventually with my family, and this morning was the time.
I'm just going to keep things 100% genuine when I say that in reading my book, I know my husband and my mother were not painted in the best of lights. I've acknowledged this to the both of them. And, it wasn't my intention to ever mar their image or place them on an unrealistic pedestal to save face. As I wrote, I forced myself to go back to my youth and the early stages of my marriage--two of the most uncomfortable stages of my life--and revisit all of those repressed emotions and transfer them onto the page. As I wrote, I often cried, curled onto my leather office chair hugging myself, trying to bring myself solace, attempting to bring myself back into the realities of present day that those events had passed away. As I wrote, I often prayed God would continue to help me in the process of forgiveness. It's true what they say, "one can forgive, but not forget." Well, in order for me to forgive, I had to forget. But, when I had to tap back into the reservoir of my psyche, all of the hurt, all of the anger, and all of the fears resurfaced. After composing certain chapters involving my husband, I had to walk over to him and hug him, kiss him, and tell him how grateful I am that we overcame those obstacles. But, I'm not married to my mother. The wounds involving her and my father are from most of the years of my existence, and they came apparent to her as she read.
When my mother implied that my book was difficult for her to read because of the things I wrote about her, I immediately empathized. I acknowledged the validity of her concern and assured that it improves in its conclusion. I also told her that with the exception of the introduction of my high school years and the book's final chapter and "Afterword," I wrote from the feelings and emotions I experienced during documented events. It was necessary for me to do so in order to underscore the development of my psychosis. My memoir's "Introduction" shows both she and I--two people who endured different forms of abuse from the same abuser, my father. The book unveils the aftermath of the abuse on the parts of both of us. I told her that in reading from a psychological perspective a reader can gain a deeper appreciation. Thankfully, she understood.
To my surprise, my mother told me she had to put my book, Scattered Pieces, down for a minute and decided to pick up the novel instead. I had no idea she was reading my book. I mean, I knew she purchased one of my very first copies, but she gave that one away to one of her friends before she even read it. When my grandmother passed, my mother took the copy my grandmother was reading. I didn't think she was reading it because she kept trying to promote my book to churches and Christian bookstores. I figured if she read it at all, she would know that those were not the appropriate platforms for promotion. Don't get me wrong, my memoir and my message definitely has Christian undertones, but they are delivered in a very REAL way...(if you know what I mean). But, when my mother said she needed to put my book down for a minute, I knew she was really reading it. She had definitely got to the chapters where I wasn't her biggest fan. I knew I would have to cross this bridge eventually with my family, and this morning was the time.
I'm just going to keep things 100% genuine when I say that in reading my book, I know my husband and my mother were not painted in the best of lights. I've acknowledged this to the both of them. And, it wasn't my intention to ever mar their image or place them on an unrealistic pedestal to save face. As I wrote, I forced myself to go back to my youth and the early stages of my marriage--two of the most uncomfortable stages of my life--and revisit all of those repressed emotions and transfer them onto the page. As I wrote, I often cried, curled onto my leather office chair hugging myself, trying to bring myself solace, attempting to bring myself back into the realities of present day that those events had passed away. As I wrote, I often prayed God would continue to help me in the process of forgiveness. It's true what they say, "one can forgive, but not forget." Well, in order for me to forgive, I had to forget. But, when I had to tap back into the reservoir of my psyche, all of the hurt, all of the anger, and all of the fears resurfaced. After composing certain chapters involving my husband, I had to walk over to him and hug him, kiss him, and tell him how grateful I am that we overcame those obstacles. But, I'm not married to my mother. The wounds involving her and my father are from most of the years of my existence, and they came apparent to her as she read.
When my mother implied that my book was difficult for her to read because of the things I wrote about her, I immediately empathized. I acknowledged the validity of her concern and assured that it improves in its conclusion. I also told her that with the exception of the introduction of my high school years and the book's final chapter and "Afterword," I wrote from the feelings and emotions I experienced during documented events. It was necessary for me to do so in order to underscore the development of my psychosis. My memoir's "Introduction" shows both she and I--two people who endured different forms of abuse from the same abuser, my father. The book unveils the aftermath of the abuse on the parts of both of us. I told her that in reading from a psychological perspective a reader can gain a deeper appreciation. Thankfully, she understood.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Not Your Ordinary Pieces
Over the past two weeks, I honestly have not been doing much to promote my book, Scattered Pieces, but I have been giving it much thought. After all, every action is first incubated within the confines of our imagination. (SN: Feel free to quote me) I've contemplated website ideas that would promote my charity efforts and about doing a college/university book tour but to put these ideas into action requires a lot more energy than I currently have to exert. At the beginning of this month, I took my finals and decided to make every effort to relax before I embark upon my final semester in graduate school (which begins next month). But, my idea of relaxation is to work. I honestly have no concept of how to perform this verb, for I operate it as a noun: I enjoy the idea of relaxing. So, even though I haven't been actively involved in the promotion of Scattered Pieces, that doesn't mean I haven't been creative. Seeing two of my poems, "Elementary Lessons" and "Out of Body," published in Hardin-Simmons University's 2010 student literary / art publication, the Corral," inspired me to write more poetry and short stories for my upcoming book, which I aspire to publish in 2011. Presently, I'm trying to decide if I want to go the self-publishing route again with the next book or the traditional route. I change my mind like the wind, so I suppose I must wait to see the direction in which the wind blows me.
I know this post has been uncharacteristically short (by my standards), but I promise to catch everyone up when more action occurs. Although there's been a thunderstorm in West Texas for the past four days, I'm going through a little dry spell, so please bear with me and pray for me. And, until I blog again....
Flora
I know this post has been uncharacteristically short (by my standards), but I promise to catch everyone up when more action occurs. Although there's been a thunderstorm in West Texas for the past four days, I'm going through a little dry spell, so please bear with me and pray for me. And, until I blog again....
Flora
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Voiced Pieces: Tales from the Author's First Book Signing
It is important, for a self-published author especially, to be on his or her grind if there is an earnest desire for your voice to be heard. Since the publishing of my book in January, my voice has been a whisper to the public. Because of the curve ball thrown to me by life,--tumult in my marriage, sickness and death of my grandmother, and undergoing the stages of the grief process--I did not want media hype to sprinkle into my "things to handle" mix. I wasn't ready to prepare myself with the image appropriate explanations to all of the potential questions related to my story. I wasn't ready for people to be proud of me or disappointed. Simply put, I just wasn't ready. But now, my voice is gaining strength; I am prepared to turn that whisper into a roar.
At the beginning of last week, I received a phone call from a number that was not stored in my phone. I answered with much surprise when I heard the voice of the gentleman from the bookstore. He was calling to confirm that we were still on for my scheduled book signing on Saturday. I told him, "yes" and informed him of my intentions of dropping copies of my book off on the Thursday prior. He thought that it was a marvelous idea and then proceeded to ask me about my sponsorship of the Noah Project, a local organization that supports women and their children who are transitioning out of domestic violence. This part of our conversation wouldn't seem abnormal if I had given him knowledge about this endeavor. I told him I did not recall telling him about that, and he informed me that the organization contacted him. They wanted to confirm the signing and told him that they would be there on Saturday in support of my event. Then, he asked me if I was nervous about Saturday. I said, "No, I don't get nervous about anything until the day of." He said, "Well, I would be nervous. All of the media attention you're getting-- well, what time is your interview any way?" "Interview?" I asked. "Yeah, Noah said someone from the paper will be here to interview you before the signing." Instantly, a childhood nervousness overtook me. The kind of feeling I used to feel while playing Hide and Go Seek crept into my stomach, and the smell that always gave me away seeped out of my....well, you get my drift. Media? I was not preparing to deal with media. I mean media is good. Media is great for any contributing member of the arts or humanities! But, media was not something I felt I was ready for. But, I have never been one to fight God's will. So, if that's the direction he has planned for me, then let's go! The book manager who once told me to only bring 20 books to the signing because he never has an author to sell more than 20 was now suggesting that I bring double that. After hanging up the phone, I had to calm my nerves. I needed to take the focus off myself. I started rationalizing how the attention was good because it meant I would have more money to donate to the organization. This was an opportunity to shed light upon their efforts for women and children. I called my soror who's a publicist and asked her to whip me into shape for my upcoming newspaper interview. She wanted to focus the attention on my community service activism. No! No! No! I coped better when I planned to focus on the organization, not my benevolence. There was not going to be an easy way around it. I would have to be ready to tackle this head on--me being in the spotlight.
Thursday, I went into the store to be briefed on the process. I gave them 35 copies of my book, and they said they would all be scanned into their system by Saturday. They showed me where I would be sitting for the signing and explained the arrangement of my display. I was hoping the store would purchase my book, but they didn't. How it works for self-published authors who they do not carry is they allow us to come in and sell our books on consignment where the store reaps 30% of our profits. This could place an author at a financial loss or leave them with very little profit. An author must purchase copies of his or work. These copies are sold to the author at a discounted price by the publisher. The author can use these copies to solicit book reviews or to sell independently. With this understanding, the store can mark up the book to off set some of the author's profit loss. The good thing is the book is entered into the store's system, and if their regional or district office sees its sales numbers are strong, they may add the book to their list for national distribution in their stores. To assist in this goal of wooing the company, the book is placed for a week or two at the front of the store next to new releases. This is where the cover of the book plays a vital role if the author's name cannot sell on its own.
Saturday was book signing time. I fretted for several hours over what I was going to wear until I just finally put something on. Then, I had to think about my hair, the color of my lipstick, and the most appropriate purse, not to mention go on a scavenger hunt to find a good pen to sign people's books. All the while when it came time for the most important part (the printing out of my press release to distribute to media), I didn't have enough time to plan or make plans for printer failure. My soror told me to have someone there to take pictures, and I forgot my camera. No camera, no press release, so much for post-event promotion. I arrived at the venue with five minutes to spare only to see no table in the spot where they told me it would located and not one single copy of my book. I found my contact, and he invited me to have a seat in their cafe and enjoy a latte until everything was set up. Thirty minutes later, he returned with an apology for not having a table cloth.
He set up the table with copies of my books and placed them on a beautiful display stand, and I adorned the table with bookmarks, business cards, and post cards that all contained a synopsis of the content. I sat behind the table ready to go and watched people stare at me without daring to approach. For the first two out of the four hours I was there, there wasn't a single customer let alone a member of the media to interview me. There were no representatives for the organization I volunteered to sponsor, all that was there was me and my books and the guy who worked for the company who pitied me for that moment. Trying to entertain yourself at a book signing where you are the featured author is quite a task. I wanted to spend my time on Facebook mobile, but that wouldn't give a polished, professional image. Finally, through the door came two members from my former book club. They came to the store just to lend support, and I was glad to see them there. They stood and chatted with me for a while, and one of them took a couple pictures with my camera phone. Both of them left after some considerable time without purchasing a copy. Soon after them came a lady who picked up a copy, read the back cover, and said, "Sorry, but I can't read your book". Talk about being caught off guard. I said, "ok." Then, she went on explicating her statement. She is a survivor of domestic violence, and her wounds are still too fresh to engage in the literature. Then, I met a gentleman who is an aspiring Sci-Fi author. He spoke to me about his efforts over the past two and a half years to get published. He spent over $2000 in just trying to get someone to say, "I'm willing to pitch your book to publishing houses." I also met people who asked what my book was about then said, "good luck to ya" before walking away without a purchase. But, then I saw one of my classmates--a mature gentleman who absolutely works my last nerve in our Multicultural Counseling course. He enjoys promoting the most stereotypical movies and t.v. dramas to our class for them to gain a better understanding of African Americans. When he first learned I penned a memoir, he wanted to know what a person in my age bracket could possibly have to write about. This preceded his comment of most writers only become famous after they're dead. When he spotted me, I said to myself, "Great." But, for the first time in our encounters, he was positive. He was actually excited to see me sitting there and after my being there for three hours at that point, he turned out to be my very first customer. The next customers after him were women who were enthused about my work and asked me about speaking engagements.
After my book signing, I was contacted by several of my friends and sorors, all wanting to know how everything went, and I told them, in all honesty, it went well. A part of me was a little disappointed, especially since I prepared for something that didn't happen, but at the same time, I was relieved. I was able to feel out a book signing without the added pressures. And, even though I walked away with only selling two books, I was happy. I was out in the community, speaking with people--connecting with people. Even if someone passed by my table without purchasing a copy, they had to become aware of the issue presented. My words may not have been read, but my voice was heard. I believe when a person lacks selfish ambition, their efforts are blessed. After all, we ought not live life for self, but for others. At the end of that day, the person who presided over the book signing told me he was not going to take a percentage of my profits. Furthermore, he was going to extend my efforts by giving me an extra week to generate sales for my charity. Plus, he believes so much in my work that he is willing to place my book in the hands of media himself. When I went to school the following week, I learned that my classmate bragged about my work to our professor who in turn made announcements to my entire class about it. So, after all of that, how could I ever consider my book signing to be anything other than a blessing.
Whether you are a subscriber to my blog or merely dropped in to read my post, I want to encourage all of you to remain faithful, and watch God's wondrous works.
Until I Blog Again,
Flora
At the beginning of last week, I received a phone call from a number that was not stored in my phone. I answered with much surprise when I heard the voice of the gentleman from the bookstore. He was calling to confirm that we were still on for my scheduled book signing on Saturday. I told him, "yes" and informed him of my intentions of dropping copies of my book off on the Thursday prior. He thought that it was a marvelous idea and then proceeded to ask me about my sponsorship of the Noah Project, a local organization that supports women and their children who are transitioning out of domestic violence. This part of our conversation wouldn't seem abnormal if I had given him knowledge about this endeavor. I told him I did not recall telling him about that, and he informed me that the organization contacted him. They wanted to confirm the signing and told him that they would be there on Saturday in support of my event. Then, he asked me if I was nervous about Saturday. I said, "No, I don't get nervous about anything until the day of." He said, "Well, I would be nervous. All of the media attention you're getting-- well, what time is your interview any way?" "Interview?" I asked. "Yeah, Noah said someone from the paper will be here to interview you before the signing." Instantly, a childhood nervousness overtook me. The kind of feeling I used to feel while playing Hide and Go Seek crept into my stomach, and the smell that always gave me away seeped out of my....well, you get my drift. Media? I was not preparing to deal with media. I mean media is good. Media is great for any contributing member of the arts or humanities! But, media was not something I felt I was ready for. But, I have never been one to fight God's will. So, if that's the direction he has planned for me, then let's go! The book manager who once told me to only bring 20 books to the signing because he never has an author to sell more than 20 was now suggesting that I bring double that. After hanging up the phone, I had to calm my nerves. I needed to take the focus off myself. I started rationalizing how the attention was good because it meant I would have more money to donate to the organization. This was an opportunity to shed light upon their efforts for women and children. I called my soror who's a publicist and asked her to whip me into shape for my upcoming newspaper interview. She wanted to focus the attention on my community service activism. No! No! No! I coped better when I planned to focus on the organization, not my benevolence. There was not going to be an easy way around it. I would have to be ready to tackle this head on--me being in the spotlight.
Thursday, I went into the store to be briefed on the process. I gave them 35 copies of my book, and they said they would all be scanned into their system by Saturday. They showed me where I would be sitting for the signing and explained the arrangement of my display. I was hoping the store would purchase my book, but they didn't. How it works for self-published authors who they do not carry is they allow us to come in and sell our books on consignment where the store reaps 30% of our profits. This could place an author at a financial loss or leave them with very little profit. An author must purchase copies of his or work. These copies are sold to the author at a discounted price by the publisher. The author can use these copies to solicit book reviews or to sell independently. With this understanding, the store can mark up the book to off set some of the author's profit loss. The good thing is the book is entered into the store's system, and if their regional or district office sees its sales numbers are strong, they may add the book to their list for national distribution in their stores. To assist in this goal of wooing the company, the book is placed for a week or two at the front of the store next to new releases. This is where the cover of the book plays a vital role if the author's name cannot sell on its own.
Saturday was book signing time. I fretted for several hours over what I was going to wear until I just finally put something on. Then, I had to think about my hair, the color of my lipstick, and the most appropriate purse, not to mention go on a scavenger hunt to find a good pen to sign people's books. All the while when it came time for the most important part (the printing out of my press release to distribute to media), I didn't have enough time to plan or make plans for printer failure. My soror told me to have someone there to take pictures, and I forgot my camera. No camera, no press release, so much for post-event promotion. I arrived at the venue with five minutes to spare only to see no table in the spot where they told me it would located and not one single copy of my book. I found my contact, and he invited me to have a seat in their cafe and enjoy a latte until everything was set up. Thirty minutes later, he returned with an apology for not having a table cloth.
He set up the table with copies of my books and placed them on a beautiful display stand, and I adorned the table with bookmarks, business cards, and post cards that all contained a synopsis of the content. I sat behind the table ready to go and watched people stare at me without daring to approach. For the first two out of the four hours I was there, there wasn't a single customer let alone a member of the media to interview me. There were no representatives for the organization I volunteered to sponsor, all that was there was me and my books and the guy who worked for the company who pitied me for that moment. Trying to entertain yourself at a book signing where you are the featured author is quite a task. I wanted to spend my time on Facebook mobile, but that wouldn't give a polished, professional image. Finally, through the door came two members from my former book club. They came to the store just to lend support, and I was glad to see them there. They stood and chatted with me for a while, and one of them took a couple pictures with my camera phone. Both of them left after some considerable time without purchasing a copy. Soon after them came a lady who picked up a copy, read the back cover, and said, "Sorry, but I can't read your book". Talk about being caught off guard. I said, "ok." Then, she went on explicating her statement. She is a survivor of domestic violence, and her wounds are still too fresh to engage in the literature. Then, I met a gentleman who is an aspiring Sci-Fi author. He spoke to me about his efforts over the past two and a half years to get published. He spent over $2000 in just trying to get someone to say, "I'm willing to pitch your book to publishing houses." I also met people who asked what my book was about then said, "good luck to ya" before walking away without a purchase. But, then I saw one of my classmates--a mature gentleman who absolutely works my last nerve in our Multicultural Counseling course. He enjoys promoting the most stereotypical movies and t.v. dramas to our class for them to gain a better understanding of African Americans. When he first learned I penned a memoir, he wanted to know what a person in my age bracket could possibly have to write about. This preceded his comment of most writers only become famous after they're dead. When he spotted me, I said to myself, "Great." But, for the first time in our encounters, he was positive. He was actually excited to see me sitting there and after my being there for three hours at that point, he turned out to be my very first customer. The next customers after him were women who were enthused about my work and asked me about speaking engagements.
After my book signing, I was contacted by several of my friends and sorors, all wanting to know how everything went, and I told them, in all honesty, it went well. A part of me was a little disappointed, especially since I prepared for something that didn't happen, but at the same time, I was relieved. I was able to feel out a book signing without the added pressures. And, even though I walked away with only selling two books, I was happy. I was out in the community, speaking with people--connecting with people. Even if someone passed by my table without purchasing a copy, they had to become aware of the issue presented. My words may not have been read, but my voice was heard. I believe when a person lacks selfish ambition, their efforts are blessed. After all, we ought not live life for self, but for others. At the end of that day, the person who presided over the book signing told me he was not going to take a percentage of my profits. Furthermore, he was going to extend my efforts by giving me an extra week to generate sales for my charity. Plus, he believes so much in my work that he is willing to place my book in the hands of media himself. When I went to school the following week, I learned that my classmate bragged about my work to our professor who in turn made announcements to my entire class about it. So, after all of that, how could I ever consider my book signing to be anything other than a blessing.
Whether you are a subscriber to my blog or merely dropped in to read my post, I want to encourage all of you to remain faithful, and watch God's wondrous works.
Until I Blog Again,
Flora
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Naming Pieces: What's Behind the Name
Germination is the process in which a plant emerges from a hard seed and begins growth. Many forces can stifle a seed's growth potential, leaving it damaged and not viable. Over time seeds evolved to counter the effects of predation. Plants evolved defenses to protect itself against whatever tried to inhibit it's growth. In people, we call this defense mechanisms. All of this came to me one morning while I was lying in bed with my husband. I was in the process of speaking my thoughts aloud while he listened. I told him, "Honey! That's it! That's my name. Flora Season." I saw myself for the first time as a rose--a flower of many layers. A flower that's beautiful to look at, but one that a person may be leery to touch. It will hurt someone, but only to prevent itself from being hurt. Often times it's human tendency to prey upon what is beautiful. We see a rose and immediately desire to cut or de-petal it for selfish motivations, never considering the damage we're doing--the life we're ending, the growth we're stifling.
Even though I sent my book off to press during a winter month, I felt in my spirit that it was flower season. It was time for me to see beyond myself and think about the cultivation process. With Scattered Pieces and other books I author (speaking it into existence), I am sowing seeds. And in the process, I am encouraging people to weed their gardens. Identify the junk in our lives so we can grow free of it. My message isn't just for budding roses, but I also have a little something for weeds: Once you recognize the toxicity of your role, know that it's not too late to change it. It may not happen in the plant world, but as it pertains to people, it's never too late for a weed to turn into a flower. Christ performs this metamorphosis everyday. Through his love, grace, and mercy, all these are possible. We are all new creatures in Him.
Shanita is a variation of my mother's first name. She wanted to name me explicitly after herself, but my father wouldn't allow it. I think in a sense he wanted me to have my own identity and not to be tied by hers. But, this is only speculation. I played around with several names to be placed on my book. At first, I said I would always publish under my father's surname (to show him that I made it without his presence) and using only my first initial because I thought I'd be able to sell more books with it. But, then again, I didn't want him tied to my success. So, then I wanted to keep my first initial and middle name, but use my married name in lieu of my maiden, and that's what it was until I had the "flower season" revelation. And, I couldn't very well go around calling myself Flower. That wouldn't work. When I told my husband "Flora," he immediately frowned up his face, until I explained. " Flora is the spanish word for flower, and it has an old sound to it. I've been told that I have an old spirit, so it's fitting. Plus, people won't expect to see me [an African American woman] when they hear the name [Flora]." He was persuaded. And, with the opening of the file, an amendment to the name featured on the titled page, and the filing of the documentation with the Library of Congress, I renamed myself (for artistic purposes).
Even though I sent my book off to press during a winter month, I felt in my spirit that it was flower season. It was time for me to see beyond myself and think about the cultivation process. With Scattered Pieces and other books I author (speaking it into existence), I am sowing seeds. And in the process, I am encouraging people to weed their gardens. Identify the junk in our lives so we can grow free of it. My message isn't just for budding roses, but I also have a little something for weeds: Once you recognize the toxicity of your role, know that it's not too late to change it. It may not happen in the plant world, but as it pertains to people, it's never too late for a weed to turn into a flower. Christ performs this metamorphosis everyday. Through his love, grace, and mercy, all these are possible. We are all new creatures in Him.
So, who was Flora Season before she became Flora Season?
Shanita is a variation of my mother's first name. She wanted to name me explicitly after herself, but my father wouldn't allow it. I think in a sense he wanted me to have my own identity and not to be tied by hers. But, this is only speculation. I played around with several names to be placed on my book. At first, I said I would always publish under my father's surname (to show him that I made it without his presence) and using only my first initial because I thought I'd be able to sell more books with it. But, then again, I didn't want him tied to my success. So, then I wanted to keep my first initial and middle name, but use my married name in lieu of my maiden, and that's what it was until I had the "flower season" revelation. And, I couldn't very well go around calling myself Flower. That wouldn't work. When I told my husband "Flora," he immediately frowned up his face, until I explained. " Flora is the spanish word for flower, and it has an old sound to it. I've been told that I have an old spirit, so it's fitting. Plus, people won't expect to see me [an African American woman] when they hear the name [Flora]." He was persuaded. And, with the opening of the file, an amendment to the name featured on the titled page, and the filing of the documentation with the Library of Congress, I renamed myself (for artistic purposes).
Why don't you mention your birth name at all in the book?
I intentionally do not use my birth name or the names of my immediate relatives for two reasons: 1) legality and 2) privacy. My story is my truth, and I must respect the positions of others if they do not wish to share in it. Although my family was very supportive and well informed during the writing process, they are entitled to their privacy while I am delivering my testimony.
The changing of names does not make any of the occurrences any less factual. William Shakespeare said it best through his character Juliet: "... What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;..."
Until I Blog Again,
Flora Season
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Moving Pieces: People Connecting with the Story
My grandmother was the first person to purchase my book, but the first copy I ever signed was right here in Abilene, Texas, on March 2, 2010, just one day before my grandmother passed. As soon as I signed my first autograph, I immediately posted it on my page on Facebook. I didn't get a chance to tell her about it, but the feeling of autographing my work at the request of another was exhilarating, especially when the person is not a relative, friend, or general acquaintance.
I don't recall how it ever came up in conversation, but I ended up telling a lady at my children's daycare center that I was in the process of writing a book. Well, she made it her business to ask me every month about it's progress. When I told her it was in the publication process, she wanted to know as soon as it was available in print. Somedays I would act as if I was in a hurry or walk opposite of her direction just to avoid the conversation surrounding her anticipated question. I left town for about a month in December 2009 when I got word of my grandmother's declining health, and I withdrew my children from daycare during that time. When I returned after the new year, she asked me, "Is your book in stores yet?", and when I finally told her yes, she was thrilled. She was so excited that she couldn't wait to buy it in stores, I had to sell her one of my copies one morning when I dropped my children off to school. When I returned later that afternoon to pick them up, she said she was already at chapter 10! I gave her my concerned mother look, but she ensured me that all of her reading was done during the children's nap time and proclaimed how wonderful my book was and how she was unable to put it down. The woman was talking as fast as Six Lanier on the 90s sitcom, Blossom. All of the praise, in despite of my gratefulness, made me highly uncomfortable. I was prepared to defend my words, not to receive esteem for them. News about my book began to spread like wildfire around the childcare. The following day a woman kept bowing to me as she talked about my incredible feat. Although bowing in her culture is a sign of respect, onlookers stared in confusion before she told them that I recently published. The next thing I knew checks and ink pens were coming out. People wanted their copies right on the spot. I left for a couple of weeks for my grandmother's funeral and when I returned a few people had finished it and were prepared to give me feedback; meanwhile, others were still ready to place their order.
Recently, I signed up to do my first book signing. It will be at Hastings, in Abilene, Texas, on Saturday, April 24, 2010, from 1-5pm. I am glad that I am moving soon because I am not one for all of the attention. I never wanted to get used to it which is one reason why I chose to publish using a pseudonym. I am prepared to share with you next week one of my frequently asked questions: why I choose to be known as Flora Season as opposed to my birth name. Although my work is a memoir, I do not want people to get as caught up in me as the author as much as I want them to get caught up in the message. I wrote from the perspective of only one child victim, but I represent many. Sadly enough, I am less than unique in that regard. Are some of the things I wrote about very personal and subject to public scrutiny? ABSOLUTELY. But, the transparency was necessary. People who live abusive lifestyles must see the fruit of their senseless actions--the children who live day-to-day with those brutal images engraved into their psyche.
To date, the most rewarding part of being an author of a work of this magnitude is meeting and talking with other child victims--women and men; African Americans, Hispanics, and Caucasians; people of varying socio-economic statuses who are my age and older. Despite their personal accomplishments, their pain is still fervent in their stories. I have been best-friends with one young lady for several years and the first time she ever spoke with me about feelings carried over from her childhood was after she read my book. In fact, she has given me one of the most candid, yet heart-warming critiques.
So, I want to urge anyone who is reading my posts to help me get the message out there. Please support Scattered Pieces by Flora Season and the message within. If it's not in your bookstores and libraries, request it. If you're in a book club, select it as your club's read for the month. I am presently working on non-profit projects that will generate from your support.
I don't recall how it ever came up in conversation, but I ended up telling a lady at my children's daycare center that I was in the process of writing a book. Well, she made it her business to ask me every month about it's progress. When I told her it was in the publication process, she wanted to know as soon as it was available in print. Somedays I would act as if I was in a hurry or walk opposite of her direction just to avoid the conversation surrounding her anticipated question. I left town for about a month in December 2009 when I got word of my grandmother's declining health, and I withdrew my children from daycare during that time. When I returned after the new year, she asked me, "Is your book in stores yet?", and when I finally told her yes, she was thrilled. She was so excited that she couldn't wait to buy it in stores, I had to sell her one of my copies one morning when I dropped my children off to school. When I returned later that afternoon to pick them up, she said she was already at chapter 10! I gave her my concerned mother look, but she ensured me that all of her reading was done during the children's nap time and proclaimed how wonderful my book was and how she was unable to put it down. The woman was talking as fast as Six Lanier on the 90s sitcom, Blossom. All of the praise, in despite of my gratefulness, made me highly uncomfortable. I was prepared to defend my words, not to receive esteem for them. News about my book began to spread like wildfire around the childcare. The following day a woman kept bowing to me as she talked about my incredible feat. Although bowing in her culture is a sign of respect, onlookers stared in confusion before she told them that I recently published. The next thing I knew checks and ink pens were coming out. People wanted their copies right on the spot. I left for a couple of weeks for my grandmother's funeral and when I returned a few people had finished it and were prepared to give me feedback; meanwhile, others were still ready to place their order.
Recently, I signed up to do my first book signing. It will be at Hastings, in Abilene, Texas, on Saturday, April 24, 2010, from 1-5pm. I am glad that I am moving soon because I am not one for all of the attention. I never wanted to get used to it which is one reason why I chose to publish using a pseudonym. I am prepared to share with you next week one of my frequently asked questions: why I choose to be known as Flora Season as opposed to my birth name. Although my work is a memoir, I do not want people to get as caught up in me as the author as much as I want them to get caught up in the message. I wrote from the perspective of only one child victim, but I represent many. Sadly enough, I am less than unique in that regard. Are some of the things I wrote about very personal and subject to public scrutiny? ABSOLUTELY. But, the transparency was necessary. People who live abusive lifestyles must see the fruit of their senseless actions--the children who live day-to-day with those brutal images engraved into their psyche.
To date, the most rewarding part of being an author of a work of this magnitude is meeting and talking with other child victims--women and men; African Americans, Hispanics, and Caucasians; people of varying socio-economic statuses who are my age and older. Despite their personal accomplishments, their pain is still fervent in their stories. I have been best-friends with one young lady for several years and the first time she ever spoke with me about feelings carried over from her childhood was after she read my book. In fact, she has given me one of the most candid, yet heart-warming critiques.
So, I want to urge anyone who is reading my posts to help me get the message out there. Please support Scattered Pieces by Flora Season and the message within. If it's not in your bookstores and libraries, request it. If you're in a book club, select it as your club's read for the month. I am presently working on non-profit projects that will generate from your support.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Family Pieces: Remembering My Grandmother
Today's entry must divert from its course of publishing discussion to focus on a recent event that has affected the author.
On March 3, 2010, the day after I published my last entry, my grandmother passed away. For those who have read my book, Scattered Pieces, you have an idea of how much my grandmother meant to me. All of the successes I have been blessed to achieve can be accredited to all she has instilled in me. I have been able to endeavor undeterred because I knew that she, if no one else, believed in me. Her love was unconditional, and it knew no limits. She gave it, even if the recipient was unworthy.
My grandmother was the only person in the world whom I felt understood me, so when she passed I lost not just a grandmother, but a mother, a friend, a confidant, an ally. But, today, I write to you in the midst of my bereavement, not in mourning, but joyful. My heart is glad because of my many personal milestones that God had allowed her witness: my speeches, my graduations, my wedding, my children, and the publication of my first book. While many family members requested for me to give them a copy of my book, she was the first person to purchase one--and she never requested an autograph. That was my grandmother--giving without expectation. My grandmother, or "Mommom" as I affectionately called her, resided in Delaware while I was living in Texas. She'd call me up many nights just to discuss the book. She would mention names of characters and try to figure out their true identities. She'd laugh at my words while reminiscing. She would talk about some the events mentioned in the book, and try to feed me family information so that I could pen a sequel. I'd laugh, and tell her that it was my first and last memoir and that the focus of the book was not to be about my family per say, but about family cycles of domestic violence. In despite of how she may have interpreted my work, it felt good knowing my 68-years-old grandmother was actively reading my book. I can honestly say she was my biggest fan, and until the day she breathed her last breath, I was hers.
As a writer, I cannot walk away from the experience of feeling the absence of her life without transferring those emotions onto the page. For me, it's therapy; it's healing; it's honoring; it's remembering. And, in spite of the brevity of her life, she lived a full one--one that is worth writing about.
In keeping of my word, I will not pen another memoir or autobiography, but she will undoubtedly be the inspiration of many stories to come.
On March 3, 2010, the day after I published my last entry, my grandmother passed away. For those who have read my book, Scattered Pieces, you have an idea of how much my grandmother meant to me. All of the successes I have been blessed to achieve can be accredited to all she has instilled in me. I have been able to endeavor undeterred because I knew that she, if no one else, believed in me. Her love was unconditional, and it knew no limits. She gave it, even if the recipient was unworthy.
My grandmother was the only person in the world whom I felt understood me, so when she passed I lost not just a grandmother, but a mother, a friend, a confidant, an ally. But, today, I write to you in the midst of my bereavement, not in mourning, but joyful. My heart is glad because of my many personal milestones that God had allowed her witness: my speeches, my graduations, my wedding, my children, and the publication of my first book. While many family members requested for me to give them a copy of my book, she was the first person to purchase one--and she never requested an autograph. That was my grandmother--giving without expectation. My grandmother, or "Mommom" as I affectionately called her, resided in Delaware while I was living in Texas. She'd call me up many nights just to discuss the book. She would mention names of characters and try to figure out their true identities. She'd laugh at my words while reminiscing. She would talk about some the events mentioned in the book, and try to feed me family information so that I could pen a sequel. I'd laugh, and tell her that it was my first and last memoir and that the focus of the book was not to be about my family per say, but about family cycles of domestic violence. In despite of how she may have interpreted my work, it felt good knowing my 68-years-old grandmother was actively reading my book. I can honestly say she was my biggest fan, and until the day she breathed her last breath, I was hers.
As a writer, I cannot walk away from the experience of feeling the absence of her life without transferring those emotions onto the page. For me, it's therapy; it's healing; it's honoring; it's remembering. And, in spite of the brevity of her life, she lived a full one--one that is worth writing about.
In keeping of my word, I will not pen another memoir or autobiography, but she will undoubtedly be the inspiration of many stories to come.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Friendship Pieces: Mixing Business with Friendship
As stated in earlier pieces, my friends' encouragement gave me confidence to believe that they would support me with my self-publishing endeavor; however, some of their actions did not quite align with their words. Before I ever shoveled out a dime to self-publish, I ran the idea past two of my girlfriends who were working as publicists at the time. Both seemed eager to assist, and one even denied my offer of payment for rendered services since she considered me to be her sister. I spoke to them about my marketing ideas and even sent follow-up emails letting them know about every phase of the book's publication. Not once did either of them say they were too busy to help or was unsure about my project. It's natural for a friend to lack an author's zeal, but I thought I'd be helping them out financially as they would be equally helping me to market my book. But, the closer the book got to the printer, the louder their silence about my project and business proposition became. The sisterly side of me was deeply wounded by the less than minimal effort exuded by women who are dear to me. But, I refused to allow a verbal business agreement to sabotage decade long friendships.
I am a firm believer in the cliched saying, "when one door closes, another one opens," and that's exactly what happened. I was on Facebook one day when I noticed that one of my sorority sisters was working on a book of her own. I read a couple of her excerpts, and they just tickled me silly (another cliche). I decided to call her and commend her on her work. During our laughter and joke filled conversation, she began to discuss how she planned on marketing her book. And, that's when it clicked-- She has a background in P.R. and has done some of the most coveted internships for top P.R. firms in the nation. I wanted to pick her brain about how to market my book. I wasn't going to dare to ask another friend or close associate to do the publicity work for me again. I had resolved to doing it myself. But, after she heard about my book, her enthusiasm over my work was beyond my wildest imagination. This enthused lady hired herself! The wheels in her head started turning immediately (and yet another cliche), and she began running off marketing ideas. The woman was so excited that she even refused my offer of compensation for services rendered; however, I insisted. I wanted to compensate her for her work to show my gratitude and to keep things between us professional. If a person does good work, he or she deserves good pay, and besides people have a tendency to place pro bono jobs on the lower end of their priority list. I hung up the phone and immediately entered into praise and worship. Only God could get the glory for this because not only was our business relationship unexpected, she was also willing to work with my very small budget. In the middle of my praise session, I had a revelation. My new publicist was also a child who witnessed domestic violence. Our sisterhood now transcended our sorority affiliation.
God does everything for a reason. What started out as an unintended diss by two of my closest friends resulted in a wonderful blessing. I've spoken with both friends quite a few times after the publication and promotion for my book began, and both of them are voluntarily taking small roles in helping me promote through word of mouth and other kind deeds. I believe that their rejection was also a test for me. My old self never internalized rejection very well. I would have responded in rage, personalizing the actions as a malicious and deliberate attack, and I would have undoubtedly severed our friendship. The fact that I forgave them before they even sought my forgiveness is a true testament of personal and cognitive growth. It shows that I am no longer transferring unresolved feelings that I held for my father onto other people. It attests that the Scattered Pieces of my life have now, with God's help, been made whole.
Until I blog again,
Flora
I am a firm believer in the cliched saying, "when one door closes, another one opens," and that's exactly what happened. I was on Facebook one day when I noticed that one of my sorority sisters was working on a book of her own. I read a couple of her excerpts, and they just tickled me silly (another cliche). I decided to call her and commend her on her work. During our laughter and joke filled conversation, she began to discuss how she planned on marketing her book. And, that's when it clicked-- She has a background in P.R. and has done some of the most coveted internships for top P.R. firms in the nation. I wanted to pick her brain about how to market my book. I wasn't going to dare to ask another friend or close associate to do the publicity work for me again. I had resolved to doing it myself. But, after she heard about my book, her enthusiasm over my work was beyond my wildest imagination. This enthused lady hired herself! The wheels in her head started turning immediately (and yet another cliche), and she began running off marketing ideas. The woman was so excited that she even refused my offer of compensation for services rendered; however, I insisted. I wanted to compensate her for her work to show my gratitude and to keep things between us professional. If a person does good work, he or she deserves good pay, and besides people have a tendency to place pro bono jobs on the lower end of their priority list. I hung up the phone and immediately entered into praise and worship. Only God could get the glory for this because not only was our business relationship unexpected, she was also willing to work with my very small budget. In the middle of my praise session, I had a revelation. My new publicist was also a child who witnessed domestic violence. Our sisterhood now transcended our sorority affiliation.
God does everything for a reason. What started out as an unintended diss by two of my closest friends resulted in a wonderful blessing. I've spoken with both friends quite a few times after the publication and promotion for my book began, and both of them are voluntarily taking small roles in helping me promote through word of mouth and other kind deeds. I believe that their rejection was also a test for me. My old self never internalized rejection very well. I would have responded in rage, personalizing the actions as a malicious and deliberate attack, and I would have undoubtedly severed our friendship. The fact that I forgave them before they even sought my forgiveness is a true testament of personal and cognitive growth. It shows that I am no longer transferring unresolved feelings that I held for my father onto other people. It attests that the Scattered Pieces of my life have now, with God's help, been made whole.
Until I blog again,
Flora
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Starting Pieces: From My Computer to the Publisher's Desk
"What excerpt do you want on your hardcover jacket?"
"Please provide a synopsis of your book for your paperback."
"What excerpt do you want featured on Google, Amazon, and the like?"
"Please provide us with your personal bio."
"What categories does your book fall under?"
"Please provide a 300 word count summary of your book."
"Please provide a 100 word count summary of your book."
"Please provide us with an author photo."
"Please provide us with details or .jpeg files for your book cover design."
These are just snap shots of the publisher's requirements for the author. Yes, the publisher is designing, publishing and distributing the book, but there is still so much to be done on the part of the author.
Once all of the requested information was submitted along with my signed contract and completed manuscript, I had to wait several weeks to receive electronic proofs of my book. This process is the same for all areas of publishing: traditional or self-publishing. Every proof had to be reviewed and noted for errors. The more errors discovered, either on the part of the author or the publisher, the longer the process is for the book's completion in print form. The first proofs I viewed were for the book's cover. I could not believe my eyes when I saw it for the first time on my computer screen. I was literally in awe. My husband and I both were blown away by it; it far exceeded our expectations. Immediately, we shared the cover with our closest friends, and I made sure to submit a copy of it to my friends who I thought were a part of my P.R. team. My initial shock could not be long-lived because I had to scan every inch of the cover to find something that did not meet my standards. When I discovered flaws, they had to be noted on my Proof Correction sheet. No changes would be made by the publisher unless it was typed on that form. Then, I was responsible for surveying each and every page of my manuscript to ensure that every word was as it was intended to be prior to publication. Often times when the publisher is configuring a manuscript for printing, errors could occur due to the shifting of font, graphics, etc. In a matter of a few hours, I found all that I was trying to find. I am quite sure that a few items were overlooked on my part, but as I stated previously, I was beyond tired of working and reworking my manuscript at this point. So, when the time came, I submitted the forms back to the design crew of the publishing house and waited. And, waited. And, waited some more. I contacted the design crew several times to find out the progress of my book. Each time, I was greeted by a generic emailed reply. I received emails even when I requested phone calls. When I took it upon myself to initiate a call, I often received a voicemail that welcomed me to leave a message that, of course, was never returned. On three three separate occasions, I approved the final proofs of my book, set the price that I wanted it sold as, and confirmed my mailing address, and after each time my book was never sent to the printer. Finally, I reached someone on the phone to express my displeasure and that was when my book finally went to print. It was during the week of Christmas 2009. Three weeks later, I received my first review copies in the mail. And, another three later, I received several promotional items for my press kits: Scattered Pieces business cards, bookmarks, and post cards. Now, all I have to do is successfully market my blessed book so that I can begin to recoup some of the money that I put out to have it self-published, which brings about it's own set of unique challenges. Can't wait to share them with you next Tuesday.
Until I blog again,
Flora Season
"Please provide a synopsis of your book for your paperback."
"What excerpt do you want featured on Google, Amazon, and the like?"
"Please provide us with your personal bio."
"What categories does your book fall under?"
"Please provide a 300 word count summary of your book."
"Please provide a 100 word count summary of your book."
"Please provide us with an author photo."
"Please provide us with details or .jpeg files for your book cover design."
These are just snap shots of the publisher's requirements for the author. Yes, the publisher is designing, publishing and distributing the book, but there is still so much to be done on the part of the author.
Once all of the requested information was submitted along with my signed contract and completed manuscript, I had to wait several weeks to receive electronic proofs of my book. This process is the same for all areas of publishing: traditional or self-publishing. Every proof had to be reviewed and noted for errors. The more errors discovered, either on the part of the author or the publisher, the longer the process is for the book's completion in print form. The first proofs I viewed were for the book's cover. I could not believe my eyes when I saw it for the first time on my computer screen. I was literally in awe. My husband and I both were blown away by it; it far exceeded our expectations. Immediately, we shared the cover with our closest friends, and I made sure to submit a copy of it to my friends who I thought were a part of my P.R. team. My initial shock could not be long-lived because I had to scan every inch of the cover to find something that did not meet my standards. When I discovered flaws, they had to be noted on my Proof Correction sheet. No changes would be made by the publisher unless it was typed on that form. Then, I was responsible for surveying each and every page of my manuscript to ensure that every word was as it was intended to be prior to publication. Often times when the publisher is configuring a manuscript for printing, errors could occur due to the shifting of font, graphics, etc. In a matter of a few hours, I found all that I was trying to find. I am quite sure that a few items were overlooked on my part, but as I stated previously, I was beyond tired of working and reworking my manuscript at this point. So, when the time came, I submitted the forms back to the design crew of the publishing house and waited. And, waited. And, waited some more. I contacted the design crew several times to find out the progress of my book. Each time, I was greeted by a generic emailed reply. I received emails even when I requested phone calls. When I took it upon myself to initiate a call, I often received a voicemail that welcomed me to leave a message that, of course, was never returned. On three three separate occasions, I approved the final proofs of my book, set the price that I wanted it sold as, and confirmed my mailing address, and after each time my book was never sent to the printer. Finally, I reached someone on the phone to express my displeasure and that was when my book finally went to print. It was during the week of Christmas 2009. Three weeks later, I received my first review copies in the mail. And, another three later, I received several promotional items for my press kits: Scattered Pieces business cards, bookmarks, and post cards. Now, all I have to do is successfully market my blessed book so that I can begin to recoup some of the money that I put out to have it self-published, which brings about it's own set of unique challenges. Can't wait to share them with you next Tuesday.
Until I blog again,
Flora Season
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Editing Pieces: The Role of the Editor and the Author
If a writer desires a preview to how the public may receive her work, she should submit it to an editor. I definitely was unprepared for the response I received. I found my editing company online. It wasn't the cheapest company by far, but it also wasn't the most expensive. The owner of the company, a current university associate professor, kept in constant contact with me. He seemed as if he was hungry for my business. I liked his approach. Some of the editors I contacted came off as pompous as they read me their tiresome professional resume as an answer to whether or not they'd be willing to negotiate on their price. I needed someone who I could have a working relationship with. Someone personable. The proprietor of the editing company I selected requested a sample of my work to determine the cost for services. He sent me an original response, not some template, and gave me a brief critique of my writing. He said that he saw my message as timely and necessary. From there, he assigned me to one of his associate editors who specializes in biographies.
For ten days, I did not allow my phone to leave my side. I checked my email icon every several minutes. The anticipation of waiting for the editor's feedback surely minimized my life expectancy. My husband and I were laying in bed watching a movie one Saturday afternoon when the "1 New Message" icon suddenly appeared on my phone. I pushed the symbol in hopes that it would be an email from the editor, but when I saw that it was, fear and nervousness suddenly overcame me. I laid there, unknowingly biting off my fingernails, one by one. I excused myself from our movie and walked into our home office, closing the door behind me. I needed to be alone to face what I feared--criticism. This editor didn't know me, he never met me; all he knew of me came from the substance of my writing. The email he sent me contained two attachments-- 1) his five page, single spaced report and 2) my manuscript coupled with his editing markings. The first attachment I opened was his report. He gave a very thorough breakdown of the book. He summarized the chapters, commented on the books readability/flow/organization, commented on whether he thought it had a chance at publication, commented on my writing style, commented on my character development and main idea, and finally he interjected his overall opinion as a reader. I completely agreed with everything he advised, but I had a personal problem with his outlook on me. I felt like with all of his education he still completely missed the most obvious point of the book. It wasn't about me trying to list every single wrong that every single person ever did to me and use the book as a platform to shout them out about it. No. The point was to show how I processed things. How I internalized them. How I had these social mishaps because of my early experiences with being subjected to witnessing family violence. It was about how I struggled to fight against my natural inclinations in order to be honorable. To say the least, I was very emotional after reading his comments. But, his comments helped me. He helped me to get prepared for the public's reaction to my work. And, if he wasn't getting my message, it was my job, as a writer, to make my message more clear.
I opened up his second attachment, my edited manuscript. I quickly scrolled through all two hundred pages of it and quickly became overwhelmed. There wasn't a single page that did not have a suggested correction. It was like reading and writing my story all over again. I honestly believe that I spent more time editing my book than I did actually writing it. While I read his editing remarks, I cussed and fussed all the while following much of his advice. By the time I finished, I never wanted to read a single page of my own book again. I was sick of seeing it. I had memorized many of the pages. I was ready to get it off of my computer and send it directly to the publisher's printer. Little did I know, that even required proofing!
Until Next Week,
Flora
For ten days, I did not allow my phone to leave my side. I checked my email icon every several minutes. The anticipation of waiting for the editor's feedback surely minimized my life expectancy. My husband and I were laying in bed watching a movie one Saturday afternoon when the "1 New Message" icon suddenly appeared on my phone. I pushed the symbol in hopes that it would be an email from the editor, but when I saw that it was, fear and nervousness suddenly overcame me. I laid there, unknowingly biting off my fingernails, one by one. I excused myself from our movie and walked into our home office, closing the door behind me. I needed to be alone to face what I feared--criticism. This editor didn't know me, he never met me; all he knew of me came from the substance of my writing. The email he sent me contained two attachments-- 1) his five page, single spaced report and 2) my manuscript coupled with his editing markings. The first attachment I opened was his report. He gave a very thorough breakdown of the book. He summarized the chapters, commented on the books readability/flow/organization, commented on whether he thought it had a chance at publication, commented on my writing style, commented on my character development and main idea, and finally he interjected his overall opinion as a reader. I completely agreed with everything he advised, but I had a personal problem with his outlook on me. I felt like with all of his education he still completely missed the most obvious point of the book. It wasn't about me trying to list every single wrong that every single person ever did to me and use the book as a platform to shout them out about it. No. The point was to show how I processed things. How I internalized them. How I had these social mishaps because of my early experiences with being subjected to witnessing family violence. It was about how I struggled to fight against my natural inclinations in order to be honorable. To say the least, I was very emotional after reading his comments. But, his comments helped me. He helped me to get prepared for the public's reaction to my work. And, if he wasn't getting my message, it was my job, as a writer, to make my message more clear.
I opened up his second attachment, my edited manuscript. I quickly scrolled through all two hundred pages of it and quickly became overwhelmed. There wasn't a single page that did not have a suggested correction. It was like reading and writing my story all over again. I honestly believe that I spent more time editing my book than I did actually writing it. While I read his editing remarks, I cussed and fussed all the while following much of his advice. By the time I finished, I never wanted to read a single page of my own book again. I was sick of seeing it. I had memorized many of the pages. I was ready to get it off of my computer and send it directly to the publisher's printer. Little did I know, that even required proofing!
Until Next Week,
Flora
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Publishing Pieces: To Publish or To Self-Publish, This is the Question?
I, as with most other aspiring writers, would have loved nothing more than to market my manuscript to various publishing agents and have one believe in my work enough to represent it and pitch it to large publishing houses. Seeing an advance check made out to me that displayed more than a couple of zeroes would have been, indeed, lovely. I would have proclaimed from the nearest mountain top, "I am an accomplished author!" before tithing and paying off several of my debts. But, the reality is it could take weeks, months, or even years for a publishing agent to believe in your work as much as you. Completing the manuscript is only half the battle. Getting the book published by a reputable publishing company and not a small press is the war.
Knowing how personal Scattered Pieces is to me, and how quickly I wanted to get my voice out into the open market swayed me to begin looking more seriously into self-publishing. The key self-publishing component that won me over was the fact that I would receive larger royalties. Sure, I would be putting more money out upfront as opposed to the backend, but ultimately, if sales went well, I had the potential to make even more money, I could still get re-published by a major publishing house, and I would be in complete control of my project. And, as a woman who has a naturally aggressive personality, I like being in control. So, as with any good consumer, I shopped around. I read up on several independent presses until I finally chose Trafford. Trafford offered me the most bang for my buck. I said to myself, "Alright. With self-publishing you'll be completely on your own with marketing your work. Is it at all possible that you can do this by yourself?" My immediate answer was, "No". However, I knew several individuals with Public Relations backgrounds who could help me. Also, I was confident that my immediate networking circle was large enough to provide me with an initial fan base. I asked my friends and associates with backgrounds in public relations if they'd be willing to assist me with promoting my project, and each of them said, "yes". Their support left no doubt in my mind that I could be a successful self-publishing author.
After I believed I had my P.R. team assembled, I began allowing others to read the first fifty pages of my manuscript. I selected individuals from various ethnic backgrounds, various religions, and various occupations. It was also important that I was not close friends with them, because I desired to obtain their unbiased feedback. The reception I received for Scattered Pieces was astounding. Their feedback let me know that it was good enough to appeal to a large, diverse audience and that it was ready to be pushed forward to a professional editor. The manuscript editing process was definitely more challenging than I anticipated. I can't wait to tell you more about it next Tuesday, February 9, 2010.
Until I Blog Again,
Flora
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Inspiring Pieces: The Inspiration for the book, "Scattered Pieces"
Few things are more amazing than seeing your vision come to fruition. Opening the box sent from the publisher and removing from it the review copy of my book felt surreal. I held the hardback in my hands while examining every inch of it, seeing for the first time my words, my thoughts, my feelings captured on bound pages, and in that very moment my mind raced back to the morning when I drafted the first line in a marble composition book that I had since my first semester as a college freshman, at Delaware State University.
They say in psychology that one of the best ways to bring a person to self-awareness is to have them draft their autobiography. And, that's exactly what I did as I recovered from my surgery, January 2009. My husband demanded that I remain in the bed to properly heal, and aside from watching senseless television, I had nothing better to do than to think about why I am how I am and why am I so often misunderstood. I decided to think back to the beginning--to the very first memory that jumped out at me. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, you have the introduction to my book. My mind was flooded by the introductory scene. It was as if it was screaming to be freed from the thought. On my dresser I noticed a marble composition book. It happened to be the book that I took my Literature and Composition notes in as a first semester freshman, at Delaware State University. I found a blank page to begin my release. I copied the scene onto the pages exactly as it played in my mind. I captured everything in it that I could remember but the smell of the duplex. The smell was overshadowed by what my eyes witnessed and my mind locked away. As I wrote, tears streamed down my cheek to drip onto the pages. My right hand quivered as I continued to grip the pen. I wrote as if my life depended on it. It was almost as if I re-lived the moment. In deed I did. During the remainder of that week that I rested, I penned the first three chapters of what became to be Scattered Pieces, and when that week came to a close and the demands of work took precedence, I closed the composition book, sat it back on my dresser, and didn't bother to touch it again until mid-March 2009. After all, what time does a high school English teacher have to create, especially when she is giving all she has to ensure that her students can pass the writing section of their state testing, and when she is dedicating what little time she has left to her first semester as a graduate student majoring in English?
They say in psychology that one of the best ways to bring a person to self-awareness is to have them draft their autobiography. And, that's exactly what I did as I recovered from my surgery, January 2009. My husband demanded that I remain in the bed to properly heal, and aside from watching senseless television, I had nothing better to do than to think about why I am how I am and why am I so often misunderstood. I decided to think back to the beginning--to the very first memory that jumped out at me. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, you have the introduction to my book. My mind was flooded by the introductory scene. It was as if it was screaming to be freed from the thought. On my dresser I noticed a marble composition book. It happened to be the book that I took my Literature and Composition notes in as a first semester freshman, at Delaware State University. I found a blank page to begin my release. I copied the scene onto the pages exactly as it played in my mind. I captured everything in it that I could remember but the smell of the duplex. The smell was overshadowed by what my eyes witnessed and my mind locked away. As I wrote, tears streamed down my cheek to drip onto the pages. My right hand quivered as I continued to grip the pen. I wrote as if my life depended on it. It was almost as if I re-lived the moment. In deed I did. During the remainder of that week that I rested, I penned the first three chapters of what became to be Scattered Pieces, and when that week came to a close and the demands of work took precedence, I closed the composition book, sat it back on my dresser, and didn't bother to touch it again until mid-March 2009. After all, what time does a high school English teacher have to create, especially when she is giving all she has to ensure that her students can pass the writing section of their state testing, and when she is dedicating what little time she has left to her first semester as a graduate student majoring in English?
The composition book and I reunited during Spring break when I found plenty of opportunities to write: at the airport, on the plane, and in my best friend, K's, bedroom while I lay awake bored as she continued to enjoy her slumber. One afternoon, while she and I visited a small Santa Monica cafe, K perused my sketchbook. She followed every carrot and arrow while ignoring every cross-out and side notation and became engaged in my writing. She asked questions and named characters and believed (from her television producer perspective) that the beginning phase of my book had the potential for greatness. She saw possibilities for my sketches that I had yet to envision. At that moment, I became confident enough to publish, but she nor I had the first inkling as to how to go about doing it. Later that evening, she introduced me to someone who was very knowledgeable about book publication, and he gave me an overdose of his vast understanding of the field. I took K's encouragement and his guidance to start conducting my own research, and the word "overwhelmed" does not begin to explain what I felt. I came to a crossroad: Do I place all of my energy into a work only to have someone else determine its worth, or do I invest into something I believe in? This crossroad is better known as the publishing dilemma: Should a writer seek traditional means of publishing or take the risk to self-publish? I'll share with you the path I chose and why during our next meeting, on Tuesday, February 2. So, until we meet again...
Peace and Love,
Flora Season
Peace and Love,
Flora Season
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