by susan | Dec 18, 2012 | Uncategorized
a close friend of mine earned her executive MBA recently, attending a highly ranked program and working harder than you can imagine to do so. she had to do some group work, she had to write papers. she assessed case studies and performed calculations, and had to submit all of her work to professors for their critique and grade.
ugh. I shudder just thinking about it. I’ve had my turn in grad school, but it was long enough ago that the memories (and anxiety) have faded.
talking with my friend today, though, brought back those moments of stress, those uncomfortable times when I had to subject myself to someone’s assessment of my work.
and here I am again.
I created a written work, poured hours and days, weeks, months, years into this manuscript, then spent weeks formatting, proofing, tweaking it into a form I liked. I then pushed the “yes” button and ordered printed copies, and made them available for sale. I eventually created an email campaign to send to close friends and loved ones letting them know about my milestone.
it’s like I’ve written term papers for all my classes, handed them in, and have to now suffer the consequences: I feel like I’m back in school. being graded. scrutinized. having opinions formed about. waiting for word of whether or not I’m going to pass.
I’m astonished by how uncomfortable this all makes me. I’ve been posting to blogs for over 4 years now, so I have apparently become comfortable with “putting myself out there.” why, now, do I suddenly feel such great discomfort when discussing my book with people? the only reason I can find is that I am nervous about the grade. I’ve sailed through 19 years of education with terrific grades: I now am surrounded by fears that what I most love, what fuels me and makes my soul sing, is not going to earn an “A” out in the world.
so, here I am, back in school. author school. manning up, remembering that I have the right to create what I create, to work the way I want to, to express myself in ways that work for me. learning the ropes, learning to subject myself to the feedback, opinions, and grades of others. my friend did it, even graduated and is now succeeding in the real world. she did it, she survived . . . guess I can do it, too.
I think I’ll give myself an A.
by susan | Dec 6, 2012 | Uncategorized
life shifts in subtle ways daily, most so minor we can neither see nor feel them. we age, our bike tires wear thinner and thinner, dust collects on our bedside stack of books.
and then there are larger shifts: we give birth, we change jobs, we move. we choose a new school, a new career, a new partner, we take up a new sport.
I’ve been through so many shifts and changes in the past 10 years I don’t know that I could ever list them all, but today’s is momentous, so I am sharing it here: my first book is in print! (well, it’s not my first book, but it’s the first of my books to be in print.)
released yesterday, Faith Greater Than Pain is available on amazon.com, createspace.com, and on FaithGreaterThanPain.com.
Doc Cleland and I have been working on this project together since june of 2010, and we are thrilled to be where we are, with a real book in hand. we are in the midst of marketing madness, working on mailing lists and store contacts and bribery lists . . . asking everyone we know to help spread the word, using every tool we have to get the information out.
I, of course, would rather just be writing away on my next project (stay tuned), but for the last chunk of time I’ve been editing, proofing, and formatting, and now I’ve plunked my marketing cap on my head. writing me is not pleased, but realistic me knows that as gratifying as it is to write, it’s even more gratifying if someone actually reads what you write.
so, if you’re intrigued, here’s a link to doc’s great video that tells you about the book, and if you have a spare moment in your day today, wish me well. wish me sales and positive reviews, wish me fulfillment and encouragement to keep on with the next project.
because as sure as my tires wear thinner and those wrinkles around my eyes deepen, I dream about spending the rest of my life writing, and–ideally–being read.
by susan | Nov 6, 2012 | what I'm reading
I’m easily won over, easily turned-off, slow-to-warm, head over heels, reluctant, skeptical, leery, gullible . . . all of these things, as a reader.
I can fall in love with a book during the first page and refuse to let go, I can pick apart a paragraph and sink my teeth into an errant word and never forgive for the rest of the book. I can begin a book and set it aside in indifference, then pick it up again the next month and devour it. I sometimes read a book because it’s good for me. I have finally learned to stop reading–put down, give away, banish–books I don’t care for.
in reading tributary, by barbara richardson, I was engrossed immediately, and the fire kept its heat–sometimes a low golden flame, sometimes a hot flash and crackle–through to the very end, when, at the last sentence, I fell completely and deeply in love.
a similar thing has happened to me before. I’ll read a book, I’ll enjoy the read, even be eager to open to my bookmark each day, but not fall in love with it until after I’ve read the final page: these are the times a book’s impact can’t be known until it’s all been absorbed.
but this was different; the last line of tributary made me emotionally swoon. now don’t go cheating and pick up her book and read the last line: you have to earn your way there. not that the work is hard. tributary, clair martin’s story, is told so perfectly, so intriguingly and with such heartfelt honesty, that the work of reading it is only that of keeping your body comfortable as your hands and eyes perform their tasks that allow your mind to play along with barbara’s tale.
I’m a spiritual girl, always looking for meaning and bigger stories, larger pictures, connection and compassion. clair martin is as matter-of-fact and I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it as they come. not only did barbara’s story-telling make me admire and love clair martin, it eventually allowed for clair and I to see the world similarly and cause me to fall in love.
and that’s what I want to say about reading tributary. you can go read any review you want, or go with sandra dallas’ statement that “you’ll love resolute Clair Martin, the equal of any man–or religion. Clair’s strength and survival are the heritage of western women” to give you more of an idea about the book. I’m sticking with my words about reading the book, about its impact on me . . . it was entirely worth every minute I spent reading it, and every minute that last line comes back to tug at my soul.
in fact, it would be more accurate to say the read and its impact on me was–unexpectedly–priceless. tributary is one of those books I want to keep, always, on my bookshelf.
by susan | Oct 22, 2012 | Uncategorized
I’ve always wanted a mentor.
someone who’d take me under their wing, provide guidance and wisdom and support, help me connect with those people I’m supposed to connect with. someone wiser, more established, someone who’s been there and done that. instead, my experience has been that most everyone I meet is in the same boat as I am in, using similar oars, being frustrated by the same currents and storms and periods of flat water and drifting. this isn’t to say that I’ve never had hands reach out for mine and offer assistance; it’s just to say that it’s my dream to have someone who knows more than me, who knows better than me, to be in my corner.
(I’ve recently had someone come into my life who is, in a way, playing this role . . . it is early, there is much still unknown, but it’s possible we may move more into the mentor-mentee relationship. I am grateful for what he and his wife have shared with me so far, and want to acknowledge this . . . thanks mark and kirsten.)
thus, in the spirit of mahatma gandhi who encourages us to be the change we wish to see in the world, I am working to share what I know, what I possess, who I am, with those who are trying to paddle through waters similar to those I choose to travel.
I have a friend who has written a manuscript–with her daughter as co-author–that is languishing in a cobwebbed computer file. it needs attention: reviewing, tweaking, possibly editing . . . it needs to be read by someone else, someone who has some experience with writing and editing. thus I offered to read it, to give my opinion of what might need to happen next, where it might go. it happens to be a YA (young adult) book . . . I happen to know someone with multiple connections in that area. I will do everything I can to help this friend and her daughter move forward with this manuscript, hopefully all the way to publication.
I have another friend who’s written a manuscript which I reviewed, offering suggestions and fixing errors and typos. she’s leaning toward self-publication, and I offered to do anything I can to help her in that process, including formatting it.
I do these things because I’m able, because I receive some internal fulfillment from doing them, and, ultimately, because these are the things I myself wish to receive. some say that the universe will respond, which would be fantastic. but even if it doesn’t, I am deeply gratified by being even a small part of the creation of a book, whether it’s my own or someone else’s. I’m quite certain mahatma would have felt the same.
by susan | Sep 2, 2012 | what I'm reading
victor ladato’s mathilda savitch is atop my current stack of books.
if you’d like a professional, or at least well-thought-out critical review, you could search online. I’m just going to tell you what my experience of reading it was: not a lot of fancy words or phrases, no references to other authors or works. just my reactions.
mathilda savitch is the 13-ish narrator of this book who starts off with this opening line: I want to be awful. not only did she hook me right there, she kept me with her through the entire 292 pages of the book. I might have slipped away for a paragraph or two here and there, and I at times wanted to shake her, but I cared enough–and was intrigued enough–to stay with her through the end.
mathilda’s sixteen-year-old sister died the year before, and their parents are in the throes of grief, the father seeming to handle it better than the mother. there is some small mystery–to mathilda–about her sister’s activities before her death, and mathilda’s pain-driven mischievous behavior results from some combination of denial, bewilderment, and a sense of abandonment. in the not-too-subtle background is a message of fear resulting from terrorist-related activities, both the 2001 events and a “current” bombing somewhere in the states.
I could have done without the terrorist piece. it felt artificial and perhaps even overdone to me: I would have enjoyed the story more without what felt like a “sensational” drawing in of the terrorism theme. it may be realistic to have this young girl worried about bombs and airplane attacks, however, it just felt like the message of an overly-beaten drum.
this is victor lodato’s first novel: he’s a playwright and poet with a quite a few awards, fellowships, and recognitions for his work. his creation and portrayal of the internal world of a middle-school-age female is impressive, and beautiful. mathilda may just stick around with me for a while: always an indication of a powerful book.
I will eagerly pick up mr. lodato’s next novel . . . and that should tell you something.
also in the reading stack:
escalante: the best kind of nothing (brooke williams) I’m working my way through this, more later
on the loose, a classic I’d never heard of until I read about it in the afore-mentioned book, also more later
the spectator bird, wallace stegner: I’ve committed to working my way through his books for the pure pleasure of his beautiful writing style
desert solitaire, edward abbey. there’s really no excuse for my not having read this yet.
more later!
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