It all started with an article in the Washington Post six months ago, the trouble, that is.
I had been retired from the federal government for some ten years, where I had become heartily sick of seeing and having to write c.
y.
a.
papers and having to put up with four-syllable words, where, to my mind, one or two syllables would have sufficed.
For several years after retirement, I relished writing poetry for the freedom it gave me.
After all, it was mine, and no bureaucracy could pound it into mediocrity.
And even if it were mediocre, I could take responsibility for that failure myself, thank you.
Next, I got my feet wet in a writing class.
I was apprehensive.
This was putting my ego on the line.
But, they all seemed to be positive about the pictures I had created on paper.
So, self-esteem buoyed up, I started sitting on the chaise lounge in my bedroom (just like my grandmother used to do), choosing pens whose ink sunk into the paper.
I wrote.
No, wait.
Something else came first.
I reread Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, and I began to wonder if there were any action in today's society that could cause someone to be shunned.
About that same time there popped up on the television news a story about a Baptist minister who was shunned by his own church and community for preaching about Hell and damnation.
That was the beginning of my murder mystery about a couple who were both shunned, he for his views on Hell, and she for attacking the antidepressant industry after their son's death from an overdose.
I loved to write.
It was like grabbing onto skeins of threads that were already there and following them, untangling them, until I reached the end.
In a way, it wasn't my creation; it already lay there, waiting for me to disclose it.
But, oh the proofing! Over and over I typed and retyped new versions.
Every time I looked there seemed to be errata - what a nasty word - lying in wait for me to find them.
They were probably hiding behind some verbage bush somewhere.
I asked my son to read it, my nephew read it, always correcting and emending and suggesting amendments.
My husband, reading it after it was published, found a half-dozen errors.
Too late.
It was done.
I could have kicked myself for letting that damn spell-check change words on its own.
The worst was when it changed Corporal Silvano's title to corporeal.
That computer thought it was so smart.
If I had known, as an old fogey, that I would be required to learn about formatting, copyrights, how to write query letters to publishers and to know how to deal with the pushy world of marketing a product -if I had known, I would have decided that publishing a book was far too overwhelming.
But thank God I didn't know.
I knew I was old, but I also knew how to order books from amazon on the internet, to send e-mails, even do power point.
Many of my friends seemed to be behind me in these abilities.
How naïve I was! It was probably God's way of protecting fools and children.
I jumped into writing contests, losing the contests every time after I had paid my $25 fee.
They all did give me, however, numerous subscriptions to journals.
I suppose it was good practice, learning the requirements for submissions, the need for manila envelopes, the s.
a.
s.
e requirements.
I found out how to click the computer key to magically send my writing to someone in another state who might never read it.
Next, I moved to the big guns, the snobbish New York and big city publishers who had existed for generations.
Nothing.
Something was obviously not working for me.
What was wrong? Was I really a horrible writer disguising myself as a good one? I bought marketing guides, learned what genre I was in, and how to spell the word.
I tried again, submitting my manuscript to a dozen publishers.
They forced me to write short synopses, long summaries, my biography in an exact number of words.
They all responded proudly, telling me that they had hundreds of manuscripts to read, that I was unknown, and that only an idiot didn't have an agent.
So, I looked into agents, who were just as proud as the publishers, barring their doors from those of us who dared to think we could write.
I, like a sheep, did whatever they wanted- chapters, marketing plans, the correct fonts.
I wonder now why I did not quit the whole process.
The funny thing is that I always had hope.
This had become my own small business, and for the first time in my life, I was like so many other Americans working day and night, not beholden to the federal government.
It was then that I saw that article in the Post.
It said that there was a new way to publish, to circumvent publishers.
It was called e-publishing.
The writer made it sound so easy.
Smashwords and Amazon would publish my book, with no money changing hands.
Was there a trick, I wondered? The article said that other people were doing it.
There was the story about a woman whose book sold 12,000 copies, after which it was picked up by a sedate publishing company.
How did it happen? I was really fascinated.
It seemed that she had 500 friends on Facebook, who, in turn, recommended her book to their friends.
And, she had a web site.
I could do that, I told myself.
And so I began.
My saving grace was finding a great graphics person named Cal who formatted my book for digital publishing (Nook, Kindle, I-pad, etc.
) and paperback, helped with the cover and even designed a web site for me for a reasonable cost.
I have never met him face-to-face, but I hope to thank him some day.
And there was my son - always offering ways to make the computer do what I wanted.
Actually, what I really wanted to do was to pick up the machine and throw it down the stairs.
Also, there was my nephew who asked the right questions and proofed every one of the 82,000 plus agonizing words.
Finally, in the fall of 2012, the day came when the book was accepted by Smashwords and Amazon.
I will never forget when the first paperback arrived at my house, for you see, we fogies prefer paper to in-the-cloud words.
But, that's not the end of the story.
Did I mention marketing? This phase really could have been my waterloo, for there seems to be no end to it.
One is never finished; there is always more to do, which is why I am writing this article.
Of course, I started with Facebook (actually, I have learned to like communicating that way.
) Next, I sent out copies for friends and professionals to read, wrote dozens of old-fashioned e-mails, harangued friends and relatives who happened to be in my address book.
I wrote press releases to local newspapers.
I even got to the point where I wasn't embarrassed to hand out informational post cards.
Believe it or not, I am really not a pushy person.
At this stage of my life, how did I arrive at the point where I was not mortified to sell my book? A very important reason was the positive support and reviews I received at the beginning.
It seemed that people actually like the book! I began to be proud of my writing.
It was mine, it was good, and it would remain here after I was gone.
Today, I have five or six short stories that need to be sewn into novels.
I can't wait until I get my first-born off and on its own, so I can make more.
I'm proud to be a fogey, for only we have the experiences of a lifetime to share.
And, I have a message for you erudite publishers - the paradigm in the publishing world is changing.
Don't look down your noses at the writers of e-published books.
I am proud to have learned the system and survived in my senior years! By Cynthia Hearne Darling November 1, 2012
I had been retired from the federal government for some ten years, where I had become heartily sick of seeing and having to write c.
y.
a.
papers and having to put up with four-syllable words, where, to my mind, one or two syllables would have sufficed.
For several years after retirement, I relished writing poetry for the freedom it gave me.
After all, it was mine, and no bureaucracy could pound it into mediocrity.
And even if it were mediocre, I could take responsibility for that failure myself, thank you.
Next, I got my feet wet in a writing class.
I was apprehensive.
This was putting my ego on the line.
But, they all seemed to be positive about the pictures I had created on paper.
So, self-esteem buoyed up, I started sitting on the chaise lounge in my bedroom (just like my grandmother used to do), choosing pens whose ink sunk into the paper.
I wrote.
No, wait.
Something else came first.
I reread Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, and I began to wonder if there were any action in today's society that could cause someone to be shunned.
About that same time there popped up on the television news a story about a Baptist minister who was shunned by his own church and community for preaching about Hell and damnation.
That was the beginning of my murder mystery about a couple who were both shunned, he for his views on Hell, and she for attacking the antidepressant industry after their son's death from an overdose.
I loved to write.
It was like grabbing onto skeins of threads that were already there and following them, untangling them, until I reached the end.
In a way, it wasn't my creation; it already lay there, waiting for me to disclose it.
But, oh the proofing! Over and over I typed and retyped new versions.
Every time I looked there seemed to be errata - what a nasty word - lying in wait for me to find them.
They were probably hiding behind some verbage bush somewhere.
I asked my son to read it, my nephew read it, always correcting and emending and suggesting amendments.
My husband, reading it after it was published, found a half-dozen errors.
Too late.
It was done.
I could have kicked myself for letting that damn spell-check change words on its own.
The worst was when it changed Corporal Silvano's title to corporeal.
That computer thought it was so smart.
If I had known, as an old fogey, that I would be required to learn about formatting, copyrights, how to write query letters to publishers and to know how to deal with the pushy world of marketing a product -if I had known, I would have decided that publishing a book was far too overwhelming.
But thank God I didn't know.
I knew I was old, but I also knew how to order books from amazon on the internet, to send e-mails, even do power point.
Many of my friends seemed to be behind me in these abilities.
How naïve I was! It was probably God's way of protecting fools and children.
I jumped into writing contests, losing the contests every time after I had paid my $25 fee.
They all did give me, however, numerous subscriptions to journals.
I suppose it was good practice, learning the requirements for submissions, the need for manila envelopes, the s.
a.
s.
e requirements.
I found out how to click the computer key to magically send my writing to someone in another state who might never read it.
Next, I moved to the big guns, the snobbish New York and big city publishers who had existed for generations.
Nothing.
Something was obviously not working for me.
What was wrong? Was I really a horrible writer disguising myself as a good one? I bought marketing guides, learned what genre I was in, and how to spell the word.
I tried again, submitting my manuscript to a dozen publishers.
They forced me to write short synopses, long summaries, my biography in an exact number of words.
They all responded proudly, telling me that they had hundreds of manuscripts to read, that I was unknown, and that only an idiot didn't have an agent.
So, I looked into agents, who were just as proud as the publishers, barring their doors from those of us who dared to think we could write.
I, like a sheep, did whatever they wanted- chapters, marketing plans, the correct fonts.
I wonder now why I did not quit the whole process.
The funny thing is that I always had hope.
This had become my own small business, and for the first time in my life, I was like so many other Americans working day and night, not beholden to the federal government.
It was then that I saw that article in the Post.
It said that there was a new way to publish, to circumvent publishers.
It was called e-publishing.
The writer made it sound so easy.
Smashwords and Amazon would publish my book, with no money changing hands.
Was there a trick, I wondered? The article said that other people were doing it.
There was the story about a woman whose book sold 12,000 copies, after which it was picked up by a sedate publishing company.
How did it happen? I was really fascinated.
It seemed that she had 500 friends on Facebook, who, in turn, recommended her book to their friends.
And, she had a web site.
I could do that, I told myself.
And so I began.
My saving grace was finding a great graphics person named Cal who formatted my book for digital publishing (Nook, Kindle, I-pad, etc.
) and paperback, helped with the cover and even designed a web site for me for a reasonable cost.
I have never met him face-to-face, but I hope to thank him some day.
And there was my son - always offering ways to make the computer do what I wanted.
Actually, what I really wanted to do was to pick up the machine and throw it down the stairs.
Also, there was my nephew who asked the right questions and proofed every one of the 82,000 plus agonizing words.
Finally, in the fall of 2012, the day came when the book was accepted by Smashwords and Amazon.
I will never forget when the first paperback arrived at my house, for you see, we fogies prefer paper to in-the-cloud words.
But, that's not the end of the story.
Did I mention marketing? This phase really could have been my waterloo, for there seems to be no end to it.
One is never finished; there is always more to do, which is why I am writing this article.
Of course, I started with Facebook (actually, I have learned to like communicating that way.
) Next, I sent out copies for friends and professionals to read, wrote dozens of old-fashioned e-mails, harangued friends and relatives who happened to be in my address book.
I wrote press releases to local newspapers.
I even got to the point where I wasn't embarrassed to hand out informational post cards.
Believe it or not, I am really not a pushy person.
At this stage of my life, how did I arrive at the point where I was not mortified to sell my book? A very important reason was the positive support and reviews I received at the beginning.
It seemed that people actually like the book! I began to be proud of my writing.
It was mine, it was good, and it would remain here after I was gone.
Today, I have five or six short stories that need to be sewn into novels.
I can't wait until I get my first-born off and on its own, so I can make more.
I'm proud to be a fogey, for only we have the experiences of a lifetime to share.
And, I have a message for you erudite publishers - the paradigm in the publishing world is changing.
Don't look down your noses at the writers of e-published books.
I am proud to have learned the system and survived in my senior years! By Cynthia Hearne Darling November 1, 2012
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