New Rule

After book goes live, do not - not NOT obsessively hit refresh on any site or statistic related to said book.

I'm far to wired to write. Nervous and anxious.

Preliminary reviews from ARCs have been really great--it's thrilling actually, but I'm greedy. I always want more. I want everyone who downloads this book to love Beyond Bliss as much as I do.

I've been distracted and challenged while writing Jack's story. Writing in first person is such a shift for me, and I'm worried about the output.

But for today - no writing, no obsessive number checking.

I'm going to watch an episode of Scandal and go straight to sleep after.

That feeling

There is only one feeling worse than love.

It's the feeling of knowing you're in love with someone who loves you, and the knowledge whatever it is that you feel for one another is doomed.

The feeling that whatever emotion grips you is so incredibly beautiful, it is impossible to describe, but you can't help the feeling of wanting to try...

All I wanted was you.

Ugly Uncertainty

It never goes away.

Before, I would have said I'd be happy with one download of State of Grace...but then, it was definitely more than that, and you know the idiom -- the higher you rise, the harder the fall.

I'm editing Beyond Bliss right now.  Beyond Bliss used to be called State of Affairs (get it?), but as the characters evolved, as their story evolved, I changed the title.  I love these two characters, Lucas and Sophie, but editing their backstory is a pain in my #$@#% ass.

Okay, that is my attempt at trying to be less profane.  I hope it doesn't go without due recognition.

I think because of everyday life, I'm forced into prim, proper, and appropriate, I turn into the most vile potty-mouth during my free time.

Anyway, the point is, I recognize it's a problem, and I'm trying to change.

I'm blogging right now because I don't know what the hell I'm doing.  I'm trying to turn BB into a final product.  I'm trying to forget about everything happening in the periphery that has me distracted and slightly heartbroken.  I'm trying to not let it all turn me bitter and angry, and I'm trying to figure out how I can make amends to those in my life who've been victim to my growing freak-out about what's going on.

I hate when the ugly things happening to you make you say ugly things, turning you ugly.

I spent some time today going through old pictures.  Pictures of me with friends during various events...a girl who I can now admit was beautiful, but was so terribly insecure, she kept trying for more and never realized what was right in front of her.

I miss that girl.

I miss the smile, blinding and bright and truly happy--in every single photograph.

Because she turned into a woman that doesn't smile like that anymore.

I wish I could go back and tell her to do things differently...

But then I might not have State of Grace or Beyond Bliss.  Going back to that happy but insecure girl (read: ignorant) also means the possibility of not fulfilling something I've dreamed of since I was a young child.

Anyway, I'm still in knots about releasing BB.  Even though each negative review of SOG throws shards of glass into my soul, and I'm not under any delusions about what I've written, reception has been fairly positive.  Pop fiction is as such.

But I hope people love BB.

If only because I love it.

Crazy Times & Good Times

The last twenty days have been abso-fucking-lutely wild.

And the previous sentence is especially indicative of the last two days.

This morning was a rainy day from hell in the Big Apple.  I schlepped around in my new rain boots with my shi-shi dog (he's really very cute, 13 lbs though), my laptop, the minimal amount of makeup I've finally convinced myself is minimal (read NOT) all tucked in my huge metro tote - along with my bum freaking knee, and a stained Burberry raincoat trying to hail a cab for 40 minutes.

Okay, I'm spoiled.  I know I'm spoiled.

But the difference is that I spoil myself.  No one else does it for me.

When I was younger, in a middle school tucked away deep in the heart of my beloved Texas, kids made fun of me for what I wore.  I didn't get to pick out my clothes--instead, Mom shopped the sale racks, and I made do with that combined with hand-me-downs from my cooler older girl cousins in their twenties.

Kids at school made fun of me, telling me I looked like the sale rack at Wal-Mart.

(Reality:  She liked to shop sales racks at Sears, K-Mart, and a short-lived venture called Ventures.  She didn't buy my clothes from Wal-Mart.  Now I buy clothes from Wal-Mart cause they're cool, inexpensive, and I don't give a flying mother-F* what anyone thinks.)

I digress.

I don't want to spew labels, but the reason I shared that little tid-bit is because I surmise my insecurities from those younger days results in some unnecessary splurging on my part.

Besides, when I moved to New York, my idea of comfy clothes was a casual pair of jeans with a nice top.  After a many months of observing my fellow females in the city, I did the following:

• Swapped out my mid-length fake nails in a pink and white manicures for shorter, sportier, squarish real nails in Essie colors Mademoiselle and Sugar Daddy.  So sheer and light, it looked like I had nothing on.  Au naturale at it's best, but it felt classier.  Besides, the loser I dated when I first moved here told me he loved my fake nails because they looked like a porn star's.  That was a smart display of my sterling judgment, now, wasn't it?
• Traded in my jeans from Lerner (Now it's New York & Company) and multitude of t-shirts for boho-chic casual wear and short, edgy night wear.  I spent many a winter evening freezing my high-heeled bare legs and ass off in a mini-dress near the warm hot dog carts, on my way to clubs or after all the fun had been had and it took forever to hail a cab.
• Bought a Longchamps tote.  It's brown.  So fucking cliche.
• Invested in my first pair of Tory Burch flats.  I think they got ruined after I wore them to death and was stranded outside during a Nor'easter.  I still own several pair, but they are NOT Reva, and I think they're classy.  I also don't wear them out, I keep them under my desk at work, so it's like a professional investment.  

So yes, I'm spoiled with my expensive companion in my overpriced rain-gear while we are on the work to his daycare near my work.

And I'm cursing like the dirtiest sailor on his way to hell because people in New York have no sense of humanity when it comes to hailing taxis during rush hour.  They will physically push you down or RUN YOUR ASS OVER to steal your cab.  It's survival of the fittest, and this morning I was weak, drenched, and sweaty under my layers even though it was chilly outside.

So I spent a lot of the day grumpy.  Agitated at problems I have to fix that are seemingly impossible because I don't own the making of the decision, I simply try to guide the way.  Pissed off at things beyond my control happening in my personal life that make me want to scream until I'm hoarse, but then I checked some stats and reviews on my book...I started out thinking I'd be happy if one person bought the book, and ecstatic if I had even one review.  

I'm amazed, overwhelmed, and so incredibly grateful to the people who have taken the time to read the story of Grace and Sean, two characters that literally argued in my head for a whole freaking year while I tried to get their tale right.  I'm even grateful to the people who didn't like it because they mostly railed against the actions or attitudes of some of the characters...

Not the writing.

And that's what fucking matters.

The writing - the words - the way it all ties so beautifully together...

If you give me one star because I make you angry at her or at him, bring it on.  For every person that comments it's well-written, I die a little death.

La petite mort.

If I get one star because the storyline seems cliche, I'm ok with that.

Ultimately, we're all a cliche.

My cliche right now is that in some small, immeasurable and intangible way, I am living my dream.  It's terrifying putting yourself out there at the mercy of others, your thoughts and words and ideas and hopes but...

Even while other things look like hell in a hand-basket, I am living the dream I've dreamt since I first became entranced by stories and books.

I'm going to get straight up Aesop on this blog that no one probably reads (hopefully, because I'm not making sense right now) and string together my disjointed thoughts in another very cliche way:

Ultimately, money, labels, luxury -- none of that matters.  What matters is doing the things that have always scared the shit out of you but the mere thoughts of those same things excite you like nothing else.  That is happy.

So thank you to everyone who has purchased, read, loved, and hated State of Grace.

I'm happy.  

(And also slightly pissed, because I just wrote 910+ words that could have gone to Sophie and Lucas)

Insanity

Officially freaked the f*ck out.

On Friday, October 3rd, I grew a pair and finally uploaded State of Grace to Amazon.  I had to format the document with interactive hyperlinks on the table of contents and do a whole bunch of other stuff I never figured I'd have to do.  

Self publishing seemed easy.

It's is, and it's not.

After upload, Amazon said it was "Under Review" and this process normally lasts 12 hours, but it could be longer...so then, I anxiously google "Standard wait times for self published books to appear on Amazon"...

I started to sweat when I saw one guy on the Kindle Boards had been waiting for almost a week.  Other posters tried to reassure him because it was his first time, but the guy was clearly panicked.  He'd reached out to Amazon and hadn't heard anything in days.

Saturday morning, I wake up and check.

I check again at 10 AM.

I obsessively check at 15 minute intervals in between chores and light reading.

And then I scream a little when it finally says "Published".  

That's it.  My heart is out there for the world to either love or rip into shreds.  I'm not fooling myself.  This isn't a Pulitzer.  I'm not Voltaire or Ayn Rand or even freaking Danielle Steele.  I just love love, I love words, I love telling stories and this has been my dream since I was literally thirteen years old and scribbling out a story on looseleaf paper that was supposed to be saved for school supplies.  

Saturday afternoon, I start on Instagram, Facebook, text messages harassing friends and family to buy.  I *think* I did alright with sales during those first few days.  

But then I did something nuts.  

I put it on a promotion to sell for a big, fat ZERO for five days. 

And again, I'm not kidding myself.  I spent money that I don't know if I will make back.  Editing mostly, stock photos for the cover, software so my novice ass could try to Photoshop said cover.  

But I realize I need to get my name out there and I'm unknown.  Reading my book is taking a risk on me - a risk that I, as a reader, am myself often reluctant to take.  

I can't help but pray that the rest of the world isn't like I was...

So it's the 2nd day where I'm giving away the milk for free in the hopes that it lures an audience who will buy the damned cow, and the sheer number of downloads is stunning.  I have friends plugging me on their FBs and between that and the small amount of social media, it still seems small, so I'm confused as to where and how people are finding it.  

I have a feeling it might go over 2000 today.  Just a feeling.  

But only ONE freaking review--and I'm completely and utterly grateful.  It was a really sweet review.  Four out of Five. 

But I need more.

I guess this as good a time as any to remind myself that it's a journey, not a sprint.

Deep breath.

Still need freaking reviews.  Sigh.