There and Back Again: an author's trip to Oz

Good to go at the RARE book signing!

Last month, I had the amazing good fortune to travel to Australia. I participated in the RARE book signing in Melbourne and tacked on a trip to see my sister, who lives on the Gold Coast. 

Most definitely the best of both worlds!

I've been to books signings before - GRL, PNWA, 20Booksto50k - and I've even traveled outside the US to sign books at UK Meet last fall. Flying all the way to Oz, though, broke new ground. I hauled something like 100 pounds of luggage, mostly books, and learned that there are worse sins than renting a cart when you have to hike from the international to the domestic terminals.

It was A LOT, but I managed.

More importantly, I got to meet people, both readers and authors, who love books as much as I do. A few were new acquaintances and some I'd only ever connected with via the internet. (KL Noone, thanks for sharing my table! And Mia, if you're reading this, THANK YOU AGAIN for bringing a copy of The Frogman and the Spy for me to sign!) I came home with some wonderful memories and with a renewed sense of myself as an author.

Here's the thing. It's awfully easy to discount yourself as an author. It's hard to gain visibility, not every reader's gonna love your stuff (and some are incredibly articulate in telling you why), and self doubt shadows just about everything you do.

I'm not whining. I mean, no one sat me down and forced me to publish. I still remember the moment, at about 20 years old, when I realized that the only person who told me I didn't have a good-enough voice to sing in a band was...well, me. (I went on to sing in bands for something like 25 years.) I pushed myself to get out there and sing, and I pushed myself to write a damned book and get it published. Yes, it's hard, but you know what?

Spending four days with a whole bunch of book people did wonders for my enthusiasm. 

 

Watching horse races on ANZAC Day - and possibly betting a little.

After a fabulous five days in Melbourne, I flew to the Gold Coast, where my sister made me feel like a true celebrity. We crossed off all the important bits: shopping, eating fabulous food (which is the only kind they make in Australia), and exploring the Nerang River and Surfer's Paradise. We also spent an evening at the Australian Outback Spectacular, which you should totally check out if you're ever in the neighborhood.

Really, my only complaint the whole time was the travel time. I swear I made the most complicated arrangements possible, and each way took me somewhere between 27 - 28 hours. Not even joking. Next time I'm springing for a non-stop on Quantas. Because there'll definitely be a next time!

RARE is talking about Brisbane in Spring '25!!!

I got home in time for tulip season!

 

Where Do You Get Your Ideas?

I accidentally double-booked myself, so I'm going to be a bit of a brat and give you a taste of the post here, with a jump to the Relentless Writers, my group blog for the rest of it. Please bear (bare?) with me and make the jump, but keep an eye out over here because very soon I'm going to have a happy announcement about my contemporary romance King Stud...)

Where do you get your ideas?

I'm a writer. People ask me that. And when they ask, I want to do this...

Yeah Ke$ha, I don't know either.

Because tearing my hair out is easier than trying to explain how I come up with my ideas. Take my current project...

Jack rides his bike from Portland to Seattle in January because his maybe-ex-boyfriend's mom is in the hospital and he doesn't want to accept the gift of an airplane ticket. Will his stubborn streak end things for good, or can he and Gregory find a way to rekindle their love?

As hard as it is to summarize a 200 page story in fifty words, it's even harder to explain how I came up with it in the first place. Most people who aren't writers (or artists, or musicians, or participants in any other kind of creative endeavor) think ....

Ah yes, to learn what most people think, you'll have to jump HERE. Thanks for playing along...

Gratuitous Prince. Because, Prince.

The 'What Ifs' In My Closet

It takes a brave woman to show off what's in her closet, and I'm here to introduce to you one of the bravest. I got to know Tami Clayton through Kristen Lamb's Blogging To Build A Brand class, and she is as clever as they come. On her own blog she writes about traveling in Morocco and weequashing with Benedict. Intrigued? Check it out. I don't want to spoil the surprise.  ;)

And now, Tami has been gracious enough to open her soul closet for your inspection...

One day not too long ago, I decided it would be a perfect time to avoid a rough spot in my novel clean out my closet. I am the kind of person who thinks in terms of "what if?" scenarios and as a result, I have a whole bunch of "what if?" garments taking over hanging in my closet.

Staring into the depths, the first thing to catch my eye was the funky, colorful 1960's dress I haven't worn since that one Halloween party six years ago. Should I keep it? What if I accidentally enter a time travel portal and am sucked back into the 1960's? I'd want to be able to fit in right away, wouldn't I? Best keep that one. *puts dress back in closet*

How about this lovely hand-woven wool sweater from Peru? (Not that I've ever been to Peru and never mind that it was purchased in some hippie shop in Illinois 20 years ago.) Undecided, I decided to try it on and was nearly swallowed in a literal ocean of itchy wool. I could have easily fit four other people with me inside that sweater and we all would have been cozy, yet comfortable. I looked like a ball of yarn with legs, a neatly woven Sasquatch. Why am I hanging on to this and what possessed me, at all of 5'4", to buy such an ENORMOUS thing? Did I have a subconscious thing for Yetis?

Hmmm... What if I needed a quick, impromptu costume of Sasquatch? This could work in a pinch as ol' Big Foot. Just add a wig and a little facial hair. Or what if the sun suddenly vanished from the sky and the earth's temperatures plummeted? Wouldn't I have need for such a sweater? Think of the children I could save!

Reality, the buzz kill that it can be, suddenly came knocking on my door and said: That thing is as big as a freakin' house. Not to mention it takes up a huge portion of real estate in your closet. You do not need a Sasquatch costume. Furthermore, the memories of that time of your life when you actually wore this monstrosity are neatly stored in your psyche, not in the sweater. You don't need the sweater to store them for you.

Fine, Mr. Killjoy. But it'll be on your head when the lives of many poor, innocent children are snuffed out because the sun dies and they suddenly freeze to death. Just sayin'.

Next up was a shimmery gold (yes, GOLD) sleeveless dress, circa 1995, that I wore to a New Year's Eve party, complete with matching GOLD pumps. I couldn't even bring myself to try it on. What if it didn't fit? What if it did? To what occasion would I wear this? Is it tacky? Yes? No? It's kinda retro-glam with a nod to both the 40's AND the 80's. That's possible, right?

*knock at the door*

Reality walks in wheeling the 360-degree mirrored closet from TLC's What Not to Wear: You are a piece of work, let me tell ya. Hold that thing up to you and stand in the Chamber of Doom. C'mon. Don't be shy. You did consciously buy it after all. I'm only here to help. There you go. *quickly closes door and latches it* Now, tell me what you see.

Um, well...

Reality: *flings open the door* Exactly. There are no words to even describe it. Again, the memories from that night are right here. *taps bony finger on my head* Time to let the dress go.

But what if I get offered a part in the remake of Goldfinger? This would be perfect for that!

Reality stares at me and shakes his head.

Fine. Have it your way. But at this rate, I will have nothing to wear if Armageddon strikes or Hollywood calls or there's a sudden need for a Sasquatch costume. What will I do then?

Reality, putting a hand on each of my shoulders, looks me squarely in the eye: Then go buy what you need when you need it. It will be there, whatever it is you're looking for. Save the what if's for your writing, not your closet.

I don't know about you, but when someone says "trust me" - even if they are fictional, anthropomorphized entities that I talk to in my head - I become a bit skeptical. What if he is wrong?

But then again, what if he is right?

What if I stopped cleaning closets and got back to writing?

What if?

...but what I want to know is, where's the picture of the shimmery gold shoes? And for you reading along, what's hanging in YOUR closet?
;)
Thanks Tami, for a delightfully thought-provoking post.
Peace,
Liv

Keeping It Real

Today I am most fortunate to have a guest post from the lovely Sherry Isaac. She is an award-winning writer whose work sometimes takes her to unexpected places. Read on to see whether or not we can all truly call ourselves writers...

E R, the two most important letters to a writer. Er can mean a lot of things to those who have chosen this profession called writing. Or has the profession chosen us?

Er, what should I blog about?

Er, should I open my WIP, or watch Grey’s Anatomy?

Er, how will I build my platform? Er, should I build a website or blog? Er, plotter, or pantster?

But the great E R is also a suffix. By definition, one who writes is a writER. That is how the English language is constructed. One who paints is a painter, one who counts is a counter, one who kisses is a kisser. The act of doing makes one a doer.

So why is it that when a new, as yet unpublished writer confesses their craft, she is asked to support her claim with a published book.

No matter how much talent or promise, no matter how many years spent learning the craft, no matter how many queries are made, no matter how many partials or fulls are requested, no matter how close she has come, if a book can not be found on a shelf in the local bookstore with her name in bold letters on the cover, the pronouncement is made.

“Oh, you’re not a real writer,” comes the verdict, through lips so pinched the speaker might be sucking on lemons.

I’m not?

Really?

Then from where, pray tell, did the reams and reams of printed pages in my office come from?

Embracing the phrase, I am a writer, is a risk. The confession opens us up to scrutiny, people ask for proof, so until you score that NYT label, you may want to tread carefully, and be selective about whom you share your profession with.

Ray Bradbury, in his address to to The Point Loma Nazarene University, shared this bit of advice:

“Get rid of friends who don’t believe in you.”

Well. we may not have to go so far as getting rid of friends. (I surely won’t. Nerd that I am, friends are hard to come by!)

Some friends will come around, and learn to respect your title. They may become your greatest cheerleaders. But you may want to prepare yourself, and appreciate that some friends can only see you for who you are on their terms, not yours.

So, what does this mean? Should you keep who you are a secret?

No way.

The proclamation, I am a writer, can give you wings, validation, and the attitude shift to take you from amateur to professional. It can take you from wishing you might be published to knowing you will be. It can sit your butt in the chair and do the work. As writer, you create the characters, construct the journey, build new worlds.

And isn’t that what the job is all about?

~

Raised by Nancy Drew and Jane Marple, Alice Munro Short Story Award winner and Maggie Finalist Sherry Isaac’s novels and short stories weave the common thread of everyday life, love and forgiveness into tales that transcend all things, including the grave. Find Sherry on the web, follow her on Twitter, like her on Facebook and read her blog posts at Romance & Beyond.

Thanks Sherry! I feel so....VALIDATED...What do you guys think? Do you ever introduce yourself as a writer? or an artist? or a musician? And is it a comfortable fit?

Peace,

Liv