The summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college, I wrote literally at least one letter per day to my new college friends. I was in Washington, they were mostly in Oregon, and I missed them with the desperation that only a teenager is truly capable of. I remember my hand cramping from writing so much; what I don’t remember was how I possibly had enough new news to write every day (and these were no short letters, let me tell you; several pages, every day, I’m sure). (Nor do I remember if I paid for the stamps or just mooched off Mom and Dad. I could see myself doing either. Mom and Dad, if I mooched a hundred stamps off you that summer, I apologize.)

The best part, of course, was getting mail back. Going to the mailbox and finding a thick letter addressed to me, from someone who loved and missed me as much as I loved and missed him or her. Opening it up and savoring the words, the connection, the knowledge that someone cared enough to take the time to write. I still have many of those letters, including letters from my family (written to me while I was at school, not while I was home, of course), which – though I am a purger and am always trying to get rid of as much “stuff” as I can – I will keep forever.

That’s all gone these days, of course. Even I, writer that I am, rarely write “real” letters anymore. But today, for some reason, I started thinking about the joy of the slow mail as opposed to email, that spark of excitement on finding something other than bills in the mailbox. And I thought: Maybe it’s time to bring the handwritten letter back.

On mentally going through the list of all the people to whom I’d love to write, the task seems a little more daunting. It’s a long list. Writing just one letter a week is manageable, but it would take me forever to get to all the people I want to write. Writing two or three letters a week could be too much, and could change the task from a labor of love to just pure labor. Still, there’s something joyfully affectionate about sending a handwritten letter. In a way, with such letters being a rarity anymore, just sending the letter itself – regardless of its content – says “I love you.” “I am thinking of you.” “You matter to me.” “You’re worth at least $0.45 and the price of a sheet of paper to me.” (Haha.)

The letter itself, the content of the letter, the purpose of the letter, is completely different from an email. Most (not all, but most) emails these days are purely functional, practical, no-nonsense, to the point. If we’re going to add to someone’s inbox clutter, we’d better damn well have a reason, right? But a handwritten letter, sent one day and received days or even weeks later (if sent overseas), isn’t about the immediate, the pressing, the urgent needs. It’s about the connection. It’s about the promise of a long-term, ongoing conversation. It’s about sharing one’s life.

And so, knowing in advance that I may well burn out on writing letters long before I’m through the list of all the people who mean so much to me (and with apologies to those I don’t get to), I think maybe I’m going to start a one-woman campaign to Bring Back the Handwritten Letter.

Now to see if I actually have anyone’s home addresses. (If you know me “in real life,” send me your address!) The world has changed. But the love, it’s going back into the mail.

I consider myself a pretty savvy person, and you consider yourself the same, right? Neither of us opens emails that tell us about cheap v!agra or that sort of thing; we can’t be scammed, right?

But then, cheap v!agra doesn’t hit at our desperation, yours and mine. To succeed, scammers need to cut straight to what makes us desperate.

With self publishers, that’s sales. Getting more sales, or sometimes, any sales at all.

Lately, I’ve been working hard at trying to find ways to market my books, and in the process I’ve been coming across a lot of opportunities that just don’t seem quite right. I’m not sure I can quite call them scams; while some probably are, I strongly suspect some of the people putting forth the offers truly just want to build a business and/or help authors. Nonetheless, self-published authors, beware of anyone asking for money.

With the boom in self-publishing, naturally, comes the boom in people trying to exploit it for their own purposes. So many of these opportunities look completely benign, but I strongly encourage anyone who might be considering handing over the very hard-earned money to dig deep and ask lots of questions.

Recently I saw a notice that any authors interested in getting their books reviewed should email __@___.com. Of course I was interested! I emailed, and got back a long message that explained to me that for $75 I would get a good-to-excellent review, and I’d be marketed on the site, its sister sites, and all their corresponding Facebook and Twitter pages. Even if the promise of an automatic good-to-excellent review didn’t sound sketchy, $75 is a lot of money. I wrote back asking for numbers. How many hits does their website get every day? What are the sister sites and how many hits do they get? Of all the Facebook fans and Twitter followers, do they have a feel for how many are actual readers vs. how many are authors? Not that authors don’t read, obviously, but most authors are following those sorts of pages to promote their own books far more than to find other authors to read.

These all seemed like reasonable – and easily answered – questions to me, but I never heard back. I consider that $75 well not spent.

Even in the midst of all that, though, I got caught by another site.

Or rather, I may have been caught. I won’t know for sure until Sunday. I’ll report back. I’ve already handed over some money (not a ton, thank goodness, but still, money is money), but in retrospect went back to ask the site traffic questions I should have asked in the first place. I haven’t heard back yet. I’m disappointed in myself for having gotten caught up in someone else’s excitement, which is why I’m writing this. I know you’re smart, and wouldn’t get scammed. Same with me, and yet I think I’m out $15. Before you hand over any money, ask questions. Find out whether anyone will actually see your ad; consider whether being included in a site will bring respect and prestige or if it’ll just make you look like you bought your way into a list. Ask questions, of them, and of yourself. View it from all angles. Think twice. Don’t get caught.

On the other side, there are some sites starting to rise up that I’m excited about. You know that “Angie’s List,” the one where “real people” make the reviews, and companies can’t pay to be a part of it? Or Consumer’s Checkbook, or Consumer Reports, all those types of sites that we all trust because the companies can’t buy their way in? Sites similar to those are slowly starting to form to help readers slog through the mountain of independently published books to find the gems. Awesome Indies is one – I’m proud to say I qualified to be a part of it because I’ve received 5-star reviews from an author who “has been employed in that capacity by a publishing house … that isn’t their own.” I couldn’t buy my way in; I had to earn it by getting a good review from a qualified publishing professional. While these sites are harder to crack – you can only get in on hard work and merit rather than cold cash – I think these unpaid reader review sites are the kinds of sites that readers will flock to, because they’ll know they can trust them. So it all comes back to creating quality work. Always the work. As it should be.

Do good work, write good books, ask lots of questions, and don’t let your desperation lead your pocketbook. And then do more good work. It’s the best marketing you can do.

Okay, if you couldn’t care less about grammar, ignore this.

I just read a post by a writer (who should know better!) that said “all authors are not millionaires.” Which is completely not what she meant, and which also is completely inaccurate. This is such a common error – people saying “all ___ are not” when they mean “not all ____ are.” Obviously some authors are millionaires (or better), so to say “all authors are not” is just wrong. Not all are. Not all authors are millionaires. That’s all it takes to fix that one.

This shows up a lot when people talk about “… created equal,” playing on on “all men are created equal.” The grammatically correct opposite, of course, is “not all men are created equal,” NOT “all men are not created equal.” See the difference? It’s subtle, I know. “Not all cars are created equal.” “Not all banks are created equal.” Whatever your ad campaign is about, ad people, get it right. It’s subtle but important. (To me.)

And I suppose most people don’t care, but it bugs the heck out of me. We all have our crosses to bear. Not all peeves are created equal.

So let’s say you’re a new author. You’re so excited! You wrote a book! You have cover art! You have a Marketing Plan! You are going to sell millions!

And so you go forth with your Marketing Plan, which includes bookmarks. You’ve taken that cover art and made a gorgeous bookmark! You’re going to give one to everyone you meet, ever, for the next forever!

At this point, you are at the printing website, you’ve uploaded your bookmark art, and you’re deciding on quantities. You notice that 2,500 is a good amount, but … wait a minute, 4,000 bookmarks is hardly any more expensive, and, frankly, 5,000 is barely any more than that! 5,000 bookmarks it is!

And the next thing you know, you have 5,000 bookmarks in your house.

Here’s my advice, free of charge, no strings attached: YOU DO NOT NEED 5,000 BOOKMARKS. Take it from me. You just don’t. You don’t need 4,000, either, and you probably don’t even need 3,000. Oh, I know, you have a Marketing Plan and you are going to distribute these babies all over, and the price point for 5,000 is so good. Trust me. Don’t give in. 2,500 is more than enough. Really, 1,500 to 2,000 is plenty, especially if you’re going to continue writing and will, therefore, have another book soon that won’t be included on the first bookmark, thus making the initial bookmarks somewhat pointless/outdated. Trust me.

If I had a dollar for every bookmark I have left ....

And there you go. That’s my free advice for the day. You’re welcome.

Two things to know about me:

1. I love analogies.
2. Apparently, I also love talking about nudity.

I say the latter because the other night when I was giving my first book reading for The Wishing Rock Theory of Life, I found myself talking about nudity (in the analogy I’m about to share here). It occurred to me that I’m pretty sure I also talked about nudity in my first book reading, for Letters from Wishing Rock (never miss an opportunity to plug the book!*), and Theory of Life even opens with a discussion of naked people.

As an analogy connoisseur, however, I think the analogy I made is particularly astute, so I thought I’d share it here. It’s the analogy of the process of raw and vulnerable emotional exposure that happens upon writing and publishing books.

1. Writing the first book

The emotional nudity equivalent of writing the first book (pre-publication, pre-anything) is like going to a deserted nudist beach and stripping down. Yes, you’re totally exposed, but no one can see. You feel free and exuberant and excited. Anyone who does see you is someone you carefully selected for the honor, and you may only let them see parts of you. Friends and family might know you’re at a deserted nudist beach, but they just smile and wish you well.

2. Publishing the first book

Publishing the first book is like going to a busy nudist beach, taking off your clothes, and then standing there saying “I’M NAKED! LOOK AT ME! I’M NAKED!” while thinking “Oh God, they’re looking at me! I’m naked! What the hell was I thinking???” If you happen to turn around to pick up your clothes, you realize someone has taken them away. You can never get dressed again.

3. The year after publishing the first book / process of writing the second book

Since I did both at the same time (that is, my first year after publishing my first book was also the year I was writing the second book), for me these overlap. I can’t say whether this emotional exposure was a result of only one or only the other, since I experienced both simultaneously.

In this phase, you’re at the highly trafficked beach and you’re begging people to look at your naked emotional self, and the fear sets in. If you’re promoting your book that’s like going around, walking up to strangers and saying, “Hey, did you notice I’m naked? Look at me! Here! I’m totally naked!” Whether or not anyone is looking at you and judging you, you feel like they’re all looking at you and judging you – or at the very least, they could if they wanted to. It’s exhausting and frightening and it brings a lot of fear and this year takes – or at least, for me, took – a lot of courage. It’s a time where if you haven’t learned it already, you have to learn a hell of a lot about TRUST. And about GOOD ENOUGH AS I AM. (Oddly enough, these themes popped up time and again in my second book. What a coincidence!)

4. Publishing the second book

I’m just into this phase, and what a revelation. What a revelation! After publishing the second book, you’re on this naked beach and you finally think, “Hell with it. They all can see me now. It’s all hanging out. Nothing left to hide, and no point in hiding anyway. This is who I am. Let’s have some fun. Let’s play some NAKED VOLLEYBALL!” I’ve gone through a year of fear and doubt, and I’m more than ready to welcome humor and joy back into my life.

It’s exhilarating. It’s freeing. It’s wonderful. This is me, my raw emotional self, this is who I am. Every emotional scar and wrinkle has been hard earned. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to look at it. You can turn away, you can go to some other beach where the people feel more comfortable covering up. Or you can strip down yourself and join me in some naked volleyball.

In case you didn't guess, I'll tell you that you get a lot of interesting results when you do an image search on "naked volleyball."

* As for never missing an opportunity to plug the book: There’s that phrase, “shameless self promotion.” I used to feel embarrassed about self promotion, and the phrase labeling it “shameless” didn’t help. Then, I realized it’s not about shame; it’s about fear. Self promotion is scary stuff. It takes courage and determination, and there’s no shame in that. So for my own purposes I’ve updated the phrase to “fearless self promotion.” If you’re out there doing the courageous work it takes to follow your own dreams, I invite you to embrace the phrase too. No fear.

I had my first book reading/signing for The Wishing Rock Theory of Life last night, at Third Place Books (which I love). It went well, though I was anxious about it from the moment I woke up. Public speaking is just not my forte. It’s strange, isn’t it, that when we go to see a singer, we hear them sing; when we go to see an actor we watch them act; but when we go to see a writer, we ask the writers to speak – which is the antithesis of what most of us writers are good at. I am eagerly awaiting a bookstore to come up with the idea of a “Public Writing Series,” in which writers are invited to come to the bookstore, settle down at a desk with paper and pen and computer, and the public can come watch us write. If the bookstore wanted to make it just like real life, they could install a washing machine and dryer and have a vacuum cleaner on hand, because that’s one way I procrastinate: I do laundry or vacuum. When I’m at my most procrastinate-y, my house gets really clean. I call it “letting my brain loose to do good thinking” and say it’s part of the writing process.

Anyhoo, the turnout last night wasn’t as big as the first book reading, mainly, I suppose, because the novelty of my having written a novel is over. At my first reading, it was like an episode of This Is Your Life. People from every age of my life were there, snapping pictures, laughing at the right places, admiring what I’d become. This time, a few stalwart supporters were there, along with a small handful of strangers who wandered in and sat down and hopefully were entertained. (I don’t think any of them actually bought a book, but that’s the way it goes sometimes.)

It got me thinking, though. I’ve read that a person has to write five or six books before she gets a real following, and I understand (and believe) that now in a way I didn’t before.

When I wrote my first book, I had no idea what I was doing or what to expect. I was just out there in the wild, wandering a path, wondering where it would take me. I didn’t think I’d have instant success, but I’ll admit it, there is a little optimistic part of me that believes anything is possible. That part of me may have thought that it would be possible to get from here to the moon overnight.

Oddly enough, I did not get from here to the moon overnight. Now that I’ve written the second book, though, I have a much better perspective on things. Everything can be related back to a journey, right? In this case, imagine a journey from Seattle to LA. You don’t start out down I-5 and get to Portland and think “WTF??? I’m not there yet?? What the hell am I doing wrong? This isn’t fair! I can’t do this!” You start out, and you know it’s going to take a while, so you settle in and drive.

That’s what I’m doing now. I have set out my writing goals for the next five years; I know where I’m going, I know what I want, and I know how I’m going to get there. I know the topics of the next five books I’ll write, and some of them are already in progress. I’m starting to build all the various components of my success, building a fanbase, building a marketing strategy, building a sales tracking system, building my knowledge and my skills, and I’ll get there.

The road may be longer than I first thought, but I’m ready for it now. The gas tank is full, the goal is set, I’m on the road. I’m on my way.