My resolution for the new year was to get with the program, technology-wise, and start acting like a writer of the twenty first century. Specifically, I resolved to build my social media platform. That means Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, all that lovely stuff I have already joined but haven't spent a ton of time on, writer-wise. And frankly, shoring up my wobbly platform is just a bit intimidating.
The fact is, I've neglected my blog, ignored Twitter, and used my Facebook page for strictly personal use. It's not that I don't have much to say as a writer - sometimes, I've got too MUCH to say. It's just that in my head, there's this little voice warning me, "Don't say that. Don't put that down in words. For God's sake, don't WRITE that where other people can see it!"
You see, every year or so, the teaching staff at my school has to sit through a teeth-grittingly tedious and blood-pressure raisingly irritating staff meeting about the public face of teachers. Namely, that we are all teachers 24/7, that we are bound to our professional personas with chains of lead, and that anything that we say or do in our personal lives can and will be used against us if we're not careful. I get it, in a way... teachers who go out partying every weekend and post pictures all over Instagram of themselves getting wasted or teachers who loudly advocate on Facebook for the legalization of recreational marijuana are not really the role models we want teaching our children. But I get the heeby-jeebies at the thought that people might be watching ME, analyzing anything I post or tweet, just looking for an excuse to complain to my principal or superintendent about my unprofessional behavior.
This leads, of course, to the necessity of cultivating a professional face for the public... and that opens up an entirely new doorway leading down a hall I don't particularly want to walk. While I don't consider myself half the icon the fictional Atticus Finch was, I've always loved To Kill a Mockingbird and yearned to be, as Miss Maudie says of Atticus, the same person in my house as I am on the public streets. I don't want to cultivate a public face. I just want to be myself, and be enough in that self that I don't need to worry about what anyone says or thinks about me.
All of this makes shoring up my social media platform a challenge, to say the least. I can grit my teeth and post blandly on my Facebook author's page account, looking for inspirational quotes and pictures of kittens to fill that space; I can join Twitter, though I'm not sure I have the time right now to make it a worthwhile effort. And I can dust off this blog, and try to make an entry a week - or can this blog entirely and start afresh, maybe, since anyone looking at the frequency of my past posts will see that I'm not exactly a regular updater. But will I be able to be myself, as a writer? Is that desirable? Is it wise?
I guess I'll just have to try it and find out.
Showing posts with label authors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label authors. Show all posts
Saturday, January 12, 2019
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Author Photo
I don't like to be photographed, to be perfectly honest. I'm overweight, and I just don't like the way I come out looking in 99% of all photos snapped of me... especially candids. I look at the pictures of these happy family events and think, "Is that really me? Do I really look like THAT?!?" It's hard on the soul, when your mind "sees" you one way and your photo reveals the grisly disconnect. As a result, I try my hardest to be the photographer, not the photographed. Or, if I cannot escape in that way, I plant myself behind my son, or some other handy person/object/prop of the right height, so as to reveal only a portion of my bulk.
But there's this thing that you kinda-sorta-hafta do when you want to write for a living... a thing I was dreading, that I put off as long as humanly possible, promising myself that I'd lose the weight and that everything would be just fine. Only I didn't, and I had to eventually face the fact that if I wanted my face on my first-ever book jacket, I'd need to be professionally photographed.
I decided to make a day of it. Knowing that I would likely hate the result, I gave myself as little wiggle room to hate it as possible. I scheduled my haircut for the same day. I got the lovely lady working at Bare Minerals to "show me how" to put on my makeup. I picked two of my favorite tops, knowing that this would be a head shot, and maybe not as bad for all that - at least I knew I'd have the worst parts of me off-camera. And, walking in to my appointment, I told the nice young photographer exactly how nervous I was... about the photo itself, and about why I was being photographed at all. This would be my first book with a jacket, I told her... my first author photo. I so, so badly wanted this to come out well.
And what do you know... it did.
I can't say I'm 100%, had-over-heels thrilled with my picture. I like it very much, but I still look at it and see the weight that needs to come off. But I do look authorly, at least... I can see one of these shots on the back cover of a book. It's nice to be able to feel that way. And if... WHEN... I do manage to take off the weight, I'll at least have a nice "before" shot for my "before and after."
But there's this thing that you kinda-sorta-hafta do when you want to write for a living... a thing I was dreading, that I put off as long as humanly possible, promising myself that I'd lose the weight and that everything would be just fine. Only I didn't, and I had to eventually face the fact that if I wanted my face on my first-ever book jacket, I'd need to be professionally photographed.
I decided to make a day of it. Knowing that I would likely hate the result, I gave myself as little wiggle room to hate it as possible. I scheduled my haircut for the same day. I got the lovely lady working at Bare Minerals to "show me how" to put on my makeup. I picked two of my favorite tops, knowing that this would be a head shot, and maybe not as bad for all that - at least I knew I'd have the worst parts of me off-camera. And, walking in to my appointment, I told the nice young photographer exactly how nervous I was... about the photo itself, and about why I was being photographed at all. This would be my first book with a jacket, I told her... my first author photo. I so, so badly wanted this to come out well.
And what do you know... it did.
I can't say I'm 100%, had-over-heels thrilled with my picture. I like it very much, but I still look at it and see the weight that needs to come off. But I do look authorly, at least... I can see one of these shots on the back cover of a book. It's nice to be able to feel that way. And if... WHEN... I do manage to take off the weight, I'll at least have a nice "before" shot for my "before and after."
Friday, August 3, 2012
Blog Your Book?
I'm trying to process, bit by bit, an article in Writer's Digest about the new trend - blogging your book. The premise is that many books that have been published recently started as blogs, so that this is a viable way for a new writer to find an audience and prove his or her worth to a potential publisher.
I'm not so sure how I feel about this. Part of me finds it blissfully logical - of COURSE! If you have something to say, and if you can say it well and clearly enough to earn that audience through blogging, a publisher is far more likely to see your worth... after all, dedicated blog followers will buy a printed book, particularly if it has additional content not found online. Right?
The other part of me recoils. Isn't this just a step above - or, perhaps more accurately, to one side - from self-publishing? And... well, there's that whole idea of "if you can get the milk for free, why buy the cow?" Not to mention the P-word. PLAGIARISM. These days, it's hard to teach kids - even college age kids - that just because you found it online, it doesn't mean it's free for the taking.
I'm thinking of dipping my toe into the water... I've got my master's project, a very audience-specific book manuscript, and haven't been able to find a publisher. I really don't want to self-pub. So... I'll try blogging it. If you're a teacher and you love animals, this blog will be for you - Critters in the Classroom. I'll also be shamelessly begging for help getting the word out about it - you have been warned. And I'll blog here about the progress.
Commence experimentation.
Links to Book Blogging for the Curious:
I'm not so sure how I feel about this. Part of me finds it blissfully logical - of COURSE! If you have something to say, and if you can say it well and clearly enough to earn that audience through blogging, a publisher is far more likely to see your worth... after all, dedicated blog followers will buy a printed book, particularly if it has additional content not found online. Right?
The other part of me recoils. Isn't this just a step above - or, perhaps more accurately, to one side - from self-publishing? And... well, there's that whole idea of "if you can get the milk for free, why buy the cow?" Not to mention the P-word. PLAGIARISM. These days, it's hard to teach kids - even college age kids - that just because you found it online, it doesn't mean it's free for the taking.
I'm thinking of dipping my toe into the water... I've got my master's project, a very audience-specific book manuscript, and haven't been able to find a publisher. I really don't want to self-pub. So... I'll try blogging it. If you're a teacher and you love animals, this blog will be for you - Critters in the Classroom. I'll also be shamelessly begging for help getting the word out about it - you have been warned. And I'll blog here about the progress.
Commence experimentation.
Links to Book Blogging for the Curious:
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Color of My Words
White is something just like black is something. Everybody born on this earth is something and nobody, no matter what color, is better than anybody else.
- Mildred D. Taylor, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry
In her article "Supporting Diversity, Supporting All Our Children," author Suzanne Morgan Williams hits upon a topic I find uncomfortable, to be very honest... that in our increasingly diverse society, children of color need to read about protagonists and supporting characters who reflect themselves - share their skin color, celebrate their holidays, speak their language. As a reader, as a mother, as a teacher, I agree. If we are to assure that our children grow up to become a nation of readers, it is vital that all children see themselves as the hero of their own story.
As a writer, however, I am deeply conflicted.
I am a white Catholic woman of Polish, Ukrainian, British, and (possibly) Scottish background. My son has the added seasoning of Czech and Slovak blood, thanks to my immigrant husband. Growing up, however, a white girl in a largely white school in a largely white town, I longed to be Something Else. I wasn't Irish, Italian, or any of the other flag-waving nationalities that had holidays or cuisines to celebrate. Instead, I got "dumb Pollock" jokes. The British in my lines petered out when my grandmother's birth records were destroyed in a town hall fire, so I've no idea if my forebears were squires or soldiers, farmers or felons. I'd love to know if I do have Scottish blood, and if so, what clan I could trace myself to - but my fledgeling attempts at genealogy have foundered on that rock before.
A child of the seventies, I wanted to have Black Pride. As I learned of the rich heritage of our Hispanic neighbors and the strong family ties of Asian-Americans, I wished for that, too. White, I decided, was boring. Plain vanilla. Just my luck - I was even that most dull and dolorous of whites, the brown-haired and brown-eyed white girl. I didn't often see myself in books as a child... redheads, sure, and blondes aplenty; later, chapter books extolled the strong female protagonist's "emerald eyes" or "flashes of violet and sapphire" when she blinked. It wasn't until Disney made Beauty and the Beast that one of the fairy tale princesses looked even marginally like me, and I was an adult by then... now, all we need is someone to write a plump and cuddly heroine, and I'll be satisfied. (I've got a sweet and roly-poly werewolf kindergarten teacher set aside for the right book, if the story ever presents itself.)
With all this in me, I would dearly LOVE to help The Cause - I think of the children of color I have known and, in my own way, loved; Kimberly, whose skin was the color of perfect coffee, who flung herself into my arms my second year as a counselor at her day camp, whose long legs propelled her faster than any of the boys, who became what I see as I teach Mildred D. Taylor's books to my white students today. Keisha, tall and stocky, a girl who held herself with pride and told me, after our writing class had experimented with religious meditation, that while she couldn't tell me what had transpired in her mind, that she was filled with a sense of peace and knew that everything would be All Right. There's only one problem.
I'm white. Plain vanilla, again.
With my picture books, it's easy. I don't have to create a child of any particular race - my narrator is my narrator, and it's up to whatever illustrator takes the work to cast the skin tones of the story-people. Mostly, I write about animals - I'm more comfortable that way (did I mention that I went through an "I wish I was Native American" phase, too, because I wanted to claim the Raven and Coyote tales as part of my bloodright?) But as I begin working on chapter books... how can I do justice to children of color? I don't know what it's like to be black any more than I know what it's like to be a giraffe - but the giraffe community is unlikely to take offense if I get it wrong. I speak only a few halting words of Spanish myself; how can I convey, in rich prose, the intricacies of a tightly-knit Hispanic family, let alone any of the myriad sub-communities of Peruvian, Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Brazilian families? And heaven help me, while I would LOVE to be able to write a strong, dynamic Korean or Chinese girl - or a dreamy, poetic Iroquois boy - I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start.
I admire Rick Riordan - his Olympus and Kane Chronicles series are alive with a vibrant rainbow of dynamic multicultural characters of every skin tone, ethnic background, and socioeconomic level. They're all bound together by magic, however - and their demigod status trumps their mortal cultures; few people even notice, once they've found their way to Camp Halfblood or Camp Jupiter. It's the outside world that notices... the outside world where race matters. Even the Greek and Roman gods, the Egyptian deities have a wide range of physical appearance; Thanatos is described as something like an angel with skin "the color of teak wood." I'm not sure I could do the same... I'd feel like I was making a character a particular ethnicity because I should, not because that's the form the character took in my mind when he or she first spoke in my mind.
I'm not even sure, in my genre, if race is really an issue... in a picture book, there are a multitude of characters; why not have a rainbow of skin tones? In a novel, is it truly necessary for the first-person protagonist to consider her ethnic heritage, if it really doesn't play a role in the book? Sometimes, I can definitely see the benefit of shaking things up and making a character ethnically diverse - part of me, in fact, was just thinking that if Chuck Dixon had REALLY wanted to reboot the G.I. Joe characters, he might have considered making Snake Eyes black. That would certainly have made the character his own, and would have given a nod to a military that is significantly African-American; it would also have given a certain timeliness to his relationship with Irish-American Shana O'Hara, aka Scarlett.
But so far, my own characters haven't tromped into my mind announcing a particular country of origin... the humans have been very much like me, children of the suburbs, usually with intact parental pairs. Most are geeks, outcasts, and a few are rather more than skin and bones (nobody talks about letting characters reflect the dimensions of American youth, I've noticed). But if I had to stop and think about it, their skin would be, like mine, white. I suppose that I could make it another color... but it would feel forced, artificial. Very much "see, I am creating a character of color to better represent the diversity of our nation's young readers." Something in me balks at that.
And I'm not sure if that's wrong. All my life, the advice I've been given is "Write what you know" - or, later, "Learn more so you can write about what you know." That works well for plots and scaffolding... but characters? I'd be terrified of offending someone. One of the first picture book drafts to go permanently under the bed was a fairy tale called "Bobby No-Legs and the Dragon," about a boy in a wheelchair who wanted to become a knight:
Bobby No-Legs had no legs. He was just born that way. Most of the time, nobody thought much of it - Bobby got around just fine, thank-you-very-much, in a Wonderful, Terrific, Spectacular, and Very Blue Chair With Wheels that his father had built just for him. He could race and he could play ball; he could sing and he could imitate the sound that a rooster makes when he gargles before crowing the sun awake in the morning. He was wonderful at reading and math, he was pretty good at art and cooking, and he was downright awful at knitting and crocheting (but he didn't mind that so much). He played at being a fierce pirate with his friends Sean and Kevin. He pretended to be an ogre to frighten Lucy and Marian. Sometimes he was even a wild, wild wolf who howled at the moon with his wild, wild dog Bump.
But what Bobby No-Legs wanted to be most of all was a knight.
But I never got past the draft phase, because I had horrible visions of groups of differently-abled people protesting that I, a woman with legs that work pretty well, thank-you-very-much, would DARE to write a story about someone whose legs, well, didn't. How can I know, how can I possibly know, what that feels like? And suppose that the very idea of calling a character Bobby No-Legs was found to be insulting (despite the fact that, in the medieval-style world of the story and in reality, most people got their surnames from their professions, habitations, or physical features)? Since I've got a hide about as thick as an onion skin, I really didn't want to find out.
Right now, the picture book I'm working on falls outside the realm of race entirely... NINGERBILS! certainly does have characters of color; one is black and white spotted, one is a sort of golden brown called "agouti" to those who know such things, and one is white and black spotted (I need to stay within what's genetically feasible for a litter of gerbils, you see - as a retired show gerbil breeder, I do Know These Things). There is a human, of course, in the background - and I suppose I could very well, in my illustrator notes, describe him as Pakistani... or make her a vibrant young African American.
Or I could let my words color themselves, and leave it entirely up to the artist who takes the job.
That, I think, appeals to me most of all.
- Mildred D. Taylor, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry
In her article "Supporting Diversity, Supporting All Our Children," author Suzanne Morgan Williams hits upon a topic I find uncomfortable, to be very honest... that in our increasingly diverse society, children of color need to read about protagonists and supporting characters who reflect themselves - share their skin color, celebrate their holidays, speak their language. As a reader, as a mother, as a teacher, I agree. If we are to assure that our children grow up to become a nation of readers, it is vital that all children see themselves as the hero of their own story.
As a writer, however, I am deeply conflicted.
I am a white Catholic woman of Polish, Ukrainian, British, and (possibly) Scottish background. My son has the added seasoning of Czech and Slovak blood, thanks to my immigrant husband. Growing up, however, a white girl in a largely white school in a largely white town, I longed to be Something Else. I wasn't Irish, Italian, or any of the other flag-waving nationalities that had holidays or cuisines to celebrate. Instead, I got "dumb Pollock" jokes. The British in my lines petered out when my grandmother's birth records were destroyed in a town hall fire, so I've no idea if my forebears were squires or soldiers, farmers or felons. I'd love to know if I do have Scottish blood, and if so, what clan I could trace myself to - but my fledgeling attempts at genealogy have foundered on that rock before.
A child of the seventies, I wanted to have Black Pride. As I learned of the rich heritage of our Hispanic neighbors and the strong family ties of Asian-Americans, I wished for that, too. White, I decided, was boring. Plain vanilla. Just my luck - I was even that most dull and dolorous of whites, the brown-haired and brown-eyed white girl. I didn't often see myself in books as a child... redheads, sure, and blondes aplenty; later, chapter books extolled the strong female protagonist's "emerald eyes" or "flashes of violet and sapphire" when she blinked. It wasn't until Disney made Beauty and the Beast that one of the fairy tale princesses looked even marginally like me, and I was an adult by then... now, all we need is someone to write a plump and cuddly heroine, and I'll be satisfied. (I've got a sweet and roly-poly werewolf kindergarten teacher set aside for the right book, if the story ever presents itself.)
With all this in me, I would dearly LOVE to help The Cause - I think of the children of color I have known and, in my own way, loved; Kimberly, whose skin was the color of perfect coffee, who flung herself into my arms my second year as a counselor at her day camp, whose long legs propelled her faster than any of the boys, who became what I see as I teach Mildred D. Taylor's books to my white students today. Keisha, tall and stocky, a girl who held herself with pride and told me, after our writing class had experimented with religious meditation, that while she couldn't tell me what had transpired in her mind, that she was filled with a sense of peace and knew that everything would be All Right. There's only one problem.
I'm white. Plain vanilla, again.
With my picture books, it's easy. I don't have to create a child of any particular race - my narrator is my narrator, and it's up to whatever illustrator takes the work to cast the skin tones of the story-people. Mostly, I write about animals - I'm more comfortable that way (did I mention that I went through an "I wish I was Native American" phase, too, because I wanted to claim the Raven and Coyote tales as part of my bloodright?) But as I begin working on chapter books... how can I do justice to children of color? I don't know what it's like to be black any more than I know what it's like to be a giraffe - but the giraffe community is unlikely to take offense if I get it wrong. I speak only a few halting words of Spanish myself; how can I convey, in rich prose, the intricacies of a tightly-knit Hispanic family, let alone any of the myriad sub-communities of Peruvian, Puerto Rican, Costa Rican, Brazilian families? And heaven help me, while I would LOVE to be able to write a strong, dynamic Korean or Chinese girl - or a dreamy, poetic Iroquois boy - I wouldn't have the faintest idea where to start.
I admire Rick Riordan - his Olympus and Kane Chronicles series are alive with a vibrant rainbow of dynamic multicultural characters of every skin tone, ethnic background, and socioeconomic level. They're all bound together by magic, however - and their demigod status trumps their mortal cultures; few people even notice, once they've found their way to Camp Halfblood or Camp Jupiter. It's the outside world that notices... the outside world where race matters. Even the Greek and Roman gods, the Egyptian deities have a wide range of physical appearance; Thanatos is described as something like an angel with skin "the color of teak wood." I'm not sure I could do the same... I'd feel like I was making a character a particular ethnicity because I should, not because that's the form the character took in my mind when he or she first spoke in my mind.
I'm not even sure, in my genre, if race is really an issue... in a picture book, there are a multitude of characters; why not have a rainbow of skin tones? In a novel, is it truly necessary for the first-person protagonist to consider her ethnic heritage, if it really doesn't play a role in the book? Sometimes, I can definitely see the benefit of shaking things up and making a character ethnically diverse - part of me, in fact, was just thinking that if Chuck Dixon had REALLY wanted to reboot the G.I. Joe characters, he might have considered making Snake Eyes black. That would certainly have made the character his own, and would have given a nod to a military that is significantly African-American; it would also have given a certain timeliness to his relationship with Irish-American Shana O'Hara, aka Scarlett.
But so far, my own characters haven't tromped into my mind announcing a particular country of origin... the humans have been very much like me, children of the suburbs, usually with intact parental pairs. Most are geeks, outcasts, and a few are rather more than skin and bones (nobody talks about letting characters reflect the dimensions of American youth, I've noticed). But if I had to stop and think about it, their skin would be, like mine, white. I suppose that I could make it another color... but it would feel forced, artificial. Very much "see, I am creating a character of color to better represent the diversity of our nation's young readers." Something in me balks at that.
And I'm not sure if that's wrong. All my life, the advice I've been given is "Write what you know" - or, later, "Learn more so you can write about what you know." That works well for plots and scaffolding... but characters? I'd be terrified of offending someone. One of the first picture book drafts to go permanently under the bed was a fairy tale called "Bobby No-Legs and the Dragon," about a boy in a wheelchair who wanted to become a knight:
Bobby No-Legs had no legs. He was just born that way. Most of the time, nobody thought much of it - Bobby got around just fine, thank-you-very-much, in a Wonderful, Terrific, Spectacular, and Very Blue Chair With Wheels that his father had built just for him. He could race and he could play ball; he could sing and he could imitate the sound that a rooster makes when he gargles before crowing the sun awake in the morning. He was wonderful at reading and math, he was pretty good at art and cooking, and he was downright awful at knitting and crocheting (but he didn't mind that so much). He played at being a fierce pirate with his friends Sean and Kevin. He pretended to be an ogre to frighten Lucy and Marian. Sometimes he was even a wild, wild wolf who howled at the moon with his wild, wild dog Bump.
But what Bobby No-Legs wanted to be most of all was a knight.
But I never got past the draft phase, because I had horrible visions of groups of differently-abled people protesting that I, a woman with legs that work pretty well, thank-you-very-much, would DARE to write a story about someone whose legs, well, didn't. How can I know, how can I possibly know, what that feels like? And suppose that the very idea of calling a character Bobby No-Legs was found to be insulting (despite the fact that, in the medieval-style world of the story and in reality, most people got their surnames from their professions, habitations, or physical features)? Since I've got a hide about as thick as an onion skin, I really didn't want to find out.
Right now, the picture book I'm working on falls outside the realm of race entirely... NINGERBILS! certainly does have characters of color; one is black and white spotted, one is a sort of golden brown called "agouti" to those who know such things, and one is white and black spotted (I need to stay within what's genetically feasible for a litter of gerbils, you see - as a retired show gerbil breeder, I do Know These Things). There is a human, of course, in the background - and I suppose I could very well, in my illustrator notes, describe him as Pakistani... or make her a vibrant young African American.
Or I could let my words color themselves, and leave it entirely up to the artist who takes the job.
That, I think, appeals to me most of all.
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