On Being a Hermit

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I’ve written about finding a balance point before – about balancing a normal, healthy life with something as all-consuming as writing is for some. Well, for me. I’ve been to the extreme, isolated and alienated myself, even from the people closest to me, and found it wasn’t the best way to live my life. I love to write, but not enough to sacrifice living, experiencing. When you have great passion for something, I think this is a realistic problem. Look at the mad scientists and artists in history. They all have two things in common (well, three if you count madness – but that’s subjective, isn’t it?): passion, and isolation.

I don’t think the two necessarily go hand in hand, but there’s a definite connection. Passion can lead to obsession, and obsession can lead to isolation, via means of blotting out everything else. The other extreme would perhaps be the writer or artist or other passionate hobbiest who never ‘gets around’ to creating their masterpiece, or even delving into their passion fully. Maybe because they’re blocked, or maybe because they just have too many other things to do. But I’m not here to talk about extremes. I’m contemplating the happy middle ground.

When is it okay to shut out the world? When is it necessary? And how do you know when you’re begin to focused on yourself and pouring too much into that passion at the detriment of those around you?

I don’t pretend to have answers. Quite the contrary, I’m wondering what you all think.

Personally, I try to juggle a lot of things. (As I’m sure most of us do.) And I often find I reach a maximum capacity for the ‘others’ that take me away from my passion. The artist inside gets antsy, and flexes her pinchers, eventually snapping at anyone and anything that is in between me and my writing shell. Sometimes, I just need crawl inside and close the door behind me. Some of my best work comes from being cloistered in my happy writing place, undisturbed.

But life goes on outside. I don’t want to miss it.

How do YOU find a balance?

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 10

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Rachel woke to Viktor’s face inches from her own. “Wake up!” he snapped, and her cheek stung.

“Did you just slap me?”

“Rachel!” The relief in his voice sounded odd, out of character. Then she blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

“Come on,” Viktor said unhelpfully, and leaned forward. Before she could protest, she was in his arms. He strode through the living room with its ivory carpet and glass and steel furniture. He got to the door and started to open it.

“Wait! Viktor! What’s going on?”

He turned slightly to angle her through the door and she saw a body on the floor of the hallway. A semi-automatic pistol lay inches from his limp hands, but even with the body face down, Rachel recognized him. “Steve!”

Viktor was through the door and into the hallway before Rachel realized she was losing time. Her head felt thick, like it was stuffed with sand, and her stomach burned. “What happened?” she managed to get out.

Viktor made a strange noise in his throat, almost like a growl, and yanked the door to the stairwell open. Then they were below the building and she heard the chirp of a car alarm. Viktor jostled her as he got the door to a red-brown Jaguar XK open. He laid her gently on the seat , protecting her head, and she blinked up at him in confusion. “What is going on?”

“Shh,” he shot back and shut the door in her face.

The interior of the car smelled spicy, like his cologne, with a faint overlay of the cigarettes he liked. It was a surprisingly comforting scent and she found herself relaxing like putty into the seat.

“We’re here,” he told her, waking her.

She stirred and blinked out at the night, the streetlights brighter than usual. They seemed edged with purple and she blinked, her stomachache swelling. “I don’t feel well,” she complained.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Viktor agreed with some note of anger or something else in his voice. He pushed himself out of the car and slammed the door, then appeared next to her to pick her up again.

“I can walk!” she protested.

“Sure you can. Hush,” he said down at her, a gentle expression in his eyes disappearing so fast that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

He made it all the way to her office without anyone seeing them and let himself in with her keys, produced from a pocket.

“My purse!” she blurted.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got your wallet and keys. The rest is gone, but the important stuff is here.”

‘How would you know what’s important?’ she almost asked but didn’t. He laid her on the couch and the nausea intruded insistently.

“I think I need to throw up,” she gasped, mortified.

He swore and started to help her up but the wave hit so fast it took her breath. He snatched her trash can from near the desk and she used that as a receptacle, wishing he would disappear.

When she was finally done, she collapsed against the couch. He set the can down and turned back to her.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“What?” she responded, trying to keep her eyes open.

He laid a hand on her forehead and snarled, “You’re feverish. God, Raych, what were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about, Viktor?”

“Going out with a strange man like that!” he shouted, hurting her ears.

She laughed, it was so unexpected. “Viktor, this is 2008!”

“And he’s one of Krichoff’s men!” he yelled.

“Don’t shout, please,” she winced, and then heard what he said. Her eyes popped open. “What are you saying?”

He stared at her angrily and then stepped away. He motioned toward her desk and it took her a moment to take it in.

All her case files were scattered around the carpet, the file cabinets open and empty. Her desk drawers lay on the floor, clearly having been gone through as well. Her computer gaped, its hard drive missing.

Viktor kneeled in front of her and took her arm to shake her roughly. “You could have been killed, you little fool!”

The shaking proved too much for her head. The dizziness swelled and she blinked at Viktor dully. “Viktor…”

His expression changed, that gentleness she’d seen earlier appearing again. As she fell forward into his arms, he lifted her and sat down on the couch with her in his lap. “It’ll be okay, Raych. You got rid of most of it, and I gave you something that will help wit the dizziness. Just relax, let your body recover.”

She wanted to ask him what he was talking about but couldn’t muster any awareness to speak to him. Between one though and the next, she slid into sleep, or dreams. It was hard to tell the difference.

Thoughts on ‘The Vein of Gold’ by Julia Cameron

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I recently completed a book about f inding your creativity, ‘The Artist’s Way’ by Julia Cameron. I enjoyed it immensely and learned a lot; about myself, about letting go and pampering my ‘inner child’ and most importantly, about doing the things I really want to do.

With this in mind, I am excited to begin another of her books, ‘Vein of Gold’. The author describes the ‘Vein of Gold’ in all of us as where we find our greatest creativity. We may be successful writers in many genres, comedy, angst, biography, but we all have our special niche where we do our ‘best work’, and that is our ‘vein of gold’.

She uses the actress Merle Streep as an example. Ms. Streep has done excellent work in comedy (Death Becomes Her), musicals (Momma Mia) and suspense (Silkwood), but it is in her portrayals of ‘tragic women’ that we find her ‘luminous’. The grieving mother in ‘Sophie’s Choice’ is one of her best performances. No one would argue that her ‘vein of gold’ is to be found playing these tormented characters.

Is this to suggest that she limit herself to this narrow field of films? Definitely not. I believe any actress would become bored with the same type of part each time she worked, (as would we of watching her perform them as well). Variety is a good thing, for artist and viewer alike. But when we hear of a new drama starring Merle Streep, we know we are going to see something excellent and enjoyable because these movies are her greatest strength, her ‘vein of gold’ if you will.

Bearing this in mind, Ms. Cameron sets out to help us find our own ‘vein of gold’ in our chosen field of creativity by helping us find ourselves. She suggests writing ‘morning pages’, three hand-written pages each day to help you clear your mind. As you write these ‘pages’ consistently, you find that they will clear your mind, help you vent your frustrations and find those lurking fears, feelings and angers that your ‘conscious’ mind has been trying to sublimate. They are like a sounding board, or a very close friend that you can tell anything to. These are not to be seen by anyone else and are therefore a safe and sacred place to lay it all on the line, to be yourself and to express those things that you are afraid to let others, including your close friends, see.

A walk a day is another tool suggested in the course. Twenty minutes a day, walking indoors or out, city or country it doesn’t matter where. The actual act of walking, the repetitious movement of body can be soothing in and of itself. The scenery along your path is to be enjoyed as well, the fragile rosebud on your neighbor’s rosebush, the brightly colored house around the corner and the lazy cat on the large porch you pass are all fodder for creativity, be you a writer, a painter or a musician.

The smell of the rain on the hot cement, the sound of a lawnmower and the smell of the barbecue down the street can inspire you as well. The noise of jackhammer and construction workers can be just as wonderful as the quieter sounds of suburbia or the country. Neighbors yelling in the apartment next door, the sound of taxis whizzing by on a busy street and the distant wail of a police siren are fertile images to be used in your art as well.

My first thought was that I didn’t have time for these daily walks, and in truth, I don’t. But I forced myself to make the time, and have found that I miss them on those busy days when I choose to do other more pressing things. They are like a personal treat, to myself and my ‘inner artist’, and I have found reasons ‘to do’ them; quiet time to wind down after work and before sleeping, spending time with my kids, exercising the dog, exercising myself. Funny how a change in attitude makes something ‘needful’ instead of a chore.

In the first chapter of our journey of self discovery, we are asked to write a self history. The author suggests writing about your life in five year increments, 1-5 years, 5-10, and so on. Include favorite friends, toys, games, where you lived and your family members. These memories will help you not only get these things down on paper but allow you to analyze your feelings about the events that made you the person you are today.

For instance, your parents may still describe the ‘long awaited and wonderful’ move to that new house in the suburbs when you were a child, and you have been blinded by their feelings on the subject. Maybe on closer inspection of your memories you were angry at having to leave your old friends and school. It might not have been a ‘happy’ decision for you. Include these observations, they are important.

This exercise will hopefully jog some memories that you had forgotten, some exciting, joyful, or even painful things that have been pushed to the back of your mind. These events might be used in understanding yourself and in your writing, essentially ‘mining’ your life for inspiration.

There are further exercises to help you find your own personal ‘vein of gold’, that niche where you do your best creating. There are seven ‘kingdoms’ to progress through on your journey of self and I have barely scratched the surface of the first chapter in this article. I am looking forward to the other chapters, it has been a rewarding trip so far and it’s only just begun.

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 9

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The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 9
by A. Catherine Noon

Steve stood in the small waiting area to the left of the hostess station, wearing a dark green shirt that highlighted the peridot of his eyes. His black pants highlighted other things that she decided to ignore.

“Hi, Sara,” he greeted warmly. “Shall we?”

Dinner passed in a blur. She ordered something with a white sauce and chicken, but focused most of her attention on Steve. He had an engaging smile and an avid curiosity. She listened through their entrees to a varied discussion of current events and music. Then came time for dessert.

“Okay, Sara. I’ve talked for nearly the entire time. Tell me about you? What do you do, when you’re not waiting in traffic?”

She thought for a moment and then smiled. “Shall we order something first?”

“Of course! I thought you’d never ask.”

They negotiated about several of the items on the dessert list and settled on a chocolate lava cake and two cappuccinos. He sat back in his chair once the waitress took their menus and studied her.

“Well, I’m a private investigator,” she told him. She’d decided to be honest on that front, at least, even though she’d given him a fake name.

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “What’s that like?”

She laughed. “Boring, mostly. I collect information and sort through it.”

“You must learn a lot of interesting things about people,” he countered.

She shook her head. “Not really. Mostly spousal problems. It’s not a very pretty job. I do security consultation as well, but that part of my business is going slowly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. He picked up his wine glass. “To success in your business.”

She smiled and clinked his glass with her own. “To success.”

After dessert they took a walk along the district, window-shopping. After a couple blocks, he slipped his hand into hers. “I’m getting tired of walking, I think.”

She looked up at him. “We can go back.”

“I have an espresso maker,” he said casually.

Her heart started to pound. “I like espresso. Usually as a mocha, though.”

He grinned. “I happen to have milk and cocoa, you know.”

“Okay,” she agreed shyly.

“Shall I drive?”

She thought about it. Her car would be safe for the night where it was. “Sure.”

They didn’t speak much on the drive back to his condo. It wasn’t far from downtown. The building was quiet, a lone doorman in a black uniform at the front desk. He greeted them silently, smiling and discreet, and she wondered if Steve often brought women home.

Then she wished she hadn’t thought that.

His condo was on the top floor, twelve flights up. It overlooked the city, the lights spread out beneath them like a blanket of stars. He set the living room lights on a dimmer so they could still see outside. The carpet was a light ivory color and set off the brown leather of the couch. A glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the couch, and a large plasma monitor centered on the wall opposite. A low credenza below it held gleaming entertainment equipment and several volumes. The kitchen counter to the right overlooked the living room and a closed door on the left led to the rest of the condo.

“This is nice,” she complimented.

He smiled, pleased, but said nothing. He left his shoes by the door and she mimicked him. He went to the kitchen to start the espresso machine and she sat on the couch, looking out on the cityscape and relaxing.

“Here you go.” He spoke from next to her elbow, startling her a little.

She took the small cup gratefully and sipped. “This is great!” she blurted. It had just the right mix of chocolate and coffee.

“Good,” he answered, and sat down next to her. He set his coffee on the table and laid his other hand along the back of the couch behind her.

Her heart started to pound as he leaned closer to her. She set her cup down as his lips brushed hers, managing to find the table by luck alone.

Unanticipated power

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I grew up shy, quiet, tongue-tied and longing for something more, although I could never put what I wanted into words. I was just a girl who winced at having to get up at six thirty a.m. to make it to Home Class on time. Nobody who saw me imagined my larger-than-life thoughts. I was an average looking girl wearing acceptable looking clothes, who dreamed of something more than an idiot boy who wanted to snap the strap of my training bra.

I lived an everyday girl’s experience. I ate chocolate shakes when my lunch money ran low because they were only seventy-five cents. I ducked my head and tried not to care when girls prettier than I was called me names–brace face, metal mouth, pizza face. I’d accepted from early on that I just wasn’t the type of girl who was going to fit in, although I’m not sure when I first had the thought. I think it became less of a pain the older I got because surely things happened for a reason. Suffering had to have a point; feeling like an uninvited devil’s imp from hell had an end, right?

The books I read made me feel I wasn’t alone. There was hope. There was an optimistic sort of ending. There were lessons to be learned with the characters I fell in love with–characters who struggled with peer pressure, Multiple Sclerosis, death and parents who were divorced. Those stories written by Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary and Carolyne Keene saved my life. I can’t even properly communicate the power of those stories and the characters who influenced me–I just know that it happened. I was humbled and taken-aback by how much I seemed to connect with these characters; they weren’t real, they were just someone’s imagination on a page.

Why did they have such power over me? How did they influence me so much? Was I nuts? Did I have my head too high in the clouds like people said I did?

Maybe. Always maybe.

Once I learned how to read, that was it. Reading was all I wanted to do. And then I decided I wanted to do what those writers had unwittingly done for me–to save a life. When you’re young, awkward and not at the top of the popularity chain, characters like Deenie, Nancy Drew and Marcy Lewis helped keep my soul strong.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that I wanted to do the same thing for others some day…if I could. If I had the strength, the perseverance, the dedication. But nobody seemed to understand my need to write while other kids my age were outdoors living it up. I didn’t even understand it myself. My flag of self-esteem was never high, and wanting to write made me feel more conspicuous and embarrassed.

I tried to ignore the odd glances older people gave me, the embarrassment I felt about it when my teachers caught a whiff of my desire (was I doomed to be a freak forever?), and the utter incomprehension of my friends and family. Maybe it was teen-aged angst in action, not that it matters. It was almost enough that the feelings strengthened me at the same they ostracized me.

What I do know is that at twelve years-old, when I was in the sixth grade and wrote my first story for a teacher’s review (The Lucky Charm, which totally sucked jumbo-size eggs), I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to be God on paper. To make a positive difference in someone’s world. To give back what I had been given.

Because words can save a life.

Chili Heat by Carrie Williams

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Chilli Heat was released by Black Lace in February. I recently received a copy and read it on a trip. The story is based on an English mother and daughter, though none of the book takes place in England, starting on a plane (actually, starting in a bed, but that’s the prelude) and staying in India for the rest of the book.

Taken from the blurb;

An erotically charged story set against the exotic backdrop of modern-day India. Let down by her traveling companion, Nadia Kapur reluctantly agrees to take her recently divorced mother, Valerie, on her trip to India. However, her mother turns out to be anything but a conservative presence. As the two women explore India’s most exotic locations, it is Valerie who experiences a sexual reawakening and Nadia who is forced to wrestle with her own inhibitions and repressed desires.

I started to read this book at 5am after a sleepless night. Probably not the wisest thing, as the style the book is written in is something I am unused to. First person perspective always puts me on guard, as I can rarely get in the same frame-of-mind as the central character, and I have not found something in present tense that has been anywhere above terrible. Both combined offers the reader little distance from the events unfolding, and there is also a tenancy to tell the reader what happened instead of showing (which happened on several occasions in this book) yet it works. It takes a bit of effort from the reader to adjust, but I for one enjoyed the challenge. Carrie Williams pulls off the combination with minimal confusion, though I still prefer to read from third-person past.

The point-of-view changes from chapter to chapter, between mother and daughter. The characters have little distinction except for sexual preference which is regretful but, as they are mother and daughter, I’m not sure how big a difference there can be. The reader gets to experience events through both a youthful virgin and a mature mother. The contrast of this is enhanced as they explore their sexualities and part company. It is very realistic in the sense that Nadia is unsure of herself and Val, the mother, is questing to ‘make up’ for her sparse love life with her ex-husband by shagging pretty much constantly.

I feel the nervousness of Nadia is overplayed, as is the desperation of Val. I don’t understand how a Nadia thinks she has to be either straight or gay, and not bisexual, which is frustrating. All through the first half of the book, I felt like giving the girl a slap. The mother is better written, though still not someone I feel a connection with. However, I did enjoy the character’s interaction with the minor characters. They are vibrant with their imperfections, each unique and seem hold their own life-force, a treat to read.

The journeys the two women take are interesting to follow, mixed with charming glimpses of India and its fluxing economy that make me curious and consider visiting the country myself, even though I’m a born-and-bred Brit and dislike extended periods of heat. Nadia prefers the rural side of the country, where the mother stays in five-star hotels. The landscape isn’t as richly described as it could be, but it is a lovely if vague backdrop.

The sex scenes are gritty for the most part, with none of the florid language of mainstream erotica – and yet the author seems to be fixating on three of worst words in the whole of the English language. Peel, palpate and snatch. The overuse of them sets my teeth on edge. Despite this, I love the author’s boldness in the various carnal acts played out by the characters and I enjoyed these scenes greatly.

I found the book finished far too swiftly and quite neatly, like a Hollywood romance. The mother returns to her ex-husband to restart their relationship and the daughter finds love in an unlikely short period of time. I would have liked to have Nadia find someone less safe or at least female (what? I’m bias!) and for the mother to not run back home to her ex, as I feel that degrades the freedom she gained and obviously enjoyed. Overlooking the neat ending, I did close the book feeling satisfied. I give the book three stars out of five.

What To Do When Stress Rears Its Head

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Four Simple Tools Anyone Can Use

Those of you who have read my blog recently, know that I was stranded in Minnesota a few weeks ago. I want to share some of the tools that kept me calm and able to function to the best of my ability during this experience.

Tool the First: Morning Pages

First, Morning Pages. I know I’ve talked about these before, and quite honestly, will probably do so again. Morning Pages are from Julia Cameron, in her book The Artist’s Way and others. They are three pages of longhand writing, done in the morning. (Hence the name, nu?) They are many things, but most of all they are NOT writing.

Huh?

Nope. Not writing. They just happen to be written, but they are emphatically not writing. In fact, writers will find them the hardest. The rest of us who aren’t writers will find them easier. Feel better now?

The genius about writing morning pages is that they are just three pages of writing, done in the morning. They can’t be done wrong. If you wrote three pages, you did them right. If you did them, then they’re done right. This is sort of counterintuitive to us left-brain Westerners, but it’s true. Just three pages. Longhand.

Think it’s got to be harder than that?

Try something for me. Pause from reading this essay (but you’d better come back to it! ~shaky finger~) and go grab three pages of paper. Could be lined or not, doesn’t matter, as long as it’s 8.5” x 11”. Now write. Just fill up that paper. When you get to the bottom of the third page, stop.

There. You did it right.

Feel good? Uh-huh. That’s all there is to it.

Why am I harping on Morning Pages?

Morning ages are a method of moving meditation, sort of like walking. Like sitting Za-Zen, they bring us into the moment where we meet the moment, and ourselves. This may sound kind of hokey, but it’s true – it’s easy to be in the moment when you’re writing, because writing IS in the moment. You can’t write later, or in five minutes. If you’re writing, you’re in the moment. It’s a “now” activity. It’s sort of hard to let your mind wander when you’re writing longhand, because then your pen tends to stop and you’re no longer writing.

When I was stranded, one of the only ‘creative’ activities I could do was writing my morning pages. I couldn’t even fill up the endless hours while I waited for news of my doomed car with any actual creative writing – I was too tense. I just managed to do my Morning Pages, and stay present.

I kept the television off during this time, as an added method of staying in the moment and being present.

Tool the Second: Walking

Another tool I used was walking. That’s right, just putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing more profound than that. The town I was stranded in had a lovely lake in the center of it that the tow truck driver passed by when he took me to the hotel. I was able to find it from my hotel and wandered over there in the evening. After that, I was able to return to the hotel, much more centered in my body. I didn’t do anything more strenuous than walking, looking at trees and the little tree-dwelling creatures that were by the lake. Several cheeky squirrels and a family of ducks kept me company, as did a man walking his mother in her wheelchair and several afternoon joggers. It’s amazing how much one slows down when one is walking.

Tool the Third: Bathe, Thou Stinky One!

Another tool I used was a bath. Is this a tool? If not, it should be. “Noony’s Guide to Enlightenment, Chapter Four.” (No, I haven’t written it yet.) But seriously. Sitting in water is an excellent way to relax. Something about the water is grounding (or is that, wetting?). Regardless, it helped me feel comforted, miles away from my family and friends, stuck in the middle of nowhere. (Well, to be fair, the residents of Winona probably don’t think of their town as “nowhere.” But I digress.) Bathing is an easy way of getting present. I’ll give you a little secret – you don’t actually need any bath soup, either. Just water. It might be odd the first time you try it, it was for me anyway, but having bath oil or bath salt or bath sugar isn’t required. Just hot water.

If you dislike baths, try sitting in the tub or shower with the water beating down on your head. That’s another way to get present.

From a magical perspective, water is one of the four Aristotelian elements, and as such, extraordinarily powerful. Even if you don’t go in for that kind of “hokum,” water can be very helpful to the grounding and relaxing process. Why do you think spas have hot tubs for use by patrons before their massage?

Tool the Fourth: Breathing

Breathing was the final tool I used. Duh, right?

I’m serious! Breathing is very underrated, particularly by Westerners. How are you breathing right now? Chances are, very shallow, little breaths that hardly fill up your central cavity. If that’s the case, try something. Take a nice, big, deep breath that fills your belly up so much, your tummy distends. Now hold it for a second or two, then let it out. Press it all the way out of your body like you’re pressing water out of your laundry. Now do that two or three more times. Chances are, your fingers and toes will start to get warmer. That’s the blood flow increasing all the way to your extremities. This is very healthy, and means that you are getting into the moment – which is where your power is.

Tie Them All Together With a Cute Little Bow

We have all the power and strength we need to handle life’s challenges, but we shortchange ourselves and ignore our power. We cannot access it anywhere except in the moment. And the only way to get into the moment is to get into the moment. (Which is sort of a silly thing to say, but nonetheless true.) We spend so much time elsewhere – reading books or watching time-filler television. (You’ve seen my rant on Americans and television, right?) Well, these four simple tools can be used right where you are, and don’t require any special equipment other than a pencil, paper, and shoes – things most of us are fortunate enough to have in our possession. And if you can read this, then you can breathe. If you can’t breathe, then I can’t help you.

So, go forth and power yourself into the moment. See what kinds of problems and challenges you can surmount by doing so.

What is a Best Seller?

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In an effort to increase my market knowledge, I delved into this topic headlong and found it particularly daunting. Here I’ll sum up what I’ve found, and perhaps ‘de-mystify’ it for you some as well.

The question that led me on this journey was ‘what does it mean to have a ‘BEST-SELLING’ book?’ and ‘what does it mean to be a BEST-SELLING author?’

First off, both are relative. Technically, if Author A publishes through small press B which only publishes 10 titles, and theirs sells 20 copies, whereas the other nine sell 2-3, they are a BEST-SELLING author of a BEST-SELLING title. Best selling where, according to whom, and compared to what are the questions one could ask following Author A’s “Best Selling” claim. (The same goes for ‘Award-Winning’ . . . it’s all relative, and it can all be a means of hyping an author or title.) There are plenty of smaller magazines and editorials that make their own lists, specific to genre, etc. And sometimes, those are more realistic. After all, in a small genre, you can’t expect to outsell a widely-appealing summer beach/airport read one could pick up at Walmart – that doesn’t mean it’s not a best seller or a success, when comparing apples to apples.

Quick Disclaimer: From a marketing perspective, let me just say I totally understand the reasons for highlighting what you can when you’re selling your self, your brand, or your product (book). I’m not attempting to ‘de-bunk’ these claims, nor am I de-valuing them. I’m just callin’ it like I see it.

For simplicity’s sake, let’s forget the people who just claim ‘Best-Selling Author A’ without qualifying it, leave out e-books, and focus on the best-known BSLs (Best Sellers Lists): the New York Times, and USA Today. These are two examples of two different types of listings. Also note that there are ‘top list’ and ‘mid list’ rankings, unofficially.

General Note on reading these lists – you’ll see three columns of numbers:

The column in big print on the left is the title’s current position on the list. The blue column is last week’s ranking, and the red column is the number of weeks on this list. In this example, you can see the number 1 slot for fiction debuted this week at number one. Number four has been there, in the number four slot, for four weeks.

The NYT breaks out their best-sellers by categories based on Fiction/Non-Fiction and how the book is bound (trade paperback, hardcover, mass market paperback, etc.).

They supposedly put Children’s books on their own list in 2001, due to the raging success of the Harry Potter books, which they just couldn’t shake off the other lists. The ‘Children’s Books’ listing is now separated into ‘picture books’, ‘chapter books’ and ‘series’ – of which, Harry Potter is on its 191st week on the NYT . Anyhow, children’s books aside, there are 35 slots on each of these lists on any given week. Midlist starts around the #10 slot. (Publisher’s Weekly follows a system close to that of the Times, but only lists 15 titles, as opposed to 35.)

The USA Today list, on the other hand, lists all books, regardless of genre and format. The list has 150 slots reported per week. Midlist starts around the #25 slot.

So, uh . . . what qualifies as a NYT/USA Today bestseller?

*sigh* Relative. Relative. Relative. Book sales fluctuate, just like anything. There are slow times in the book market, just like any other market. And again – are you comparing it to other books in its ‘class’?

The only consistency seems to be that both of these lists rely on sales feedback from the major chain booksellers: B&N, Borders, Powell’s, Costco, etc. And, at a casual glance, they seem fairly consistent, if you consider the differences between the broken-out and non-broken listing.

You want a straight answer you say?

Hmm… it looks to me like a FICTION HARD COVER selling between 5,000-10,000 copies in a week will be on the NYT. Of course, a mass market paperback would have to sell more. A non-fiction title, perhaps less. And it also depends on the week. Say highly awaited series conclusion XYZ comes out in a week where there’s a lull, and the list is simply dominated by books that have been selling steadily in the 5-7K range for weeks, and XYZ sells 25,000 copies. Well, it takes the number one slot. But the same book coming out against ten other highly-anticipated books might fall into the middle of the list somewhere. It’s relative. And . . . truth be told, I don’t think the they really want us to know what determines a USA Today or NYT ranking. What it takes to earn your spot is a secret guarded closer than the recipe for Bush’s baked beans.

It depends on genre too. I remember reading a story about how a particular author’s publisher decided to market her book as romance vs. fantasy. Why? Well, a romance ‘best-seller’ sells through in the 40-50K area, where a fantasy ‘best-seller’ sells through with 10-15K copies.

Okay, what about a NYT/USA Today bestselling AUTHOR?

Heh. Sorry, relative again. Each publisher has their own rules depending on… who knows what … that determines when they will claim one of their authors is a ‘NYT Best Selling Author’. Simply making the list isn’t enough. They might require you stay on it for a minimum number of weeks, or hit a certain slot, etc.

In the end, of course, we also face the question: ‘Just because the masses like it, doesn’t mean it’s good’. Sure. True enough. But in some cases, the numbers don’t lie. (Who doesn’t have Harry Potter on a shelf somewhere?)

Some argue that the NYT and other lists mean nothing. After all, they don’t account for eBooks, or for what is selling in small independent ‘brick and mortar’ bookstores. Those have their own listings, which seldom resemble the Times.

Some other lists to look at which might sing to their own tune:
Amazon – Updated Hourly
Booksense (Independent Booksellers Only)

Long story short – a ‘Best Seller’ might be something to aspire to, but there are several levels of best sellers, and sales status according to limited (and in some cases skewed) surveys doesn’t necessarily indicate quality, or even popularity. Sadly, there are plenty of amazing authors and books who might have a very loyal following, yet never make the list, or never break mid-list simply because of poor timing, poor marketing, or some other crappy unfairness of life. Just because it says ‘bestselling blah blah blah’ on the cover doesn’t mean you’ll love it. I mean, plenty of people think Tide is the best detergent, but it makes me break out in hives.

Personally, I take the ratings with a grain of salt and rely on recommendations from people I trust, or my own gut instinct on an unknown title/author I want to check out.

And now that I know what goes into it – my dreams won’t be shattered if I can’t put those words after my name. They’re just . . . words. There are so many more interesting ones.

… Queen of the Underworld
…….. Chocolate Connaiseuse Extraordinaire
…………… Clive Owen’s Personal Sex Slave

Batman-The Dark Knight

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by

The new Batman movie has garnered many excellent reviews and in my opinion deserves all of their praise and more. The movie delivers on the clichéd ‘summer blockbuster’ action front as well as a deep character driven morality play, fraught with symbolism and tragedy.

In this new installment of the caped crusader, we find Bruce Wayne fighting crime in Gotham City. He is tolerated by the policemen for his help capturing criminals, but there is an unease about the mysterious figure whom some believe is actually just a new brand of bad guy. Even the public views him with distrust and suspicion, hence the name ‘The Dark Knight’.

Bruce wants to give up his nocturnal exploits to marry his beloved Rachel, a lawyer who is aware of his secret identity and refuses to be with him as long as he continues to be Batman. For now, our hero has given up her love to protect the city; it needs him and his special brand of justice to keep it safe.

Enter Harvey Dent- the new flawlessly moral, incorruptible District Attorney. His reputation for justice precedes him. Eager to find corruption where ever it may lie, he chases murderers, drug dealers and bad cops with equal fervor. He forms an uneasy alliance with Batman and Commissioner Gordon to bring a ring of mob bosses to trial, thus causing the press to name him the ‘White Knight’.

Bruce Wayne sees salvation in Harvey Dent. He feels he can put away his cowl and leave justice to the new DA. This leaves the city with a protector and him free to marry Rachel. The only problem is, Rachel is now engaged to Harvey, and the mob bosses are after her as retaliation against the DA. Batman finds he must continue to wear his cape and work with his rival for Rachel’s well being.

The Joker, a new criminal mastermind, surfaces against the back drop of the convoluted love triangle and Bruce’s internal battles about his identity and purposes. He is vicious and maniacal in a way that disturbs even the crime bosses of Gotham City, assembled to decide how to best protect their investments. He performs a ‘magic trick’, making a pencil disappear from the table in front of him in a particularly gruesome manner. Watch for this particular scene in the movie, I can guarantee the whole audience will give a collective ‘Ughhh’.

The Joker, brilliantly played by Heath Ledger who will no doubt receive a posthumous Oscar nod for this part, manages to confuse everyone. Why does he do what he does? He shows no signs of desiring either money or power as proved when he burns a pyramid of money as an unexpected way to kill a rival. It falls to Alfred, Bruce’s butler to name the Joker’s particular vice; he just wants to watch the world burn. Each time he kills someone, he tells a different story about how he got the tell tale scars on the corners of his mouth, giving him the garish appearance of a grin. He goes about killing, burning and causing mayhem with a vengeance that is reminiscent of Alex in ‘A Clockwork Orange’.

When Joker speaks he smacks and licks his lips in a distracting manner, his makeup is always smeared and smudged, suggesting decadence and decay. He brings a horrifying ‘joie de vivre’ to his work that is impossible not to stare at. In a particularly memorable scene that has him in a nurses’s dress, complete with white hose and shoes, he skips gaily down a city street, blowing up buildings in his wake with a remote control. The implied reference of ‘helping’ in the uniform of a care giver and the destruction of a previously imagined ‘safe place’ –a hospital, is poignantly ironic, not to mention disorienting in its absurdity.

This movie is aimed at adults, even though children and teens will flock to it and enjoy it. However, for those interested in the characters and their motivations this movie will satisfy those tastes as well. It remains true to the Batman mythos, and actually makes fun, in a ghoulish manner, of costumed Batman wannabees who try to help the caped crusader with his vigilante efforts. I’m not sure how the collective group of ‘fan boys’ will take that insinuation, but I’m willing to be they’ll be honored to be included. 🙂

Thursday Thirteen – 155th Edition

Writer Zen Garden Posted on by

Most of the contributors of the Writer’s Retreat Blog participate in the weekly meme, Thursday Thirteen, so every Thursday we link to the individual sites of each writer’s TT. Hopefully, this helps you get to know each of us a little better. This week we’ve got:

A.Cathernine Noon Thirteen Things That Have Happened

Eaton Bennett 13 Places I Want to Visit