|
|
Friday, September 30, 2005YOOHOO! Important AnnouncementI'm breaking out in hives over this (not really), but the URL to this blog has CHANGED. Many of you have blogrolled me over the past several weeks. Thank you! I want to make sure you've all got the new URL. Here it is: http://www.beatyourowndrum.com/blog/jillian/jillianboehme.html The old address will redirect to the new for a couple of months, but after that, it's POOF! OK, the "hives" part comes from knowing it will probably take Blog Explosion way longer than I'd like to get my new URL approved. In the meantime, I won't be visible over there. (Who, me? Addicted to Blog Explosion?) And since I'm slightly neurotic, a quick comment telling me, "Yep, I've got it, Jill," will make me breathe easier. Ur, more easily. Big hugs to all my readers! (Unless you're not the huggy type. I'll stay away from you, I promise.) Wednesday, September 28, 2005On the Emotional State of Writerhood -- and Starbucks To Go
 It's not fair, really. Writing isn't like a job that requires brainpower or skill, perhaps, but not an inner passion that drives one to distraction on a daily basis. It's more like -- breathing. Do it, or you'll die. I appeal to you writers, whether published or pre-published (an optimistic term, don't you think?): How do you maintain your sanity through the constant tidal waves of euphoria and despair? How do you settle yourself down to the dreary business of revisions or the tedious business of creating a completely new story, after you've fallen from a height of ecstacy following good news, or after you've plummeted to near-suicidal darkness after a setback or discouragement? It seems to require an almost superhuman ability. For me, it means leaving the writing world behind -- temporarily -- and engrossing myself in the machinations of family life. I mean, I've got some of the strangest kids you'll ever meet. They keep me endlessly amused, perplexed, and entertained. Sometimes they drive me crazy. But whenever I remember that they are the reason I'm here at home, running the roost like some neurotic hen, my perspective clears and my heart calms. Then, I can return to the writing poo later and feel human while doing so. Feel free to emote in my comment box. If anything, you're definitely going to get a sympathetic ear. At any rate, Eric and I beat our own drum this morning (that ain't the name of our business for nothin'). Wednesday mornings are my "shop early at Publix and get it the heck over with" time. Recently, Eric has taken to joining me in this not-so-exciting venture, and it's proven to be a funnish (funnish?) time for us. Hey, we grab what we can. Anyway, last week it was a rather distressing business, because we ran a bit late and didn't have time for our morning coffee together when we got back home. This week, we solved the coffee problem beautifully -- we brought our carafe, our mugs, and our half-n-half with us to the grocery store. I'm absolutely certain that we looked like a couple of weirdos. Just picture me, stopping every other aisle to stir cream into my Starbucks mug with a little plastic spoon. It's not easy to place onions in a bag one-handed, either. But boy oh boy, did that Sumatra enhance the shopping experience. We're lucky to have one of those coffee makers with a keep-it-hot carafe, so we enjoyed piping coffee the entire time we shopped. No matter that the store was blasting really stupid 60's music, or that the boneless chicken breast wasn't on sale. I didn't even freeze to death in the produce department like I normally do -- my nice, steaming cuppa Starbucks kept me toasty. We may have begun a new Wednesday morning tradition. Yep, keep reading my blog and you'll never see a dull moment. I'm awfully good at poking fun at myself. It's one sure way to stay grounded, yes? (Ugh...coffee...grounded....that pun was so not intended...) The above photograph of coffee beans (one of nature's finest gifts to man) is the work of Doris Jennings, whose original and copyrighted photography is available in a variety of fine products. Visit her at Nature's Artwork by Doris Jennings. Labels: writing Monday, September 26, 2005Coming Out of the ClosetIt was too crowded in there, anyway. And it was getting hot. And uncomfortable. It was freeing to finally come out, to finally be able to breathe again. And now I'm going to tell you all about it. I'm talking about our downstairs hall closet, of course. (What did you think I was talking about?) The tornado sirens went off around 9:30 last night. All the children were in bed, though only one -- Spencer -- was actually sound asleep. Our normal routine is to shift the young'uns into the downstairs closet. If things got really scary, I could always jump in on top of them. (The force of my body landing on them is certainly less than the force of a tornado at any rate.) Spencer remained tightly asleep as Maggie carried him down the front steps. He continued to sleep, thumb firmly entrenched in his mouth, as we tucked him up against a sofa pillow on the closet floor. It's the kind of thing that burns itself onto my brain and transfixes me -- my six-year-old sleeping in the closet during a tornado warning. It's been a while since we've "done" the closet, though, so I was a little put-out to realize that my children no longer fit. I mean, I used to cram them all in there like proverbial sardines. Now I've got gangly thirteen-year-old legs and a long, lithe, eleven-year-old dancer body to figure in. So I split them up, and sent Rachel and Jonathan off to the guest room closet. Within minutes, Rachel was complaining that Jonathan was farting. Yeah, I know, boys will be boys. But come on -- farting in a two-by-four closet in the midst of high winds? With the door closed? It's a fate worse than...well, worse than a tornado. When Jonathan began beating drums riffs on the wall, I figured it was time to let the caged animal out, so I told him he could stand on the front porch with his daddy, which is what he'd wanted to do all along. A few, well-timed farts and he got his wish. Rachel was still breathing normally after the fart attack, so I have no casualties to report. The storms moved off, we cleared out of the closet, and after a brief attack of post-tornado chaos, everyone was back in bed. Spencer had awakened halfway through all the farting and tornado-watching, and he wasn't very happy to be out of his bed. When I finally tucked him in, he was almost gleeful, as though going to bed were some sort of reward for good behavior. So there you have it. I'm out of the closet, and so is my entire family. The sun is shining, my children are quiet, and I've got a truckload of boring typing to do (read: typing that has nothing to do with fiction). I hope your Monday is more fascinating than mine! Friday, September 23, 2005Especially for Chench -- And Everyone Else, TooYes, I've been blathering on about my novel, about which I am understandably excited. The truth is, though, that seeing it on your bookstore shelves is a long way off. Not one to stay quiet for long, and desperately needing something "different" to work on while I forge ahead with book 2 in my series, I am going to be presenting the following within the next month: An online serial fantasy story! So pass the word to all your fellow fantasy geeks (I'm allowed to say that because I am one) -- Jillian Boehme is coming out with a serial! I'm not charging a dime for it, either. I know that, if you love me, you'll eventually buy my book, and that is thanks enough. This morning, I handed the first page of The New Story to each of my children separately. Maggie, my voracious, reads-way-ahead-of-her-age bibliophile, gasped and said, "You wrote this?" Then, "I felt like I had to hold my breath!" Jonathan, who is too cool to be effusive, stated, "Hey, I like this. So, what's with the lady in the billowing dress?" And Rachel, smiling and tilting her head to the side in an endearing manner, simply said, "I like it!" Would that my children were actually editors at huge publishing houses! So there you have it. Keep your eyes on this blog (you do have me bookmarked, yes?) for the Big Announcement of the release of Chapter One. And Chench -- you are allowed to hold me accountable. Just this once. Now I'm off to be a Good Girl and get some writing done. It is, after all, Date Night, and my darling Eric has just informed me that I am to feed the children separately -- he's bringing home a special "dinner for two." What a guy! Wednesday, September 21, 2005Tomato Sex?People search for really strange things on the Internet. Now, I would venture a guess that most bloggers don't spend as much time as I do taking note of where their blog hits come from. Maybe it's my anal retentive tendencies rising to the surface, but I feel compelled to know who is finding me where. And why. It's not like I'm a bestselling author (yet) or that I'm drop-dead gorgeous (oh, please) or wanted by the FBI. So it's intriguing to note where the clicks actually come from. Imagine my surprise when, just yesterday, I discovered that my blog appeared when someone did a search on -- are you ready? -- tomato sex picture. Now, that phrase in itself is confusing enough. My first thought was, "What the heck is tomato sex?" Fast on its heels was my second thought: "Why the heck did my blog come up in this search??" I mean, seriously. A dear friend clued me in on the reason for the search, which has something to do with a photograph of a tomato that apparently resembles certain anatomical parts (heavens, I am so naive!). And I did blog about my first tomato several weeks ago. Hence, the connection. One of the most amusing search phenomena I've encountered, though, is the fact that I receive a steady trickle of hits from folks Googling "deboning chicken." I kid you not! Not only that, but my blog is popping up on the first page. Now, if I were wanting instructions on deboning a chicken, I don't think I'd click on some chick's writing blog. So I'm still trying to figure this one out. Come to think of it, I'm still trying to figure out why anyone would need instructions on deboning a chicken. You cook it, you let it cool, you rip the meat off of the bones. Voila! And now that I've mentioned deboning a chicken again, I'll probably get even more hits. I've gotten some hits from "deboning a trout," too. Is this humbling or what? I haven't gotten any hits from things like, "funny, amazing, and fabulously forty" or "women I'd like to marry if they weren't married already" or "world's best writers." Nope. Just "deboning chicken" and "tomato sex picture." Gotta start somewhere, I guess. Monday, September 19, 2005Got $25,000?I've got a bold statement to make that nobody in the publishing industry will contradict: Self-published authors are almost universally sneered at. It's not because there aren't some truly talented, hard-working self-published authors out there. It's not because there's no chance for success outside of a traditional publisher (as you will see momentarily). I think there are two main reasons, really, why self-published authors are looked down upon: 1. Vanity presses. By preying on wanna-be authors, they flood the market with low-quality books just for the sake of lining their own pockets. Thus, the entire population of self-published authors has gotten a bad rap. Disclaimer: Not all self-publishing outlets are vanity presses, though the Powers That Be tend to lump them all together under the disparaging "vanity" title. Companies like Booklocker.com have quality control in place and reject more than ninety percent of the manuscripts submitted to them for self-publication via POD. There really are reputable self-publishing and POD companies out there that care about what's being produced and distributed. 2. The arrogant dinosaur that is New York Publishing. "If we don't say it's publishable, then no one else's opinion counts." In short, it's not a "real book" unless a bonafide publisher takes a substantial percentage of its profits. So, there you have it. It's endlessly satifying, then, to come across a self-publishing success story that blows it all out of the water. Well, to be perfectly honest, it's a frustrating mixture of satisfaction and utter dispair. Patrick Carman self-published his bestselling The Dark Hills Divide, which ultimately captured the attention of hot agent Peter Rubie, who sold it in a three-book deal to Scholastic for a nice, six-figure number. You can read the article HERE. Here's the clincher, though. Mr. Carman, whom I greatly admire for his chutzpah and hard work, invested $25,000 in the self-publication of his novel. I don't know about you, but I don't have that kind of money lying around to invest in a book. Imagine the freedom, though. The author chooses his own cover artist (hand-picked and only the best), his own printer (best quality he can afford), and owns the ISBN and all rights. Coupled with an aggressive marketing plan, this is definitely a recipe for success, as proven by Mr. Carman. Funny, isn't it, how the Powers That Be jump through hoops as soon as something has created a big enough buzz (read: sales). Does "quality" matter at that point? Does "it is publishable because we say it is" matter? I doubt it. At any rate, Mr. Carman is made in the shade, and those of us who don't have twenty-five grand must play the game according to the antiquated Big Boys' rules. Success can come via either route, but I must say that I truly admire Mr. Carman's. If you feel inclined to send me a check for $25,000, I'll send you my business address. Labels: writing Friday, September 16, 2005Calling all Writers: Tell Me a Story!
 Everybody's got one. A story, that is. And writers...well, we tend to have a sort of compulsion to tell ours, more frequently and with the most interesting and varied words. Now it's time to tell yours. I'll confess: I'm a comment junkie. And what a wonderful way to garner some comments, yes? Simply reply to this post and answer the question, "When did you first discover that you were, above all else, a WRITER?" Oh, and I suppose I should tell my story first. As briefly as possible, of course. I began writing when I was six. My first poem, written in manuscript on pale yellow, first-grade midline paper, was the following: Spring is the time for you and me, Look up high, the birds fly free. Buds are even on the trees, Look up high, there go three bees! Such a beautiful sight to see, Just right for you, just right for me. Not exactly poet laureate material, but not bad for an almost-seven-year-old, either, particular when considering rhyme and meter. When I was eight years old, I had a wonderful third grade English teacher who saw my writing talent and worked with me to compile a collection of my poems and stories for the school library. Just imagine a public school teacher, with her already-huge "take-home" pile of work, spending extra time typing a little girl's literary masterpieces on fragile onion skin, then bringing them back to school so that I could illustrate my words with crayoned pictures. She was a wonderful, inspiring teacher -- and I dedicated Lima Beans to her. Because she was friends with one of the editors of our local city newspaper, my teacher arranged a personal interview, which resulted in a full-page layout. If we're being technical, this was when I was first published. Yes, that's my picture above. March, 1974. The headline read, "Tiny Author's Work Sensitive But Lively." No, I wasn't a child prodigy. I just had a really wonderful teacher and a gift with the written word. But it was definitely the start of my writing journey. I got lost along the way, though, and didn't begin writing seriously until I was in my 30's. But let's call that "Part B" and get to it another day. I don't want you to nod off before you get a chance to tell me YOUR story! Remember, here's the question: ""When did you first discover that you were, above all else, a WRITER?" I anxiously await your responses! ---- Labels: writing Tuesday, September 13, 2005Pickin' ApplesIt was me-n-my sweet six-year-old this morning, on Spencer's First Real Field Trip. I took him to an apple orchard, to learn about making cider and to taste dried apples and to pick an apple from a REAL APPLE TREE. Will you believe me if I tell you that I was worried about being the Oldest Mom in the crowd? Let's face it -- apple orchard field trips are geared for wee youngsters. Spencer is my fourth child -- I've been-there-done-this stuff quite a bit. So I had pictures of not-quite-30 mamas toting their five-year-old firstborns to the orchard. I wore make-up. I didn't stand too close to anyone. I'd worried for nothing, though. Sure, there were a few green-behind-the-ears types there; the kind with no wrinkles yet who smile at their children too much. But the woman who spearheaded the field trip looked old enough to be a grandmother (either that, or she's spent way too much time in the sun). There were other "older moms" present, too, so I didn't feel matronly after all. Go ahead, call me vain. I've only been 40 for a few months and I'm trying to get used to it. Spencer was an absolute doll, though. I didn't have to scold, correct, or shush him even once. Come to think of it, the whole group was pretty darn well-behaved. I'm sure I annoyed everyone within the first five minutes, though. I was snapping pictures like a seasoned paparazzo. That's one benefit of being an "older mom;" you've outgrown the tendency to worry what the other moms are thinking. Precious time amongst the apple trees with my baby -- it was the sweet oasis in what was, overall, a stinky day. Thanks for indulging me in a bit of mommy-goo. Friday, September 09, 2005Deafening SilenceAre you an aspiring writer? Then you may not like what I'm going to tell you. Brace yourself. If you want to be a successful author, you must learn the meaning of the word "wait." After you finish writing your first draft, you must WAIT several weeks, at the very least, before pulling it out of the drawer to begin editing. Otherwise, you'll remain "too close" to your work and you won't be able to make any effective changes. Once your manuscript is ready and you've begun rabidly querying the agents of your choice, you must WAIT for a response from each and every one of them. Sometimes the response is complete silence (the weaniest kind of rejection). If you can't play this particular waiting game, you're going to be tempted to give up. You are convinced that your story is the best thing every to grace a ream of paper. Most of the agents you query won't agree with you. That's just the way it is. It stinks, but there you have it. When you've finally signed a contract with your Dream Agent, the submission process begins, and you must WAIT for responses from the editors. Just when you think all the waiting was over, you have to wait some more. You will be convinced that the waiting is over for good when you sign that deal with a publisher. That is, until you realize exactly how long it actually takes a book to go from signing to print. At this point, you're hoping you won't be qualifying for Senior discounts by the time your novel is gracing the shelves of your local Borders. Are you ready to persevere? Remain tenacious? Hang in there until your fingernails fall off? Then you will succeed. Are you more inclined to burst into tears and throw your manuscript into the dying embers? Then you're going to have to grow a thicker skin, a steadier temperament, and the ability to JUST WAIT. Am I in the midst of playing a particular waiting game right now? Does it show? --- Jill Schafer Boehme Tuesday, September 06, 2005I was licking an envelope.....and sliced right through my top lip. Did you ever have a paper cut on your lip?? Let me tell you something: If one's mood is already slightly on the edge, a paper cut on the lip will definitely topple it over the edge. Yes, I was already a bit frayed. Not enough sleep, running late, houseguests in my midst -- the works. Nothing serious, just a typical "female mood" kind of morning. It wasn't a good time for a paper cut on my mouth. And I was being good! I was licking the envelope of a birthday card for my dad. He's turning 72 in a few days, and he looks as gorgeous as ever. So what do I get for being a loving, devoted daughter? A slit on my upper lip! Naturally, my neurosis has kicked in, and I am now tenderly exploring the cut with my tongue, as if licking it will somehow make it go away. Lick. Hmm, it's still there. Lick, lick. Still there! I got lots of sympathy from Maggie, though. I told her my paper cut story (with lots of appropriate facial expressions, of course), and she gasped and shuddered and exclaimed and sympathized all at once. It was lovely! Now I've got to get to the business of writing (which is what my afternoons are largely comprised of). Rest assured that I'll be sitting here licking the stupid cut on my mouth with every click of the keyboard. As if I need another distraction in my life! At least I can laugh at myself. Sometimes I am completely convinced that things like this only happen to me. I'm the only one who has dropped a puppy or spilled wine on herself or gotten poop underneath her fingernail or fell onto a knife that was sticking point-up out of the dishwasher basket. From now on, I think I will send birthday emails. There's no possible way I could get a paper cut from my keyboard. Friday, September 02, 2005SLAMMED by Harry PotterIt's true. It's killing me, but it's true. My son prefers Harry Potter over his mother's novel. "Well, I mean, I liked your story when I read it," he said, "but it's not really my style, you know? I don't really like fantasy." Hello? And Harry Potter is what? World History? It's OK. I'm the one who suggested he read the Harry Potter books. "They really read more like mysteries than anything else," I said. I admit it -- I was desperate for the boy to read. He loves mysteries, so I did a hard sell. And now I've been usurped. And my son really isn't a fan of fantasy. And that's OK, too. Well, it's sort of OK. How any kid can go through life without being in love with the fantasy genre is outside of my ability to understand. But then, I was a weird kid. At any rate, I promised you some book recommendations. This is "List One," which comprises the Elementary Reader level (in no particular order): The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis Sarah, Plain and Tall by Patricia MacLachlan The Door in the Wall by Marguerite de Angeli The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald Abraham Lincoln George Washington Ben Franklin (and other titles) by Ingri and Edgar Parin d'Aulaire The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski Charlotte's Web by E.B. White I hesitantly and not-quite-so-enthusiastically mention The American Girl series, too. Not because they are pillars of literary prowess -- they are not. But they are historically accurate and pleasantly written. They're a good way to "draw in" a reluctant (female) reader. My "middle reader and up" list will come later. I will now slink off and ponder the implications of my son's treachery. Have a wonderful Friday! Labels: writing |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
|
