Merry Christmas

From all of us at SFF Seven: May your holiday be as merry and bright as it is for  a kitten and her first Christmas tree. 

Resolutions

Primary goal for 2019: Convince this little lady that she wants to live. We're doing the massive IBD flare thing again and she's stopped eating. Again. Usually we right this ship before a trip to the ER. Not this time. And just as well. She's developing heart disease, so when she was released to come home, she came home with a referral to a cardiologist. So there's that to navigate.

Oh. You meant goals I had actual control over? Fine. Find and reclaim my writer mojo. That's it. That's the goal. Totally specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and time sensitive. 

The last two years have been a clu--uh--challenge. I wrote, yes, but published nothing. Which isn't to say there haven't been projects finished. There have. They just weren't quite right. They've stewed enough that I know how to make them right. So getting those fixes in and the stuff published in one form or another is on the list for this year. As is finishing off the SFR series. It may not all get released this year, but if I can get the last draft in the can by end of year, I'll count the year a success. I won't claim to have made my process bullet proof, because in no way do I wish to challenge the universe to prove me wrong. So let's just say I have an adaptive system that has built in guides for getting back on track when life goes pear-shaped.

Armed with my trusty bullet journal, I record my word counts every day and I know precisely how many words I need in order to stay on track. There are built in fudge days because killer migraines and family emergencies happen and I'm one of the lucky ones who gets to care about family emergencies. I won't claim any kind of luck for the killer migraines. I'm still trying to get the insurance company to let me give Aimovig a try. 

Regardless. The year is mapped out. Each story gets a shot. If I keep my word count goals, I'll make a one million word mark with no issue. 

So raise your cup of tea. Here's to a New Year and to finishing what we start.

Predictions! 4 of Mine and 1 Guest Prediction

Predicting the publishing future - my stabs in the dark heart of the publishing wilderness. Totally sounds like I should be filming a Predator movie somewhere. Alas. Not happening. Yet.

1. All the Eggs in One Flawed Basket - I'm seeing discontent and conversations going on about how certain LARGE empires are treating authors and books of certain genres. I see the call outs about how scammers are gaming said empire to the detriment of actual authors with actual novels. The writing on the wall says to me that the age of centralization is going to have to come to an end. If you are a reader or writer of content that isn't treated well, it's time to get subversive and create alternative outlets. I'm thinking of co-op publishing models run by the authors and readers themselves.
2. Newsletters Dying a Well Deserved Death - Yes, pretty much every single marketing guru out there who wants to tell authors how we're all doing it wrong (and given the number of people signed up for my mailing list *I* might be doing it all wrong) is pushing mailing list, mailing list, mailing list, I want hard numbers on open rates. Cause nobody under thirty that I know actually reads email unless coerced into it by work. My own email inboxes are so inundated that newsletters I willingly signed up for over time are now auto-filed in the trash. Only so many hours in a day and only so much bandwidth. Makes me sad. Do I know what's going to take the place? Nope. Not that clairvoyant. But when I want to know what an author I love is doing, I search for them on my book store of choice and start clicking buy buttons for the books I don't have.
3. Books that Have Actually Been Edited - This follows Jeffe's point about craft. A well written book is a book that has also been subjected to the fine and knowledgeable eye of an editor. I won't claim a book has to be perfect. It doesn't. But the plot holes need plugging. The turns of phrase need to make sense. Just because *I* know what I meant on page 163 doesn't mean that you know what I meant. I need an editor to tell me that the lengthy paragraph about the green and brown striped haviz makes no sense and maybe some of what I know in my head didn't make it to the page. So yes. I think books that have obviously been rushed and tossed online to cash in on something might start slipping as reader annoyance with such tomes begins growing.
4. Diversity - I suspect we'll begin to see authors of color and LGBTQA authors getting more subversive about publishing with co-ops. (I hope!) I don't see the major publishers, which seem to all be particularly tone deaf to the issues, pivoting on how they're asking their mostly white, straight authors to write diversity. We're already seeing authors using privilege to attempt to signal boost AOC and LGBTQA authors. I'm hoping for a lot more of that.
5. Hatshepsut's Prediction: MORE CATS!

I will do my best.

What Not to Ask Me

So you know how you make some random blanket statement that your life is an open book and you have nothing to hide? And then, inevitably, out of nowhere, someone tosses out a question that makes you recoil while certain nether regions pucker?

Yeah. Who'd have thought something so innocent as 'how do you plan' would be my hill to die upon?

To make a long story short: Not answering the planning question.

Oh.

You're still here. Uhm. Okay. I, uh, look. How about why I don't like chatting about plans? It's superstition. I like to keep my plans, like my poker cards, close to my vest. Not that I play poker well. It's just that in any creative endeavor, I feel like the energy of beginning is fragile and easily dissipated. So I don't talk about my plans (for fiction or drawings or paintings or photography) with anyone. Not even crit partners. Once projects are well underway, they seem to withstand being discussed and dissected. At the point that I have the legs assembled and the brain and heart of a story plugged in, the skeleton can handle all kinds of challenges being tossed at it. Until then, I'm super susceptible to being utterly derailed by someone saying, "this bit here doesn't make sense." Stupid but true.

Do I wish my brain worked differently around this? You betcha. Instead, I have to be the weird little muppet in a Jim Henson skit who gasps and vanishes into her hole, pulling a rock in after her. Here. Have a cat.

Story Tetris

This is my last post as a Pacific Northwesterner. By this time next week, I will have relocated to Florida. As you can see, Hatshepsut is very keen on 'helping' with the packing. We're almost done and the moving truck is filling up. I am so tired.

Packing a moving truck is an art. Think Truck Tetris. Or huge, fragile jigsaw puzzle. It's very much like putting a book together. Every book has scenes and characters and arcs. Motivations and conflicts. Those come in varying sizes and weights. The ones I can't lift have to act as the anchors to all the other bits and pieces. As the biggest, heaviest segments settle into place in a story, I have to juggle the smaller ones, slotting them into the perfect place for them. In a moving truck, I do that so the load doesn't shift and break everything. I guess stories work the same way. The pieces interlock. They prop one another up and keep the structure from collapsing under its own weight.


I wish I could talk about whether or not I'm tempted to cave to fan pressure about how a story goes down. But I'm honestly not in that position. I've had a grand total of one, count 'em one, protest about how one of my books ended. And at that point, the book was in print. So it wasn't as if I had an option to change that one to suit the reader. Would I if I had readers beating down my doors over a story?

Probably not. I cannot rearrange a story - shift boxes around - without risking the whole thing collapsing and breaking. That plot twist readers hate is, for me, the ONLY thing that will fit in just that spot in the story. It supports and props up the rest of the stuff that gets piled atop it. But hey. Never say never, right? Who knows what I'll do when faced with a mob of annoyed readers brandishing torches?

Where I DO bow to reader demand right now, though, is in what book to write when. Well. Kinda. I've had a number of readers after me for the conclusion of one of the series I write. Not that I didn't WANT to write it - but eh the rights are mine again and here we go.

So. Sunnier climes ho. When someone yells at me in protest over a plot point, I'll let you know whether I cave or fight back. In the meantime, break out the sunscreen and shades. We're palm tree bound.

All I Do Not Know

The cat is back. Her feeding tube is out and she's recovering really, really well. My heart, however, is now in for some serious stress testing, apparently.

Aaaand, had you been subbed into my newsletter, you'd know all of this already because I just sent out a newsletter (the third in like three years) this past week. This is to say that when it comes to email lists and newsletters, I'm a learner, not a master. My email list is tiny. As in double digits tiny.

Finding how to subscribe to my email list is probably more difficult than it should be. KAK's excellent write up made that plain to me. Also plain to me is that getting my sign up put up as easily as Marshall did his? Yeah. It's not a thing. I have no way to grab my sign up box and put it where I want it. I have to send you to the Contact page on my website. Not sure why mine is coded that way. Dumb. But there you go. I will be asking my web mistress, I assure you.

My main issue with the whole newsletter/email list thing is that I have no earthly clue what to say. Ever. So my newsletter subscribers are mostly people who already know me from other endeavors - the international cat fancier's list I belong to, for example. So yes. My cats star in my newsletters. Kinda like they do everything else. As a result, I haven't ever really pushed for email sign ups.

The other issue is that I am scattered across a wide array of genres. SFR. UF. Fantasy. Paranormal Romance. In no case have any of my series been completed past two books. Usually, in a push for email sign ups, an author has something to offer - a free book, short, novella, something. And I do. But it is the sole example of sword and sorcery that I've written. So it's an odd lead-in to the rest of my list, right?

Sigh.

I think if we want to be really straight here, this is me. Drowning in all I do not know.

Writing on the Go

Word counts while traveling depend entirely upon your ability to arrange for vast wastelands of time and boredom. Sort of like being a kid in the backseat of a car driving from one end of the continent to the other before cars had anything fancier than wheels, engines, and seatbelts. The external scenery, historical markers, triumphs, and tragedies rolling past the car window lull you into boredom. And that boredom encourages you to explore your internal landscape. Yes. I grew up on road trips. Expeditions, maybe. All those hours and all of that country passing - it wrote itself into stories. I doubt I'd be a writer were it not for my family trekking from one Air Force base to the next via a rust bucket of a car pulling a travel trailer. To this day, when I block, I get in the car and start driving. Story problems unravel to the tune of tires on pavement.

Airplanes are also prime word count time for me, because what could be more worthy of psychic escape than being held captive in a tin can at 30,000 feet? If writing means butt in chair, airplanes have your number. Might as well do something to take your mind off being smushed between the fuselage and whoever has the middle seat, right? The only issue with planes is that getting to use a laptop isn't guaranteed. If someone in front of you want to recline, you risk your screen. I make sure I have old school tools. What pen and paper lack in flash, they make up with flexibility. I also find them easier on my head. Flying inevitably gives me a migraine and looking at a backlit computer screen is excruciating. Pen and paper are less likely to make me wish I'd died.

If you want word count while traveling, pick your traveling companions well. Most writers have a list of 'safe' people, as well as a list of people they love, but who will never allow them to write. It helps to be really clear and honest with yourself. If your beloved, chatty mother is traveling with you, your choices are to get up an hour before she does to write, or you acknowledge it's not happening this trip. Conferences are the same - because those involve some intense commitments, you either take a break on writing or you commit to a time to write that won't end up subsumed by conference crazy. 

The whole point of travel is to remove you from the ordinary. It's the reason I advocate so strongly for solo writing retreats. It's invaluable for a writer to walk away from responsibility for a few days - delegate the care and feeding of the family so the writer can be responsible for and to nothing but herself and the page for a few days. Modern life is full of noise to the point that most of us start having trouble hearing the voices of our stories. Solo travel clears that racket away. Besides. When you're by yourself there's no one to tell you to stop writing that nonsense and get some sleep. There's no one to tell you not to have another glass of wine while you sit scribbling or typing madly away.

Traveling in any capacity flips a switch on my imagination. I get kicked into Beginner Mind, I think. In that space, I see everything as new. Including my stories. Stories and characters I've never seen before rise up in the middle of the night to wake me and demand I write them down when I'm traveling, especially if I'm traveling alone and don't have to worry about waking anyone else when I flip on the bedside lamp at 2am. So yes. Traveling means writing.

BTW. The results after last week's maudlin post. A feeding tube and a cat who's feeling much better.

Book Interval

Two weeks and an eternity ago, Autolycus died. Tonight, Hatshepsut is in the hospital. I'm binge eating ice cream bars, listening to the Gayatri Mantra - all 108 recitations of it. There may be eye leakage while we wait for word on the youngest girl.

This is how long it takes between books. This is how long it takes books in general. Because life and death and illness and joy and pain don't stop just because a book is due. The stories never stop. They don't die until you do. So it doesn't matter how much time one takes between books. What matters is that you keep going. Keep trying. Keep taking refuge in the stories in your blood and bones. How fast versus how slowly you do that is meaningless. Your heart beats in its own time. So do your stories.

Just don't let anyone or anything suppress them. Not even you.

Embracing the Brand

Whelp. After reading Jeffe's excellent post about author brand, it belatedly dawns on me I have one. One I hadn't, to this point, known about, much less embraced.

Crazy Cat Lady.

Seriously. Follow me on Instagram. @marcellaburnard  Have a look at my gallery. Go back through my blog posts. How many cat photos versus photos of literally anything else? Also, who just landed a part time job as a veterinary assistant for a cat-only clinic based solely on a long history of rescue work and learning to give subcutaneous fluids to her own cats? Yeeeeeah.

Not to mention that if you read the reviews of the last book I put out (Damned If He Does) - the very first cat I've written into a story gets mentioned in reviews more than the main characters. I'm seeing a trend here.

But I'm not certain how to capitalize on that, you know? I mean, okay. 10% of everything I make goes to animal rescue (Best Friends and Big Cat Rescue, specifically).  But that's not exactly - I don't know - flashy? Visible? Easily identified?

I could wear sweaters knitted from the fur I've combed from my cats to all my events, but I have concerns about just how many readers would be seriously allergic to me . . .

Wonder if Hatshesput would consent to wear a 'service animal' vest and come to events with me. Without murdering me in my sleep for the affront of making her wear clothes.

Returning the Favor: Helping Fellow Writers

It's cherry blossom time in Poulsbo, the Little Norway of Washington state. The left hand shot is of the first blossom that's popped on the weeping cherry tree that Hatshepsut is inspecting (right hand photo). When the blooms finally all open, the tree will be a mass of pink. I'll try for another photo at that point. It's pretty spectacular in bloom. May even have to break out a real camera for that.

You'd think that my cherry blossom obsession had nothing to do with the topic of mentoring or giving back to the writerly orgs to which most of us inevitably belong. You'd think incorrectly because I can make anything about anything. It's a gift. Brace yourself for a crappy analogy:

When it comes to mentoring, I feel like I'm bringing a cell phone camera to an opportunity that calls for a massive DSLR

Yeah. That was it. My analogy. Aren't you glad you stuck around for that? What I'm saying is that while I try to do my darnedest to contribute, I want to be ultra careful about holding myself up as any kind of authority on anything writing. My knowledge and skill set are still equal to a middle of the road cell phone camera. There are loads of writers out there in the world with the amassed ability that's equal to a super hi-res Digital SLR camera. Sure, sure. I've held offices for various organizations. I've judged contests and critiqued entries as kindly and as constructively as possible. I will volunteer during conferences for any and all tasks that will help things go more smoothly. Need bags stuffed? Count me in. Files sorted and organized? Sure. Boxes carted? I'm there.

But frankly, at this point, I am more in need of mentoring than I am in need of mentoring others. I still have so much to learn and so many opportunities to breathe some new life into a career that's been in a bit of a holding pattern. Maybe when I manage that, I'll have a great story to tell other writers about how to do it - or at least the story of how it worked for me.

Sure, I've taught workshops. I've taken far more. Mainly, I think, because while I get a lot out of workshops, I find offering workshops to be too impersonal. My great joy is sitting down in a group of writers and listening to everyone's work. This happened recently. A writer with a great manuscript came to critique. We read her opening chapter. Everyone gave feedback, then I said, "You know, based on this chapter we've read, here's the story you're setting up." She stared at me. "That's not the story at all." "Yeah," I said. "I think you started the book in the wrong place. From what you're describing about the plot, your story starts here." I was trembling in my boots, because WHO WANTS TO HEAR THAT???

Her eyes were wide. She sucked in a breath and then shouted, "Oh my GOD! I knew something was wrong and I had no idea what it was! Thank you!" 

So that's my sweet spot. Getting to offer up an opinion about how a story is off track and offering options for putting it back up on rails. It isn't massive value to massive numbers of writers - but if it helps one single writer get her work to market, I'll be happy. Actually. Scratch that. I already am happy. It's alarmingly satisfying to identify story issues (in someone else's work where I'm not blinded by trees and forest) and to come up with potential resolutions. It's giving someone a leg up in their work. It's also excellent practice for me - solving other people's story issues makes it more likely I'll be able to ID my own. Maybe.

What I really want to know is if you could get any workshop from any writer(s) what would it be about?

The Pet Post

Once upon a time, I had an Instagram account. Oh, the account is still in my name. You can still search on it and find it. But. It is *my* account only by virtue of the fact that I am the one behind the camera. The account belongs entirely to the cats. There might be a sunset or two in there, I won't lie, but the vast majority of the account is all cats all the time. So allow me to introduce my masters:
This is Autolycus. He's the eldest at 18 (he'll be 18 in March.) He has fully graduated into a Grumpy Old Man cat post here aboard the boat. He's a super high maintenance guy at this point. He suffers from cholangiohepatitis and the early stages of renal failure. This means a grand total of nine different pills per day, plus the need to feed him every few hours. (Part of the liver disease and the fact that elderly felines can't derive the same nutrition from their food as younger cats. So he needs multiple small meals per day to keep his weight up. The other cats are apoplectic with envy.) This means that in order to preserve the quality of this dude's life, one of his humans must remain with him at all times or hire in a pet sitter. The care and feeding of the old dude are labor intensive enough that when my beloved husband heads to Florida for a wedding in the family, I will remain behind to look after the Little Orange Terror pictured here.  Why go to all this trouble? Two reasons. 1. Taking responsibility for a life isn't a convenience. It's a trust that goes beyond what's easy. There's a saying among animal people: You EARN an old cat (or dog). 2. Because this photo:

He is super sweet and he honestly appreciates every effort we make on his behalf. He's worked out that his pills make him feel better. So while he dislikes taking them, he sits still and allows me to pill him. The instant I'm done medicating, he's up and rubbing his face against mine while he purrs.

Why yes. I am a sucker and easily manipulated. Why do you ask?

He is snoring beside me as I type this. I don't know how much longer we get with him, but every second is worth the effort.

Then there's Cuillean, the middle child. She's a little camera shy. Getting a good photo of her is hard. She seems to thing the camera is a predator looking right at her. For that reason, her photo is about three years old. Appropriately captioned: All yer pizza R belong to Cuillean.

She lives for a warm pizza box to claim for her very own. She's my lap warmer and is the cat most likely to come sit with me while I work. She has a champion purr and radiates more body heat than any cat I've ever known.

She's also exquisitely skilled at human training. She went through a protracted training program with my husband - sitting on his workout bag each morning while he was trying to pack it. He would encourage her to move with "If you sit on my bag, you get pets!" Being the shy gal she is, he'd assumed that would get her off his workout bag. It worked. Twice. And then she had him. The pets became the point. Eventually, she got him wrapped around her paws so much that when the alarm goes off in the mornings, she appears. He is expected to pet her until she flops over on her side and kneads his ribcage while she drools in bliss.

Our youngest is also the queen of the castle. This is Hatshepsut.

The rumors are true. This is one who decided that me being away for a week was unacceptable. She escaped the boat and went into hiding. This resulted in an emergency flight home on my part a day after I'd gotten to Florida. It was January. I got one day of warm before having to fly home in a panic to look for a cat in 20 something degree weather. I didn't find her. I'd given up looking for the day, was feeding the other two, and from the cockpit came a piteous 'mew?' She'd come home on her own after driving an entire neighborhood crazy with looking for her. Now, when (if) I go away for any length of time, she is shipped, under house arrest to my mother's back room to be locked away until I return.

This is the one who is most guilty of adding edits to my works in progress. She takes my attention to anything or anyone but HER very, very badly. She's also the one who rushes to park on my chest in concern when I'm flattened by a migraine. Kitty purr. Very therapeutic.

Then. Because I live on a boat, there are the random 'pet' encounters. There's the Not My Cat Who Is On My Boat (and MY cats are screaming threats at him):

And there's the crow who seems to want to be my pet. She comes straight to me, follows me when I walk down the dock, stands on the dinghy rack staring into the boat to see if I'm here and noticing her. She expects (and gets) whatever cat food scraps the felines leave. I assume someone else trained her to expect to be fed - because she showed up at my boat with clear expectation and no fear of me. At one point, she learned how to meow to get my attention. O_o Or maybe it was to mock the cats. I'm not clear. But every year, she brings me her hatchlings, who never stay - she teaches them to come to me for food, but once they're grown, they bolt and never come back. Not that I mind. One crow with entitlement issues is more than enough, thanks.

No matter how you slice it. My life is ruled by animals. It always has been. Half the time, they show up in my books as characters. And whenever something diabolical happens in one of my stories, it's probably because one of the cats thought it up first and tried it out. My monsters are a lot of work, but boy, are they worth it.

5 Writer Freak Outs

Didja ever start a project - maybe you're painting a the house or knitting a baby blanket - and filled with glee, you break out the rollers and brushes and slap up some color, or start casting on stitches? You can straight up SEE how this thing is going to look. It'll be amazing! For a couple of hours, maybe, it IS amazing, because you're conquering your chosen corner of the world.

 

Then your fingers cramp mid-knit one, pearl two. Something in your back shoots daggers up your spin mid-roll of paint. Okay. Okay. Human limits, right? You've made good progress. No need to kill yourself over a project that can't be finished in a day. You pack up and put your toys away so you can go soak the muscle protests in a hot shower. Then toast your project well-begun with a glass of wine. Tomorrow is another day, right?

 

But tomorrow dawns with work. Family. Emergencies. Bills to be paid. And a project left hanging. But you'll get to it. You'll get to it.

 

Until.

 

You realize the baby you were knitting that blanket for was due to be born yesterday. You get a call that your parents/in-laws/people you want to impress with your adulting are coming to visit in a week. You freak out because you have to finish your half-done project NOW. Your freak may look a little like this photo wherein after nearly a decade of living aboard a sailboat, Hatshepsut FINALLY figures out the docks are surrounded by water.

 

Holy Crap! What's That Wet Stuff?

 

 

Writer freak outs look a lot like the weirded-out cat and, for me, they come in a few distinct flavors

.

1. The Deadline Freak

2. This Book Sucks and Cannot Be Redeemed Freak

3. The OMG, Who Am I and What Are Words Freak

4. The I Have No Clue What Happens Next Freak

5. The I Need My Ivory Tower Now Freak

 

Since I have an advanced degree in Drama Queen when it comes to writing, I have become close, personal friends with all of my freaks. We party. And by party I mean staring sightlessly, hopelessly into the distance while slamming dainty little cups of oolong.

 

BAR KEEP! ANOTHER!

 

Existential angst notwithstanding, I've done this enough times now that I can predict when and how I'm going to wig while attempting to draft. I'm good for 25-30k words into a novel. That's proof of concept. If a beginning goes that far without a hitch, it's good for at least 90k. But at that 35-30k point, I'm going to get stopped by the numbers 3 and 4 freaks. I know to expect them. Plotting gets around those. There may be another number 4 freak at the midpoint. A revisit of to plotting notes helps. The This Book Sucks Freak is usually reserved for near the end of the book and tempts me to just throw it all away. Nothing for that one but to laugh it off and muscle through. Muttering "POS draft" like a mantra helps, too. The number 5 freak is reserved for when the rest of life tries to crowd in all angst-ridden and demanding. I long for isolation and silence so I can write the damned words. As it turns out, though, I've discovered there are precious few ivory towers in my vicinity. So it's up to me to suck it up and write the words anyway.

 

Easier said than done, but done it must be. Sorta like those walls you were painting chartreuse and mauve. Or that baby blanket you were knitting. Make it a little bigger and you could call it a hand made quilt and give it to the kid as a high school graduation present - something to take to the college dorm room. Did you just drop a stitch?

 

 

WIsh I Had, Wish I Could

This week's question has two possible translations, I think. What characters would I like to have written. And: What characters would I like to write. Both easy answers. Characters I wish to all the gods I had written? These guys.

Badly enough that my first SFR (which shall never see the light of day) was far too easily identifiable as a Firefly wannabe. When I love something, I'm apparently REALLY good at mimicking the voice of it. Which, turns out, might be the fast track to a copyright infringement suit, not to mention all kinds of wrong. Too bad there's not a living to be made pretending to be one of the writers I love - but they all doing just fine being them.

This then leaves me with what I would like to write. Someday. I would like to do some serious research and then some serious dramatization of this lady's life:

Then Hatshepsut. First queen, and then pharaoh. Her reign was one filled with peace, and prosperity. The arts flourished. So did the economy. But it all clearly came a cost, with many enemies made along the way. I'm fascinated by her and by the questions that arise surrounding her rule - was it a means by which she protected the throne for her son? Or was it a power grab? A clear usurpation that merited the treatment she was given after she died with her name chiseled off monuments? Erased from history and from the afterlife altogether? So many questions beg a huge, long list of stories. She intimidates me for that reason. I don't know if I'll manage her story or not. But I sure would like to.

The Blogging Wallflower

Why (and where) do I blog?

Let me get this right out in the open: I have to force myself to blog. It does not come at all naturally to me. Hiding in a corner (or behind a photogenic feline) and remaining invisible is my natural, introverted state.

To this day, I have no rational explanation for why I blog except for the fact that blogging is the grain of sand in my oyster - I hope to make something out of it, whether it's a little bit more facility with short essay type writing, or merely as a means of keeping me from hiding. I envy Jeffe's ease with the medium. And I am frequently annoyed with how Uneasy I am with it. :)

That said, I have been here since the doors opened. I'd lost track of the time and had no clue that I'd been here for anything approaching five years. I imagined I didn't have much to say for a group blog. Yet here I am. Still typing. And still enjoying all of the different view points and experiences of this group. Now. Do I pin a bunch of marketing hopes on blogging? Nooooooooooooo. That way lies madness. Blog because it's fun. Blog because a topic interests you. When you hire a marketing person for a book, a blog tour will undoubtedly be a part of the package - those blog posts might be a little more market-targeted and slightly less pictures of cats. Or knowing me, maybe not. But it was Jeffe who suggested I treat blogging like a conversation. I really like thinking of it that way. Even though, socially awkward as I am, I'm not that great at conversation to begin with. :D

I wish I could tell you I had mastery of any of the social media, but I don't. I do a single 'You know you're an introvert' Tweet a day, and have for the past few months. I'm having fun seeing how long it takes me to run out of introvert problems. Facebook is probably where my geeky personality comes through the strongest. Mostly, I think the only way I can survive in social media at all is to keep Jeffe's advice in mind. I must consider it a conversation - a series of jokes and shared fun with my friends - even if the circle of friends are people I haven't actually ever met.

Maybe it makes me weird(er), but it's great fun for me to make friends in the comments sections of either blogs or FB. Making friends is hard when you're a wall flower. So I blog. To make sure I don't let myself become part of the backdrop.

Yesterday's Introvert: "You know you're an introvert when even the voices in your head tell one another to shut up." #introvertproblems