To Market, To Market, To Market Her Book. . .

On January 26th of this year, my little novella was officially available for purchase as an e-book (https://www.indienovella.co.uk/product-page/somebody-knows-something) and also, in three parts (aka “staves”) on Indie Novella’s Read As You Go platform (https://indienovellaread.co.uk/2022/01/06/somebody-knows-something-stave-1/.

All of which means that this debut author–who has actually been writing for years–is now, officially, finally, “published.”

You think she’d be ecstatic.

In the month since the pig–scratch that–big day, 12 million Syrians faced starvation, Ottawa erupted into riots, and Russia launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine.

Meanwhile, on the home front. . .

And yet, despite the many disasters looming locally and abroad, this writer took it upon herself to publicize the fact that her little novella is out there, and for sale, and actually pretty good and hence, well worth the £3.00 her publisher is charging . . . which, in U.S. dollars (as of today), comes out to something like a mere four bucks and change. Realizing that part of her job is to get the word out, this writer, who resides on this side of the pond, jumped headfirst into the tumultuous waters known as MARKETING HER BOOK.

How did she do it? First, by tackling the steps required by Goodreads to become an official “Goodreads author” (https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22129483.K_K_Edwards ). Then, in a leap of faith, she joined various Goodreads writers’ groups, sought out fiction reviewers, presented her own book reviews, and thoughtfully answered readers’ questions, all in hopes of snagging interest of HER NOVELLA in that vast sea of OTHER BOOKS. . .

Beyond Goodreads, she then revamped her Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/karen.edwards.754365) to better reflect her new identity of ‘writer.’ She joined her local Facebook writing community. She revamped her Twitter feed (https://twitter.com/kinderkaren) and this blog for the same purpose. She contacted various well-known/well-respected book influencers both in the US and the UK, offering the e-pub or a pdf of her novella in exchange for honest and forthright reviews. She’s combed the internet seeking further avenues for marketing her book, posting pithy sayings and shameless plugs on Twitter’s #WritingCommunity and other writer- and reader-based hashtags.

She’s stopped short of playing the ‘pay-for-promotion’ cards dealt by the likes of Kirkus or reedsy. Perhaps that day will come, but not today. Not yet.

So what has been the result of this debut author’s fervently haphazard, yet hopeful, efforts, within this most uncertain clime? 

I don’t know. Main reason being, as previously noted, her publisher is Over There, and she is Over Here, and she has yet to learn who, if anybody, has actually bought her little novella. Her contract states an official accounting shall occur no more than six months of initial publication, which is about five months from now. Meanwhile, her novella is not available on Amazon. She’s not sure how much it’s been publicized in the UK. It isn’t epic or controversial, hasn’t yet been noticed by Jenna Bush Hager or Oprah or the NYT. . . 

Three people on K.K.’s Goodreads page currently list Somebody Knows Something as ‘want to read.’ It’s encouraging and kind of them, and she hopes they will actually buy the thing, read it, appreciate the characters and story and post glowing reviews. But this author realizes that three more people reading her stuff is a far cry from the thousands (including herself) most eager to read novels gaining national interest right now, like Black Cake or The Paris Apartment or Lessons in Chemistry. 

Which brings us back to this little gal, looking forward and riding high on the back of Social Media, hoping it can do the heavy lifting it’s supposed to do. So will our positive, porcine friend market her novella successfully. . .

. . .or does The Market have other plans?

Do Unto Others

 

I try to live by the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

This is a post about a seagull, and about Donald Trump. Only read it if you want to, but I have to write it.

Yesterday, in the pouring rain, I saw a seagull in the parking lot of a grocery store near me. I went back later, just to check. It hadn’t moved, couldn’t, but it tried with a hurt leg and wing. I couldn’t leave it there. I got a box, picked it up gently, brought it home and fed it and then I started calling, and finally found a place to take it, a waterfowl rehab place two hours from my house.

My husband drove us there today. When the lady lifted the seagull out of the box. . .

I can’t say it.

I didn’t know it was hurt so badly, oh god the poor thing. They had to put him to sleep. I couldn’t go in. I cried and cried because it suffered so, and I hadn’t known. Now I ask you this, as I cry remembering that poor sweet innocent thing: What did I get from trying to that little seagull? Nothing but heartache, right?

Heartache, yes. But it needed help and when I saw that, I had to do something about it. Because we help those in need, no matter who or what they are. Because we care about others besides ourselves. Because especially, the most vulnerable among us need the most help from the rest us.

Through grace, I think, I was there, and because I knew that bird needed help, I helped it. At least I tried. And while I couldn’t save that poor sweet thing, at least I was there to lessen its suffering. At least, I spared him starvation or getting attacked by some animal, or hit (again?) by a car, or lingering there alone, in pain, for who knows how long.

As cohabitants of this earth, we owe it to each other to look out for each other, to care about each other, to help each other when we can, do what we can. . .

. . . which is why I can’t abide Donald Trump any more, nor anyone who supports him. I can’t do it. Even if I love you, I can’t do it. He doesn’t CARE, don’t you see? He doesn’t care about you or me or anyone but himself. Say what you will about his ‘honesty,’ about his ‘telling it like it is,’ his ‘business savvy;’ tell me he supports the rich, the farmers, the miners, big business; tell me you look past his monstrous misdeeds, his hate, his divisiveness, his misogyny, his racism, because he supports anti-abortion legislation or drilling into pristine wilderness or the right to carry AK-47s or keeping immigrants on the other side of his walls.

Do you what I’ll tell you? I’ll tell you that he supports himself only; that everything else is lip service and most of it is lies.

The Golden Rule means absolutely nothing to Donald Trump. Instead of helping the most vulnerable among us, he does the opposite: He destroys everything he touches.

Covid-19? La de da de de.

 

The beat goes on, the beat goes on
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain
La de da de de, la de da de da

Tell me this: At what point did common sense and reason become passé? I could blame it on Trump. I want to. But Trumps’s reckless disregard for science and facts didn’t lead to today’s massive rally in Berlin. That rallying cry is rooted in a greater commonality:

Stupidity.

MARKUS SCHREIBER AP

Thousands marched today in Berlin, protesting Germany’s Covid-19 restrictions, holding up signs like “Corona, false alarm,” “We are being forced to wear a muzzle,” “Natural defense instead of vaccination” and “We are the second wave.” Demonstrators stood shoulder to shoulder, few wearing masks, declaring that “the end of the pandemic” had arrived.

Really? 

On July 27, there were 340 new cases reported in Germany.

On July 28: 633 new cases.

July 29: 684.

July 30: 902.

July 31: Another 870 people infected.

As of today, Germany has 210,697 Coronavirus cases. As marchers protested the loss of “freedoms” (to be selfish, or assholes, or selfish assholes), 9224 men, women and children have lost their lives to the disease.

But that grim statistic, as sobering as it is, pales in comparison to that of the United States:

As of yesterday, there have been more than 4,640,000 cases of Covid-19 in the U.S., and over 156,000 deaths.

Let those numbers sink in for a minute.

And yet, here–as in Germany–too many people refuse to acknowledge scientific, proven evidence that social distancing and masks save lives. Some of those people are selfish, some ignorant, but most are just plain dumb. They think it won’t happen to them. They think they’re immune or that, if they do get sick, they’ll recover quickly. They think the whole “Covid-thing” is overblown, or a hoax, or an attack on their right to drink booze and party and cough on their neighbors. They’ll repeat the latest conspiracy theory. They’ll tell you if it happens, it happens, but hey, it’s God’s will so fuck it and fuck all y’all. . .

History has turned the page, uh huh. . .

. . .but too many people haven’t learned anything. They haven’t done their own due diligence to separate lies from facts, opinions from truths. They haven’t listened to people who actually know what the hell they’re talking about. They’ll tell you Trump knows more than Fauci, because Trump listens to all “the best people,” to wit:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2020/07/28/stella-immanuel-hydroxychloroquine-video-trump-americas-frontline-doctors/

. . .or they’ll listen to these people:

https://news.yahoo.com/republicans-attack-fauci-and-defend-trump-at-coronavirus-hearing-173957811.html

Meanwhile, since I started writing this post, 7 more people in Germany have died from Covid-19. Not sure home many more Americans will die today.

And the beat goes on. . .

 

 

Happy Birthday, Dear Ones

The blessed gods have left their perfection
on the face of this most beautiful child,
so sweet. Adorable confection!
The blessed gods have left their perfection,
antithesis of hate and dereliction,
apotheosis of angels’ mercy mild,
the blessed gods have left their perfection
on the face of this most beautiful child.

This morning, at 4 a.m., a baby girl was born.

Her name is Mila.

She is the granddaughter of my dear friend Cindy, who died this spring. But Cindy’s hopes and dreams for her beloved daughter, and for her daughter’s daughter, are with them both this day and will be with them, all the days of their lives.

Happy birthday, sweethearts. We love you very much.

 

 

 

Opiod Tolerant? Welcome to the Torture Chamber. . .

Opioid-dependent patients may fear the risks of under-treatment due to prejudices, . . /. . Patients should be reassured that . . . effective pain control is an achievable goal. 

Ther Clin Risk Manag. 2017; 13: 1163–1173.

Published online 2017 Sep 5. doi: 10.2147/TCRM.S141332

Today is Day. . .let me think. . .Day 13. Thirteen days since I had total knee replacement, right knee. It was messed up pretty bad. My doctor thought, going in, that I might be a candidate for a partial knee replacement. Nope, not even.

The surgery went pretty well by all accounts and I am now officially “on the mend.” No doubt this is going to be a slow and painful process, but if I want to walk without a limp, and drive, and sit cross-legged on the floor with my kitty (which I hope to do again some day), I have to keep working that knee which, right now, is swollen and TIGHT, and a challenge to bend beyond what I guess is 100/110 degrees.

But this pain, which is caused by swollen and damaged tissue coupled with aggressive scar tissue formation, is nothing —NOTHING — compared to the absolute torture I endured in the days right after surgery because I am “opiod tolerant.”

 Acute pain in patients with opioid tolerance makes pain management a challenge, and perhaps one of the greatest risks associated with pain management in this population is the risk of undertreatment due to stigma and bias. Further, data on pain management in this patient population are limited.

https://www.uspharmacist.com/article/acute-pain-management-in-patients-with-opioid-tolerance

My husband and I both warned the surgeon, anesthesiologist, and hospital staff beforehand that, because of previous ‘failed’ lumbar surgeries as well as a severe Lisfranc injury of my left foot, I have been taking Tylenol 3 for years now, under the care of a pain specialist. While I take between 2 and 4 pills every day, my usual dose is 3: one when I wake up, one in the middle of the day, and one before I go to sleep. Sometimes I have to take an extra one during the day. Once in a great while I manage to get by with two pills. I never ever take more than four in a day.

The upside of taking Tylenol 3 daily is that the pain I experience is tolerable, for the most part. Even though I still can’t walk too far or stand too long, or lie in one position for too long, or do a myriad of other things I used to do without a second thought, I can make it through the day (usually) without agony, which is a blessing.

But because I’ve taken Tylenol 3 with codeine for so long, I have developed a tolerance to opiods. The biggest challenge has been getting and keeping post surgical pain under control, esp. in those first few days. After surgery of any kind,  pain management for me is a challenge because the usual drugs/dosages don’t work effectively. The pain quickly rises from moderate to severe to excruciating, leaving me writhing in a state of agony, seemingly without end.

This knee replacement surgery was no different. Even though my surgeon injected multiple pain blocks in my knee before closing me up, and even though I had an intervenous line in my elbow for some injectable pain med, and een though I was given something strong by mouth–Norco, I think–and even though I had a pain block thing in my thigh above that knee, I was in agony. And once again, the hospital staff was either scrambling to find something that would work without stopping my breathing, or they insisted I “wait and let the *drug of choice* ‘kick in.’ Let them say that after experiencing total and complete torture for 10 minutes, 20, 30, 40 . . . I can’t tell you how many times I lay there bawling, nor how many times I called my husband in the middle of the night crying and crying because it hurt so fucking bad–

Even now, back at home, pain control is an issue. I have 3 Norcos left right now and I am saving those for just before bed. I have been trying to do my exercises with the help of over-the-counter Motrin and ice packs, neither of which is adequately cutting that deep  pain around my knee, nor the shallow fire-like pain in my lower leg. When the Norco runs out, I will be back to my 2-4x/day Tylenol 3, the Motrin, and ice packs, unless those don’t cut it, in which case I don’t know what I’m going to do, especially when my outpatient physical therapy starts in earnest 3x/week. They say to be sure to take pain medication an hour before because they are going to work the patient hard, and it’s going to hurt, and I don’t mind telling you I’m afraid what I have available to me isn’t going to cut it.

When I say I’m afraid, I mean that literally.

Research shows that pain management for opiod tolerant patients is a challenge on multiple fronts, including bias of medical professionals, and the fact that folks like me need stronger pain meds more often after surgery to get the same effects as opiod naive patients (those who do not take opiods on a regular basis). The research is out there, guidelines are out there, my husband and I put it out there most emphatically and still I suffered mightily post-surgery. My goal, I told everyone, was to reach a 4/10 on the pain scale. Most days I hovered between 6 and 8. Those 9s were almost too much to bear.

When will the medical profession take action based on the research of their own cohort? Because right now, it’s SSDD for people like me, who dread any kind of surgery and who can blame us? It’s fucking torture after and it shouldn’t be. Couple that with the nurse who came into my room after, accusing me of not icing my leg enough, which is why the pain was as bad as it was–was she effing serious? Yes, as serious as the nurse who came into my room after my last surgery, accusing me of overzealousness, or of being a drug addict or I don’t know what when she said: “Do you know that yesterday you pushed the PCA button over 400 times, and today you only pushed it four times?” Hell yes I know, you idiot. YESTERDAY my pain was OUT OF CONTROL. I knew that PCA pump wouldn’t allow me to dose myself more than x times per hour, but as soon as that dose was available I wasn’t fucking going to miss it. And YES I know I only pushed that button four times today because finally, FINALLY, they found a cocktail of drugs/treatment that got my runaway pain under control–

Almost too much to bear and it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

Happy New. . .

 

IIt’s been a while. Too long, and I surely do apologize about that. I could offer my apologies, offer excuses; there is always a reason one doesn’t follow through on stated goals. . .

I shall spare you, my ersatz readers, for that is what you surely must be after all this time and I don’t blame you, not one iota. Instead, I offer you a little bit of wisdom I have learned these many months this little blog has been on “temporary hiatus”: Circumstances change. People change. Priorities change. And when we are faced with these changes, whether slow or sudden, expected or non, we may find ourselves re-evaluating a lot of things, not the least of which is how we are going to act and react, what we are going to do now, what we may need to do in the future. Big decisions or small, what we do and how we handle the curve balls Life throws in our way defines us and our relationships, steers us in one direction or another, and then there are the variables we didn’t consider before and now must: our health, our emotions, our new responsibilities, those things beyond our control that still affect us in some way. . .

I’m rambling.

For the last year or so, I have been doing my best to navigate some strange, disturbing waters. The toll this past year has taken has been dear. Truth be told, I’m tuckered out. And yet I suspect this tumultuous journey will be a long one. I also know I’m not the only one facing challenges; not by a long shot. And so, to anyone out there who happens to stop by this little blog today, tomorrow, next week or month or even year, know that there is somebody out there who commiserates with you and understands, at least a little bit, what you are going through.

In one month, I shall go under the knife in hope that soon I will be able to walk from Point A to Point B without wincing. Oy, it ain’t easy getting older. Still, with age comes a wisdom I didn’t have 20 years ago. Or 10 or even 5. I realize how lucky I am to have people in my life who are good and kind and supportive and forgiving. And maybe, during my recuperation I might finally, FINALLY, finish my long-suffering WIP. I’m still at around 69K words, target of 72K, so I don’t have far to go, although sometimes that last hill is all but insurmountable. But I’ve done it before, 5 or 6 times now. Some of my completed novels are pretty good, at least I think they are, and I have hopes for them yet to see the light of day.

That’s a good hope for all of us, I think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Life Well-lived

Our dear friend Linda died yesterday morning.

I couldn’t write yesterday. Two apocalyptic events: Linda’s death and Kavanaugh’s ascension, sent me reeling. But today, grateful for the hours buffering Then from Now, I think I’m ready to compare the two.

Brett Kavanaugh takes his place in our national history by way of ugliness and deception. He is now a member of the United States Supreme Court, vaulting to that coveted position on the heels of those whose politics trumped reason. Questions of ethics and veracity, accusations of sexual assault . . . all were lost in the rising cacophony of rhetoric and lies riding the tide of this country’s burgeoning tribal divide.  Kavanaugh’s nomination and confirmation epitomize ‘good ol’ boy politics’ at its worst. From this day forward, and for the unforeseeable future, he is a part of this nation’s history. I have no doubt he will use his position to steer this country toward conservative values that celebrate money and power at the expense of decency and freedom.

Linda D., whose ravaged body is being prepared for Tuesday’s final internment, will be remembered by the small group of people fortunate enough to have known her. We loved her dearly. She faced a devastating diagnosis with unwavering faith and quiet grace. Throughout her life, Linda was a good person: caring and thoughtful, loving and giving, honest and forthright, empathetic and brave, sweet-natured and funny. Never comfortable ‘making waves,’ she found her voice the last two years of her life: speaking up for herself and for her friends, taking control of her treatment and–as much as fate would allow–living, and dying, on her own terms. Her friends became her caregivers willingly and lovingly. Linda was the epitome of kindness and decency, a joy to be around, a special human being. To know Linda was an honor and a privilege. Her friendship was a gift; her death, a profound loss. Like Kavanaugh, her character defined her, but there ends the comparison.

In all ways and in no small measure, our little Linda truly made this world a better place.

 

POLY (Many) + TICKS (Blood Sucking Parasites) = We need to &@%$#@!%?! LAUGH!

Okay, so what would you rather read right now: Exhibit A…

 

…more than one quarter of the Administration’s appointees so far to environmental, energy, and natural resource management agencies have close ties to the fossil-fuel industry.

http://time.com/4756797/environment-donald-trump-100-days/

…or Exhibit B…

I vote B. I think we could all use some kinda funny right now with everything that’s going on. Republican Senators just drafted a new version of TrumpCare, giving major tax savings to the rich and the Royal Shaft to the rest of us. A congressional candidate who body slammed a reporter got elected into office the very next day. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZ4ircmvYXE ) Trump’s EPA director is hell-bent of reversing the Obama administration’s anti-fossil fuel strategy. Trump signed a bill in April that could scrap National Monuments. The U.S. is pulling out of the Paris Accord. Then there’s this:

Sometimes, I think humor is the only thing that can make this political clusterf**k palatable and the snarkier, the better. When Ben Carson stated on Sirius XM Radio that poverty was a ‘state of mind,’ Star Truck alumnus George Takei tweeted, “You know what else is a state of mind? Always being a blithering idiot.” True dat, George. We need all the snark we can get, with something like 3 years, 6 months, 29 days, 11 hours and 4 minutes left of Trump et al, according to TickCounter.com , so let’s try to make the most of it, shall we?

As a proud American, I’m doing my part right now. I googled ‘hilarious business signs’ for some funny, so enjoy. Just remember to keep your expectations low (so as not to shock the system), and try not to think too hard about reality right now.

You know what they say about expectations and reality…

Lovely.

 

 

🙂

 

 

Tell Me

Of course, Mr. Wilder, I know you’re being facetious right now . . . or rather, your Wonkalicious suave and scary self is being facetious. But if you really want to know how original and creative I am, I’ll do my best to tell it to you straight.

(See, when Gene Wilder talks, I listen. As amazing as his Wonka persona was, it didn’t hold a candle to the man. Talk about original and creative…)

I used to think originality and creativity were my two strong suits, especially where writing is concerned. Of late, though, no so much. Case in point? This blog, which–barring a few sporadic posts–has been ‘on hold’ for more than a few months now. I could chalk that up to a lot of things, not the least of which is Donald J., who may be dragging us into a war with North Korea even as we speak. There have also been some issues closer to home which aren’t going away; then again, that’s life in the big city, and I’m certainly not the only one “dealing with stuff.”

There is also the tiny, lasting niggle relative to parting company with my agent, which transpired over a year ago and which–one would think–I’d have “gotten over” long before now. Apparently, not so much. Apparently, that Little Blip on the Radar Screen of Life affected me a tad more than I care to admit.

Regardless of the reason, I’m in what you might call a “funk”. And no matter how many times I’ve dragged myself out of whatever this funk is, I find myself slipping right back into it.  And every time I do, I lose a little bit more of myself.  As a writer, I mean. Which is more than a tad troublesome, considering the fact that I think of myself as a writer, and if I’m not, you know, writing. . .

Which brings me, round-aboutly, back to originality and creativity or rather, my apparent lack thereof. Sliding into a funk is hardly an original past-time, and lamenting a loss of creativity whilst doing squat to change things is not only counterproductive to the cause, but offensive . . . to any writer dealing with anything more challenging than what I’m dealing with. Believe me, there are a lot worse things a writer can be facing than the piddly-ass stuff I’m facing right now.

Speaking of offensive behavior, Miss Manners had something to say about that:

Offensive behavior is an ineffective way to make one’s own case.

Of course, some people make their cases by doing just that. 45 unfortunately comes to mind. On the lighter side, Zero Mostel. Groucho Marx. Gene Wilder? He was playing the part, “like an accident waiting to happen,” which is exactly the way he planned to play it, and which he executed brilliantly and to our utter delight, time and time again. Mr. Wilder’s creativity and originality made him who he was, and neither time, nor the unfortunate circumstances of his last years, diminished his magnificence, nor our admiration for it.

And yet, how much of that originality and creativity did he cultivate, and how much was inherent to him? I have to believe he was born that way, as we all are to some extent. Each of us has our share of the universe’s creative juices flowing through our veins. Each of us harbors at least one or two original thoughts. We all have our dreams, as well as trials and tribulations. Sometimes we find ourselves so caught up in the latter that we forget the former, stray off course, lose our way . . . which is where I am now, I think. And I’ve been here too long.

Gene Wilder once said, Time is a precious thing. Never waste it. Truth time, Mr. Wilder: that’s what I’ve been doing.

 

 

 

 

 

Words Matter

Words are powerful things. They hold sway, they have consequences and hence, it would behoove us, the American people, to choose our words wisely.

Alas, the American people don’t appear to be too keen on thoughtful rumination of late. Present company included. Whatever this writer was doing for the last two months, it sure as hell wasn’t that. After Trump took office, this writer found herself mired in political muck, and soon actual writing gave way to hastily composed, emotionally-wrought tweets, which–in theory, anyway–should have reduced her burgeoning angst by giving voice to it.

[Sidebar: Maybe that’s what Trump–]  

Nah.

Long story short, that didn’t happen. At best, the bovine-esque chewing and rechewing of unsavory cud was a mindless endeavor yeilding little nutritional value. At worse, the glowing ball of angst in the pit of my stomach resulted in belched vitriol that left a particularly nasty taste in my mouth.

Fast forward two months. I am happy to report that I’ve managed to remove myself (somewhat) from that perpetual unpleasantness. I couldn’t have done it without help from some very honest and forthright writing buddies, who basically told me it was high time I pulled my thumb out of my ass and get back to the business of querying/writing.

Querying first. Two weeks ago, I reworked my EFFIN’ ALBERT query, finally coming up with a version I actually liked; a version significantly different from my last (which had garnered me exactly one full request, summarily rejected). I’ve sent my new version to maybe ten agents thus far, garnering five quick rejections. Five more to go, and it only takes one page request to make this camper happy.

As an added bonus, while researching agents for ALBERT, I stumbled upon a smattering of agents/indie publishers who seemed like a good fit for CHERRY. We’ll see what happens there.

As for writing, my WIP remains in a holding pattern of 53,000 words, but the time will come . . . and when it does, SOULLESS will be waiting.

Before I close, a final word about tweets. A few months ago, I came across a Twitter feed called  #1linewed, a once-a-week sounding board for writers. #1linewed is a chance for writers to put snippets of their stuff ‘out there’ for others to read and enjoy.  For me, #1linewed is both inspirational and validating, especially when I find myself struggling to find the words. . .

. . .which brings this post full circle. Words matter, folks. Now, more than ever, we need to remember that.