The Intersection of Book PR and Writing Advice: A Round-Up

One task of a new author is to help generate positive online coverage/mentions of one's new book. Some are less within the author's control than others of course, and some are more fun than others.

Since spring (coinciding with the release of Starting with Goodbye from University of Nevada Press) I've been writing guest posts and answering interview questions from literary journals, bloggers, reporters and freelancers. Mostly, I've had a great time. I'm still having a good time.

While the goal is to keep the book in front of people's eyes, one of the more satisfying side benefits for me has been that many of the resulting pieces double as useful tips, advice, and information for other writers. 

The book launch, book tour, and general book promo craziness dominated my days for months, meaning I didn't have time to keep offering writing thoughts here at this blog, so whenever possible, I tried to tie in book publicity with literary citizenship. 

I've meant to share this sooner, but life piled on...Anyway, here's a round-up of some coverage from the last five months -- only the pieces that I think other writers might find useful. (If you want to see everything, check out the Media Mentions page.)

Guest posts and articles on writing issues:

Writing About Friends and Family in Memoir: Nine Key Questions (at LitChat)

How Lit Journal Publications Paved the Way to a Published Memoir  (at The Review Review)

How to Add Humor to a Sad Memoir  (at The Memoir Project/Marion Roach Smith)

Publishing with a Small (Traditional) or University Press: When it Might be Right for You and Your Book  (at Nonfiction Authors Association blog)

Writing About Family in Memoir: Fairness Counts (at The Writers Circle blog)

If You Give a Writer a Book Contract, She's Going to Want...Everything (at Women Writers, Women's Books)

Writers Recommend...for Writer's Block (at Poets & Writers)

My First (Disastrous) Writing Retreat  (at The Quivering Pen)

Author Interview Initiation: You Want to Know WHAT?  (at Bloom)

Interviews  (only those that cover writer advice, tips, insight, how-to's from my writing/publishing experience):

In Search of the Right Structure   (at Author Accelerator on Medium/Jennie Nash) 

Author's Notebook: Nine Tips on Writing Memoir (at The Whole Megillah)

Ruminations Interview (at Under the Sun, which published one of the original essays that became an important chapter in the book)

A Conversation with Lisa Romeo  (at Literary Mama)

An Interview (at Proximity's True blog)

Author Interview Q/A (at the blog of Caroline Leavitt)

Be Well, Write Well Interview (at DIY MFA)

Writers in the Trenches: Q/A on how everything before prepared me for the memoir  (at Fay Rapaport DesPres's blog)

A Conversation  (at the Sunlight Press)

Q/A  (at the blog of Christi Craig)

Podcasts (with in-depth dives into nonfiction writing craft):

The Creative Nonfiction podcast (w/Brendan O'Meara) - Episode # 98 - Lisa Romeo on the Power of Paper Habits

Write the Book podcast - # 508  (w/Kim MacQueen)

The Ish podcast (w/Cameron Dezen Hammon) - Episode # 8 - Grieving-ish Part II

And just for fun...

Spotlight (at Publishers Weekly)

How We Spend Our Days: Lisa Romeo  (at Catching Days blog)

Becoming a Published Memoirist at 58  (at Empowering Women in Midlife)

I hope some of these will prove useful for your own writing practice, writing life, writing challenges. As book mania settles down, I hope to be back here at the blog more regularly, with the spotlight once again trained on passing along good writing life advice and lessons learned from experience -- mine and others'. 

A TV Friends Reunion Essay: The Ones About How it Used to Be

Here in New Jersey, we're expecting a major snowstorm to begin tonight, with possible accumulations up to two feet. I'll be peeking out the window tonight, likely at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning (I don't sleep much), while I'm intermittently reading, finishing some needlepoint, or scribbling feedback on student work. 

But in the background: my own version of nostalgia TV, shows from the 1960s and 70s. I don't have to watch every scene, because I know those characters, I love those characters; I'm comfortable in their company. Recently, I started to think about why. And so of course I wrote about it.

The essay, "Reminiscing with my TV Friends," appears today at The Sunlight Press.

Here's an excerpt:

"...I began to linger. Then to seek out those old shows. Slowly, I understood: I was revisiting a time when I had a beautiful mother who walked this earth, a time when a cool aunt waited for her pimply chubby niece on Saturday nights, a time when a kind father never ran out of time for me, when my lovely now-67-year-old sister was as fresh and young as Patty and as unlined and peachy as Laura Petrie. I’m revisiting, even more than all of them—myself."

You can read the entire (short) essay here.

Short pieces like this, which is just under 750 words and is often called "flash nonfiction," will be part of the focus of a day-long writing event I'm leading in early May.

Image: courtesy The Sunlight Press

Guest Blogger Melanie Brooks on: Writing Your Story, and Crying if you Want (or Need) To

Besides social media connections, and having graduated from the same MFA program, Melanie Brooks and I share a love of reading memoirs that must have cost their authors an emotional toll—those she covers in her forthcoming book, Writing Hard Stories: Celebrated Memoirists Who Shaped Art From Trauma. [We're giving away a copy, too!]

Melanie works as a freelance writer and teaches at Northeastern University and Merrimack College in Massachusetts, and at Nashua Community College in New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband, two children and yellow Lab. Her work has appeared in the Washington Post, Bustle, The Manifest-Station, Hippocampus, Huffington Post, Modern Loss, Solstice Literary Magazine, Recollectors, Stonecoast Review and Word Riot. Melanie's also working on an almost-completed memoir that explores the lasting impact of living with the ten-year secret of her father’s HIV disease before his death in 1995.

Please welcome Melanie Brooks.

The questions were simple: “What are you writing about and what form is it taking?” So, why was I finding it harder and harder to breathe as the seminar leader meandered her way toward me? As she solicited responses from the other students in the crowded room, why was there a sudden tightness in my chest? It wasn’t as if I didn’t know the answers.

I’d started my MFA at the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast Creative Writing Program with a clear purpose—space and time to finally write into a complex family story I’d carried for over twenty years, a story I recognized was big enough to be a book. But when the leader’s kind gaze finally fell on me, the words caught in my throat. I mumbled something about writing about my dead dad, then a strangled sob hijacked anything else I might say, and a deluge of tears broke through my reserve. I was sitting at the wall-end of a cramped row, with no possibility of discreet escape. For the remainder of the ninety-minute seminar, I struggled to stop my nose from dripping without the benefit of a tissue, and I bit my lip until I tasted blood, to muffle the hiccupping sobs that fought to surface.

Nothing in the introductory materials the program coordinators sent out in the months leading up to that first MFA residency had readied me for this horrifying public moment of absolute composure meltdown. No neon labels were affixed to the pages of the orientation handbook broadcasting: WARNING: Writing about vulnerable material can leave you feeling rawly vulnerable. Be prepared to cry. A lot. At inconvenient times.

So when the inconvenient crying first erupted during that seminar, I thought something was wrong with me. And when it happened again while my workshop group discussed my manuscript, I felt the need to make excuses to put everyone else at ease. “I cry all the time,” I said, even though I don’t. “Just call me The Crier from here on out,” I joked, sidelining my emotions.

The truth was that, during the residency, and in the following months when I sat in front of my computer, mired in the very real anguish of trying to shape my painful memories into words, I felt alone. So alone, I almost quit.

I needed to find someone to tell me what I was feeling was okay. Normal. Expected, even. If someone could tell me those things, then maybe I could marshal up enough courage to keep going.

In what began as a very personal (and totally selfish) quest, I went looking for that someone to guide me back to my laptop, someone to tell me those things I needed to hear about my pain and loneliness and fear. I wrote to authors I admired—those whose memoirs did not shy away from any of the tough stuff— and told them how much I was struggling. I asked them if I could sit down with them and talk about the psychological journeys they had to go on to write their books. 

What I found when I reached out was more than someone. I found eighteen someones. Eighteen acclaimed writers—including Andre Dubus III, Mark Doty, Edwidge Danticat, Abigail Thomas, and Richard Blanco— who all responded to my query and welcomed the opportunity to answer my questions and offer some hard-earned wisdom. Writers who’d been as terrified as I was when they began their memoirs. Who’d written into their own hard stories and made it through. Eighteen writers who’d all experienced, at some point during their processes, the inconvenient crying.

The intimate stories these brilliant and generous memoirists told me about their own struggles to find words for painful and traumatic experiences, their misgivings along the way, their moments of wanting to quit, and their ultimate relief that they did not quit, all encouraged me to keep writing and gave me the steadying I needed.

Instead of keeping these conversations to myself, I wrote Writing Hard Stories: Celebrated Memoirists Who Shaped Art From Trauma (forthcoming from Beacon Press on February 7). Each chapter is an in-depth narrative profile of my discussion with one of these authors. I share the circumstances of our meetings – from walking dogs with Mark Doty in the Hamptons; lunch with Marianne Leone and her husband, Oscar winner Chris Cooper at their home on Massachusetts’ South Shore; sipping a cup of tea while sprawled across Kate Bornstein’s bed in her New York City apartment - and the amazing insights I gain.

Since my questions are less about craft and more about survival, I tap into some areas of these authors’ processes that they’ve never shared before. I reflect on how each of these exchanges moved me away from the place where my memories were burying me and toward a completed memoir. I was motivated to turn these experiences into Writing Hard Stories by a realization that others facing the daunting journey to write into their long-carried stories, writers who also felt isolated by their particular circumstances, needed those stories and that steadying, too.

Maybe if I’d had the gift of these conversations sooner, before I started my MFA even, I might not have been so thrown by the emotions that surfaced when writing about my experiences, and when, more often than not, doing so felt like reliving those traumatic experiences. On that day of the streaming tears and hiccupping sobs, when all I wanted to do was hightail it out of that seminar room, I might, instead, have been able to turn to the person sitting next to me, shrug my shoulders, and simply say, “You know, this is what they told me would probably happen.”  

Note from Lisa: Melanie would like to send one blog reader a signed copy of Writing Hard Stories. Simply ask her a question here in the comments (and she'll stop by and answer), and you'll be entered. (U.S. postal address is required.) Post your comment by Sunday, Feb. 12.

You can connect with Melanie via Facebook, Twitter, and her website.

Being Ethel to a BFF's Lucy Yields one Personal Essay after Another

When you've had a very close friend since you were five, and you're both now over 50, and you're married to men who have been each other's best friends since kindergarten, and when you are, like me, a writer of personal nonfiction, well—that BFF finds her way into your writing. A lot.

Since I'm not always sure she (and sometimes her husband) would be eager to be on the page with their real names in everything I write, sometimes she's Lenore. Anne. Laurie. Her husband is occasionally Jeff. It isn't important that anyone know which name is accurate. Except us.

"Us" for a long time were thought of, affectionately—and sometimes exasperatedly—by our four parents, relatives, neighbors, and teachers, as "Lucy and Ethel." When we were younger, the Lucy-and-Ethel moniker was just funny, and fun.

But recently, I had occasion—involving of all things, a snooty vendor with an overdue bill—to reflect back and realized that our Lucy-and-Ethel panoply was something that went far beyond comedy; it helped make me strong and confident, even now.

That's what I wrote in an essay for Purple Clover recently in an essay titled, "The Lucy and Ethel Years." Here are two excerpts:

"I played Ethel to Laurie's Lucy for years. For every harebrained scheme she devised—and there were dozens, maybe hundreds—I countered with calm, sensible reasons why we couldn't do any such thing. It was wrong. Slightly dishonest. Sneaky. Dangerous. Maybe a little bit illegal. For five minutes, I'd try to talk her out of whatever foolish thing she was proposing.

Then, I'd jump in and together we'd hatch the plan...

....When I think about the crazy, gutsy and dumb things the two of us did, it brings up more than fond memories; the Lucy-and-Ethel years taught me to read people, to figure out what to say or ask (or hide) at crucial moments, to understand who to snow, who to avoid, and with whom I could be honest. It also taught me that having someone by your side that you trust completely, and who feels the same about you, makes life's problems and challenges utterly doable."

 You can read the rest of it here.

Image: Wikipedia

Author Interview with Nancy Davidoff Kelton on Her Memoir, Finding Mr. Rightstein

I met Nancy Davidoff Kelton about 15 years ago in her one-day personal essay writing class in Manhattan, and then I signed up for her weekly workshop. I liked her brand of "tough love" critique balanced by genuine interest in her writing students. Since then, we've stayed in touch through reading each others' work.

I'm happy to have her here today and ask about her recently published memoir, Finding Mr. Rightstein. Nancy's six other books include Writing From Personal Experience. Her essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Buffalo News, Parents, Redbook, and Working Mother, among other publications. Nancy teaches at The New School in Manhattan. 

Please welcome Nancy Kelton.

Q. First, we must discuss the title, which I just love. (If I were to write such a book, I guess I'd have to call it Finding Mr. Baccagaloupi!) Where did it come from? Was this the title from the start?

A. Finding Mr. Rightstein was always the title. I don’t remember how it came about. I was probably caucusing with my unconscious, which is how I think my favorite things come out of me.

Q. I remember in a class of yours, you once said that if you aren't willing to empty your gut on the page, there's no point writing essay or memoir. With this book, were there times when you didn't quite want to spill your guts? Did age makes it any easier or harder to be so vulnerable on the page?

A. I am not sure if it is age or from many decades of writing, but I seem to have easier access to my emotions and an easier time saying what I want to say.  Also, I never would have written this book when my parents were alive.  

But in terms of emptying or spilling one’s guts: yes, you have to be willing to reveal yourself, get under your skin and there were times when that was not only hard, but downright scary. But: 1.Writing is NOT therapy. Therapy is therapy. That’s where you spill guts directly. Writing is a discipline, an art form, a difficult one.  2. Although I am able to reveal what is in my heart, I certainly to do NOT spill out everything.  That would be nauseating.  Boring.  You can’t do that to your readers.  In first drafts, I get out the kitchen sink. Revising enables me to get rid of what’s not working, clean up the clutter and the uninteresting parts.  Each revision means deepening what I want to say.  

Q. I recall that you wrote a series of essays for the AARP website about dating as a senior. How much of the book grew out of that experience?

A. Not much. My book is not a dating memoir. It’s a story about growing up, getting older, getting out of my own way, finding the love inside myself, and coming to the love of a good man. Some of the men I dated figure into my journey.  I hope I captured the challenges and joys I faced.  

Q. You've published dozens of personal essays in magazines, newspapers, and online media. What particular challenges did you face in writing a full length memoir instead of an essay collection?

A. Facing myself and facing the blank screen consistently for such a long period of time.

Q. You've infused even some unpleasant events of your life—a depressed mother, your divorce, losing parents—with humor. How do you make those writing decisions and why is humor important when writing about serious matters?

A. The writing decisions: I think with each draft and eventually with good editors, I saw what parts flowed, sang, or were just ho-hum.

Humor: I think humor is important in every aspect of life. It is among my best survival tools. It’s among my strengths. I think the best humor comes from pain and having a perspective.  Or as Charlie Chaplin said, “From seeing life from the long shot." When what I write comes out funny, I can’t say how or why.  That is how I see it.  And say it. I am very blessed I have that ability.

Q. Your last book, Writing From Personal Experience, is a great resource for those who write personal essays. It comes off my shelf frequently, tagged with sticky notes, marking tidbits I share with my students. Do you have one or two additional insights, maybe particular to writing personal essays for the web, that you can share?

A. Write from your heart. Have courage. Pretend you are on a brightly lit stage. Show your readers how and were you started out, where you are going and where you arrive. Do NOT tell them. Telling is off-putting. Distancing. And do NOT show EVERYTHING you went through. That is really boring.

Q. Speaking of your own "Mr. Rightstein" (the man you married in 2009, after years of living single), do you have any kind of understanding with him about when or how you include him in your writing? Did he, or others, read the manuscript as you were working or before it went to press? 

A. My husband reads my work right before I send it out because he is a good editor. Somewhere in the course of writing Finding Mr. Rightstein, I asked him how he felt about my writing about him in my work, and he said, “This is what you do.” Period. That was that.

The only people who saw Finding Mr. Rightstein for content were my daughter and son-in-law and only the sections in which they appeared. Again, I could not have written this book when my parents were alive. I don’t write to do a hatchet job. I write to tell my story with my struggles, wounds, and glories.

Q. Is there a new large writing project on your desk (or in your imagination) right now?

A. Yes! I am into a new book. It's about half written. 

  

Learn more about Nancy by visiting her website.

Images: Courtesy N. Kelton

Memoir Excerpt: Flash Nonfiction at Litbreak

Among my latest published online works is the short nonfiction piece, "Searching for Silvio," which appeared at Litbreak a couple of weeks ago. 

It's a tale about the odd things we do when someone we care about asks us to; about how, if we're honest, we do one thing but we are all the time really doing something else entirely; and about the unusual and unexpected ways grief and memory find their way into almost everything. It's also about bonds between siblings, the lifelong desire to be loved, and the gift of quirky and sometimes bothersome relatives.

Here's a small excerpt:

"First, I recruit Lenore, my best friend of 45 years, who loved my father, knows all about his dippy relatives. We canvass the hangouts, asking counter clerks and old geezers if they know my uncle, and some do, but no one has seen him in days. They call us doll and honey and give us buttered rolls and donuts. At the Hot Grill, I order a frankie-all-the-way-one. But we don’t find Silvio."

You can read it in full at Litbreak.

When an Essay Idea Simmers...and Then Moves to the Front Burner

For about two years, I knew I wanted to write something about the day my family and I tried to take my aging mother to see a play in New York City, and things didn't go as expected. I knew it was about: Mom, thwarted plans, a bit of sadness or regret….and, well, something else I couldn't quite name.

So the idea/itch resided where so many similar ones do – in my notebook, in the farthest back of my brain, maybe a little bit inside my heart and—in limbo. So many of the essays and short memoir pieces I write start there. Some spend more time there than others. Some end there too.

Unless, or until, something happens.

In this case, it was a theme call I noticed for a planned essay anthology, about "the theater" that jolted me into action. Suddenly I realized, while my story was about all of those things I mentioned above, what it was truly about was my mother's relationship to the act of going to Broadway plays, what that meant for me, and her bittersweet quest to see just one more.

While the piece I eventually wrote wasn't accepted for that anthology, "Jersey Nights on Broadway," found a lovely home this past winter at a wonderful site that features quirky, sad, funny, unusual, and everyday true stories about New York City.

If you've ever stopped to consider how something a parent began for you at a young age has threaded through both of your lives, you might like to read it over at Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. Here's a tiny excerpt: 

…When my mother aged, and even after she lost my father after 59 years of marriage, and her visits dwindled, and she found it hard to walk too far, she still asked, "What's good on Broadway?" Around 2009, on a springtime visit, she wanted to see Jersey Boys, and told me to buy good seats for us all – Frank, me, and our sons, then about 16 and 12….

 What do you do with your embryonic story ideas while they take their time growing into something?

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- February 19, 2016 Edition

> Write It Sideways has been redesigned and is flexing renewed vigor, providing great advice for writers. One new series is "101 of the Best Fiction Writing Tips." Start with Part One.

> At The Rumpus, Sari Botton returns with another installment of her interview column, "Conversations with Writers Braver Than Me," this time with the wonderful Anne Roiphe, on the topic of writing about loved ones (and being the one written about).

> Literary Hub's podcast, A Phone Call From Paul, most recently featured a two-parter with Jhumpa Lahiri. And check out the full list of cool lit folks interviewed in the last few months.

> Allison Williams, at Brevity, nails it with a sobering post about what she learned via a years-long,unsuccessful quest to get a manuscript published. The honesty begins with the title: "Turns Out the Problem is Me."

> Diana Urban offers "98 Book Marketing Ideas" to help authors bump up sales.

> Interesting post at The Missouri Review's blog, by John Nelson on falling into a nonfiction writing niche (in his case, birds), and why he likes it.

> Finally, I meant to pass along this one four weeks ago, but...the title of Adam Grant's article explains it all: "Why I Taught Myself to Procrastinate." And he means it. (Here I just thought I was growing more mature lately, taking time to think before acting...but not, it's good old fashioned procrastination, and turns out, it's a good thing!

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons - Boston Public Library

The Sound of One Essay Writing Itself

I'm so pleased that my year ended with the publication of an essay that surprised me a bit. Since I wrote it, I've wondered: Where do essays come from?

I've pondered the question before and will again, and the answer is: from many sources. Some I will into existence (when I've accepted an unsought assignment), others emerge from the deleted sentences or passages of another piece of work. Sometimes I have an idea that asserts itself and I must pay attention; sometimes a memory trigger brings me a new idea, unbidden but clear.

I'm convinced, too, that a very few pieces wait, fully formed, lodged deep in my brain, until the right moment. I know only that there's a niggling in the back of my brain about….something…that has to do with….something. Then, a moment of recognition, a swift gravity plunge, from the brain's dusty attic, through my fingers to keyboard to computer screen.

I tell people that good work doesn't really materialize that way. That waiting for The Muse to visit, sprinkling writer fairy dust, is silly. Write, revise, rewrite—that's the ticket. That when someone says a piece "just wrote itself," they're exaggerating, lying, or forgetting the thinking, drafting, revising process.

But not always. These things occasionally do happen—rarely.

I'd thought before of writing something about my elder son's struggles as a small boy with audio issues—more than the three paragraphs I gave it in a long essay eight years ago. But it was a vague, quiet idea, always out-shouted by noisier, more insistent ones. Eventually I "forgot" about it.

Last summer, I saw that Synaethesia Magazine was planning a themed issue on Sound. I made note of it (on my office white board, where I write, and then sometimes erase, possible submission goals). Then I "forgot" about it. Except that I did look at that board every day, wondering, do I have anything to say about sound? My brain was quiet.

Until one morning, something (I can't remember what) clicked: sound…audio…my son… I sat at the keyboard and in about 20 minutes had the essay, written instinctively in second person. Where did it come from? My fingers were only a conduit, connecting nearly subconscious thought with memory, with the screen. (In itself unusual, because I typically start new essays in longhand.)

To check my theory that the piece "wrote itself" (see: exaggerating, lying, forgetting, above), yesterday I looked at my electronic files (I date and number drafts), and the paper file (I print out a lot, and keep my hand-scribbled notes). Only two drafts: the original, and one with very minor revisions.

Here's an excerpt from "Sound and Fury, Signifying"

…You begin to listen. What does a goose's honk sound like from a two-foot high perspective anyway? Why is the neighbor's fishpond pump glugging like that today, when yesterday it glugged a bit more softly, less rhythmically? What drives human beings to seek out (or just endure, when we have the choice) the frightening booms of fireworks, crashing decibels of hard rock concerts, the annoying din of crowded parties in small rooms.

            There are no answers. There is listening therapy, exercises, practice, role-playing,

de-sensitization, speech therapy, exposure therapy, more.

            There is your small child, your little boy, your son, your adolescent, your teenager, your young man, your college student, and he is coping, modifying his behavior, learning to understand his limits, his boundaries, his tolerance….

I hope you'll click over to Synaesthesia Magazine to read the whole piece (as essays go, it's on the short side), and also page through this visually beautiful journal to see what others have to say and show about sound.

With a year of writing looming ahead, I wish I knew for sure that I'd get to watch myself write another "gift from The Muse" essay, but of course I don't. And yet…

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- October 16, 2015 Edition

> A recent Backgrounder podcast features Anna Quindlen, novelist, essayist, and Pulitzer Prize winning columnist (and incidentally, a strong influence on me).

> Some quick tips from Women on Writing to get through National Novel Writing Month.

> Writers must read, a lot. Of course. But how can we turn off the reading-as-a-writer stance, and just read for pleasure? At Literary Hub, Jessica Ferri (and a bunch of literary folks) have some suggestions.

> Lisa Rivero offers "8 Takeaways from the 2015 Publishing Institute."  

> In "Omission," a writing craft essay at The New Yorker last month, the inimitable John McPhee on knowing what to cut.

> I recently discovered Colette Sartor's blog, where she frequently shares writing craft advice, like this one on writing about loved ones. There's also a terrific writers resource page with links to many (many!) helpful articles by others.

> Medium is making some changes.

> At the Glimmer Train blog, enjoy (especially if you watch TV), David James Poissant's "How to Balance Writing, Family, Work, and Life: An Unhelpful Guide for the Perplexed." 

>Then, for a wee bit 'o more fun, try the Los Angeles Times' "How to Be a Writer" board game (think Candyland for lit types).

> Libba Bray will crack you up with her "letters" keeping friends updated on the success of her just-published book.

> And finally, considering my Friday Fridge Clean-Out heading and the rotating array of refrigerator photos -- how could I not mention the intriguing new book, Chilled: How Refrigeration Changed the World, and Might Do So Again, by Tom Jackson. I'm going to read it.

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons - Don Graham, inkknife_2000

Why Am I (still, again) Writing About Postpartum Depression? Because 21 Years Later, It Lingers

Twenty-one years ago at this time, my first child was 10 months old, and I remember thinking, it's got to end soon…but it didn't: "It" being postpartum depression. 

I've written before about how PPD disrupted my early mothering, but today I have an essay at Brain, Child which addresses an aspect of PPD I've become significantly more interested in as my two sons have grown—the effects of PPD on a mother as time passes.

For me, and I suspect for many others, PPD didn't just disappear and leave no scars behind. 

Here's an excerpt:

"Because here’s the truth about what comes after severe PPD goes away: the deepest, darkest clouds may wash away in a few months, or a year, or in my case, about 22 months. Your therapist may wean you off the anti-depressants which saved your sanity (and probably your marriage). You may have more good mornings, and eventually only the kind of mornings when you wake up and you are no longer already crying. You may not any longer be overcome, hourly, with feelings of guilt, shame, hopelessness, and fear. All this may happen, and you may begin to enjoy your child (or children), sink into your role as their mother, relish your little family—but. That will never feel like your right or your natural state, and you may, at any given stressful mothering moment, think you certainly are going to drift away, back down that hole. The truth about having survived severe PPD is that it is incipient. It lingers. There is a legacy. Its shadow, the fact of its presence in your history, never goes away.

And you are a different person for it. You are a different mother."

To read the full essay, please hop over to the Brain, Child blog. 

If you're a frequent visitor here, you know that I don't do much advocacy in the pieces I publish, but this one is important -- to me and maybe to a lot of other women. I believe it will resonate for many mothers who don’t feel comfortable talking about PPD's after-effects. I'd love to start a conversation about that, and I hope you'll pass the essay link along to anyone you know who may be affected by PPD. Wouldn't it be great if it also sparked some discussion among those who study maternal mental health?

As always, thanks for your support. 

Image: Flickr/Creative Commons - miyukiutada

Guest Blogger Anna Whiston-Donaldson on a Paperback Release after the Hardcover

Lucky for me, I met Anna Whiston-Donaldson at the Hippocampus conference for creative nonfiction writers last month. While I very much enjoyed her company over a shared meal, as is so often the case after making new acquaintances at literary gatherings, it wasn't until I came home and began learning more about the people I'd met (hello, Google!), that my interest in her work and appreciation of her accomplishments soared.

Anna was already a popular blogger who wrote about family foibles, furniture restoration, and fun thrift finds at An Inch of Gray, when tragedy befell her family. What she did with her grief, on the pages of a memoir, and in many other essays and articles, is a gift to others struggling with loss. 

Please welcome Anna Whiston-Donaldson.

Yesterday, September 8, was the paperback release of my memoir, Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love. It was also the fourth anniversary of the day I lost my young son in a freak flash flood. I had no choice about the odd date coincidence, but I decided to roll with it. Having something else to take up some of my mental space on that horrible “crapiversary” turned out to be a gift.

When I think about it, the theme of “rolling with it” seemed to surround the entire paperback release.

This was a stark contrast to the focused preparations that led to the initial hardcover release one year earlier, when my publicist landed a full page article about my family’s story in the Washington Post, and we tried to harness that interest in a variety of ways.

I treated the hardcover release like a full-time job, mailing Advanced Reader Copies to fellow bloggers, experts in the grief world, and other memoirists. A friend helped me rally 50 bloggers for a blog tour of reviews. A twitter novice with few followers, I set up a Thunderclap campaign where hundreds of people signed up to send out a pre-written tweet about Rare Bird on release day, reaching many more people than I could have on my own. I had articles ready to drop on other sites such as The Daily Beast, Time, and in Woman’s Day Magazine. My publisher offered free books to bloggers in exchange for honest reviews. We also had a video book trailer to share on social media.

All of that preparation, on my side and that of the publisher, meant a strong launch for Rare Bird. The book was on the New York Times Bestseller list for two weeks and was selected one of Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2014.

This time, however, my head was in a different space. The languid days of summer seemed to last forever, and my teenage daughter didn’t go back to school until the paperback release day, which kept me distracted and distanced from what I needed to do until it was upon me.

Have you ever seen an actor giving a press interview about a movie that was made years before, and he or she is clearly over it? I wasn’t OVER my memoir during the paperback release, but I was ready to think about what might be next for me as far as writing and speaking goes, and was able to let go of making sure each aspect of the release was exactly as I would have chosen it to be.

My baby was already out in the world, so a lot of the anxiety and anticipation about what that would mean had passed.  And while the year before I’d worked like crazy to ensure it had the best possible introduction, now the baby felt like a toddler, and if that toddler wore purple and orange striped socks and wanted to strike out on its own a bit? So be it.

Paperback/Audio cover

 

Original Hardcover

For example, my agent loved the audiobook cover (done by a different company) so much she proposed using it for the paperback. I could not have loved my original cover more, but I felt like…rolling with it.

If a new cover had more mass market paperback appeal, then I was fine with it. It looks gorgeous, and I am grateful to even have a paperback release and the opportunity to get my story into more people’s hands in this way, as I know that is not a given. 

I also didn’t hear much from the publishers or my agent during this time. Due to an office restructuring and move from Colorado to New York, my publicity and marketing team was completely new and didn’t know as much about me as the original team did. We had one conference call, a few emails, and that was it, so while they were working behind the scenes trying to set up interviews, etc, I wasn’t in on the details.

So what did I do for the paperback release? I reminded friends and followers on social media that the paperback was coming. I shared the new cover and a new video on one of the topics from the book. I ate ice cream. I waited.

I don’t know how the numbers will shake out, but I do know that something a fellow writer told me is true: no one cares more about your book than you do. The good news is there are many strategies for getting the word out about your writing. I am happy to have learned a great deal about these during the hardcover release, and I hope that my more passive approach to the paperback release does not mean that my book won’t get into the hands of those who could benefit from it.

Having a sustained focus on getting my book out there meant a great deal of time spent away from the practice of writing. Before long, I began to doubt I had one more thing to say, or that I could ever put another good sentence together. They say that writers write. My own life hadn’t reflected that in over a year, and by the time the paperback release came about, I was ready to let go a little, slow down, and try writing again.

Note from Lisa:  Anna would like to talk to you, if you have any questions about her writing, publishing, or grief process. Just leave them in the comments HERE, and she'll *stop by* the blog over the next week and respond.  She'd also like to send one of my readers a signed paperback copy of Rare Bird. To enter, just leave any comment here at the blog; or tweet this post, tagging @LisaRomeo, by midnight on Friday, September 18, 2015. A random winner will then be chosen. Must have a U.S. Postal address. Be sure to also visit Anna's website, and  follow her on Twitter or at Facebook.