One Down

By Lisabet Sarai

Our topic for the coming fortnight is “Realizing Goals (or not)”. The theme could hardly be more timely, for me. This past weekend, I realized a goal that had been on my list for a quite a while. Finally, I self-published a book.

It’s not much of a book, mind you – just a 5K holiday short story – but I’m still feeling pretty proud of myself. For years I have been trying to avoid the whole self-publishing issue. I told myself that I didn’t have the time to futz around with formatting and cover creation. That I should be spending my time writing new fiction as opposed to worrying about mechanics. That I needed a publisher to support me via marketing, promotions and cross-over from other authors. That nobody would read my indie books anyway because the whole world knows that self-published fiction is crap.

Excuses, plain and simple. The main reason I didn’t self-publish earlier is that I was scared it would be too much work.

I was wrong. Aside from the inevitable frustration of trying to beat Microsoft Word into submission, everything went smoothly. The Smashwords platform turned out to be amazingly intuitive, with lots of information and guidelines for newbies. Amazon KDP isn’t nearly as well-designed, but after getting things set up for Smashwords, the extra effort required to convert the book for upload to Amazon was almost trivial. The whole process, for both sites, took about half a day, including creation of my cover.

Of course there were extenuating circumstances. I’d already written and edited the story. I’m confident enough in my technical writing skills that I don’t worry too much about grammar and spelling issues. I’d previously found a cover image, too, a single photo that I knew would be easy to convert to a cover simply by adding the title and author text. (When it comes to graphic arts, I know my limitations!)

Other factors helped me realize this goal, too, especially my recent experience publishing through Excessica. The Excessica co-op is halfway between a traditional publisher and self-publishing. The author is responsible for her own editing, formatting and cover. On the other hand, Excessica handles the format vetting, uploading, distribution and financial arrangements.

I started working with Excessica when several of my erotic titles went out of print due to a split with the previous publisher. Both Bangkok Noir and Exposure don’t fit the mold of erotic romance. The first, in particular, is one of my darker, more extreme works. Excessica seemed like the perfect venue.

So I’ve done some book formatting in the past few months, and I’ve made a few simple covers. To go from there to full self-publishing wasn’t such a major step.

However, more important than these concrete experiences, I’ve undergone a change of attitude. I’ve been pretty annoyed over the past year as my erotic romance royalties have dwindled, to the point where they didn’t even cover my marketing expenses. Meanwhile, I often find romance conventions a Procrustean bed; I’m forced to slash, stretch and contort my initial ideas in order to make them acceptable to the romance audience (or the publisher’s perception thereof). The process of editing my most recent romance novel, The Ingredients of Bliss, was especially painful, as the editor required me to suppress my heroine’s (admittedly rampant) sexuality in order to make her more faithful and committed. I did more rewrites on that book than on anything else I’ve written in my entire career.

The book was released in September. I wrote dozens of blog posts. I had articles on national news sites. I did two blog tours. I gave away gift certificates and even a few free copies.

A few days ago, I received my royalty statement for October. Want to know how many copies of The Ingredients of Bliss I sold?

Zero. Zilch. Nada.

As I’ve joked on the ERWA Writer’s list, I’m thinking of changing my tag line. My new slogan? “Too raw for romance, too sweet for smut.”

In any case, I’m ready to try some new approaches, because I’m not getting the benefits I expect from working with a traditional publisher.

Does that mean I’m going to self-publish everything from now on? Probably not. The amount of work involved in self-editing and self-publishing a novel far exceeds what I spent on Slush: A holiday romance. To some extent, this story was a throw-away effort, an experiment. I’d originally planned to give it away free, in fact, a kind of gift to my readers. Then I figured, why not give self-pubbing a go?

I don’t expect to get rich from this. In fact, the royalty percentages in self-publishing are not much different from what I get from publishers. (The only way to get 70% from Amazon is to publish with them exclusively.) I plan to promo this story like crazy, though, then see if it affects my other sales.

Probably my current feeling of self-satisfaction is my greatest reward from this endeavor. I managed to overcome my internal resistance and do it.

The next goal up? Trying to write a series, something else I’ve deferred for a long time due to laziness and fear.

Wish me luck!

[I don’t want to turn this post into promo, but if you’re interested you can see the cover I created for Slush, and read an excerpt, on my blog.]

Ask me no questions, I'll give you no excuses ...

Sorry about missing last week. I won't offer a reasoning, suffice to say, life turned into a chaotic mess.

Now, onward to this week. : )

As some of you know, I am student teaching this semester. And I have to say, some of these kids are about to kill me.

Let me back up a minute. I love my kids, really I do. I have started to hear about books they love, and TV shows they watch, and even some of the BFF's and the things they do on the weekends. They are starting to accept my limited presence in their lives. Some are even asking about how I am.

So the ones who just seem to roll into class, no homework to turn in, who sit there glassy eyed all block (an hour and a half long) waiting for the bell to ring and they can show the first sign of animation as they bolt out of the classroom as if the room were on fire, are really starting to get to me. (I should also mention, I am teaching high school Biology and Earth Science).

I ask where their homework is, and get an excuse.

I ask why they weren't paying attention, and get an excuse.

I ask anything, and there is a ready and quickly delivered excuse.

For these students, I want to shout OWN UP TO YOUR MISTAKES! You forgot to do your homework, fine. You forgot it at home, fine. Don't give me some lame-ass, whimpy attempt at a reasoning why you should be special and get to turn it in tomorrow. At least be creative - an alien came down last night and snatched you up right after school and didn't return you until five minutes before school started. And they returned you dressed in fresh school clothes. There I could give 'Give-A'Shit points" if nothing else. Cause you gave a shit enough to make up something creative.

I have never heard so many excuses in my life, and some of the other kids are starting to get pissed off too. Why should they get special treatment if I bust my ass to turn stuff in on time? Um, they don't. At least not from me. I can guarantee that much.

The few students who even have legit excuses where I would make allowances, they just don't ask. They man up, and if they don't have stuff done, well, they just don't. I've offered opening to some of them and they don't take the bait.

I am getting so sick of excuses ... at least, the ones that aren't creative. I would probably give points at this point in time if they just cared enough to give a wildly out there excuse.

Zombies. Yeah, something with zombies would be great.

Ohhhhh, or they got so wrapped up in the few first seasons of Law and Order that they just HAD to do a two day marathon of the episodes.

Wait, then I might be pissed they didn't invite me.

Ah well ...

... that's my excuse, and I am sticking to it.

The Dog Ate My Homework

By Lisabet Sarai



(Warning: this post is in dubious taste.)

I spend part of my time teaching undergraduates. Thus, as you imagine, I am very familiar with excuses.

“Why didn't you turn in your project?” I ask.

“I don't have a printer at home, so I couldn't print it.”

“My friend said that he'd submit it for me, but he forgot.”

“I was sick yesterday so I couldn't finish.” (Never mind that the class had a full four weeks to complete this assignment.)

“My grandmother had an accident and I had to take care of her.”

“My bus broke down.”

I am actually rather disappointed by my students' apparent lack of creativity. So far no one has claimed that he was abducted by aliens, or that his house burned down along with his homework, or that his girlfriend kept him tied up all weekend so he couldn't study. Hardly any of the excuses I've heard are sufficiently entertaining to support a blog post. So I guess I'll have to make some up.

Scenario 1:

Jack comes home from work early. “Lila!” he calls. “I'm home, honey! Where are you, babe?” He hears giggles coming from the master bedroom. When he enters, he discovers his wife naked, perched on the end of the bed, with Dan, the twenty-five year old son of their next door neighbor, crouching between her thighs.

“Hi, darling,” she says, closing her legs so fast that she almost takes off Dan's ears.

“Hello, Mr. Haynes.” Dan is already on his feet.

Jack struggles to keep his voice calm. “What's going on here, Lila?”

Lila looks embarrassed. “Well, you know Dan's in his second year of medical school. He has an anatomy exam tomorrow – I was just helping him study.”

***

Scenario 2:

Professor Darwin falls asleep at his computer. His devoted wife brings him some tea. She knocks on the door of his office, but there's no response. He's told her never to enter without permission, but she's concerned.

She comes up behind him, places the cup on the desk and kisses the top of his head. He stirs but does not wake. She smiles, relieved that he appears to be fine. She's about to sneak out when the text on the screen catches her attention.

“Beloved,

I cannot eat or sleep or think. I am consumed with need for you. My body craves your touch. I will not survive unless I soon feel your mouth on my breasts, your manhood ravaging my sex.

When you pace back and forth in front of the class, pretending to ignore me, I feel I will die of neglect. We must meet again, before I wither away. Come to me, soon, and let the fires of passion consume us once more.

Please, send me a sign that you still desire me.

Yours forever,
Sharon”

She pinches his shoulder. The professor wakes, sputtering. “Miranda! What are you doing in here?”

“I knocked,” she says, working hard to calm her suspicions. “You didn't answer.”

“Well...well...don't do it again...” He surreptitiously moves the mouse, ready to close the document.

“Wait!” Miranda cries. “What's this, anyway?”

“What's what?”

“This – love letter, or whatever.” Miranda's indignation rings in her voice.

Darwin shrugs. “Oh, that...um, well, that's part of the novel I'm writing.”

“You're writing a novel? Since when? Is it a dirty novel?”

“Of course not.”

“Sounds dirty to me.” Miranda gives a self-righteous huff and flounces off. The professor breathes a sigh of relief.

***

Scenario 3:

Marilyn is studying to be a sex therapist. This week's lesson deals with cunnilingus – physiology, psychology, history, variations, techniques, taboos, and so on. She dutifully reads the text book and studies the diagrams, lazily fingering her clit as she slogs through the dense material. If her boyfriend Leon were here, he'd undoubtedly provide some practical assistance, but tonight he's stuck at the restaurant where he works until past midnight.

She looks up, her head aching and her pussy throbbing, to see Bill, their golden retriever, watching her intently. A flash of inspiration strikes. “Bill,” she croons. “Come over here, boy.”

It's nearly one A.M. when Leon finally gets home. He finds Marilyn nude and barely conscious on the carpet – limbs splayed, face flushed, damp with sweat and other fluids.

“Baby! What happened?” Leon asks, helping her to a sitting position.

Her lids flicker over her glazed eyes. She barely seems to recognize him.

“Oh, the dog ate my homework.”

***

And for that, my dear readers, I'm afraid I have no excuse!