When your Opinion is not Shared

Do you know what I hate about politics and an election year?

It is the assumption many make, when commenting on a candidate, that you are in “their” party. I see this from both Republicans and Democrats.

When someone decides to tell me an off-color, demeaning joke about some political figure, they seem to assume I will find it hilarious, without even considering that perhaps that is my candidate. Or when they are in a discussion about some candidate and make disparaging remarks about the “idiots” that voted that person into office, without considering I may be one of those idiots.

Perhaps, when it comes to politics, it is considered acceptable to be insulting, even to your friends.

Use Live Help to ask your questions!

Those who wish to self publish, be a solitary book, or just a few copies for immediate family and close friends, or a book intended for the masses, lulu.com is a logical destination.

Sometimes I like to browse through the Lulu marketplace, and check out the new editions. It is always interesting to see what self publishers are up to. Some are good, some atrocious, and some are good but appear atrocious.

Those good, but look bad, are normally the books that are well written, yet the presentation is so amateurish, that is difficult to get beyond the first page. I am a little stubborn, so sometimes I persevere, and keep on reading. (Lulu has a preview option, which allows browsers to read a certain number of pages).

One book I came across really drew me in. It was well written, interesting, and made me want to keep reading. Unfortunately, the author didn’t seem to take any time formatting her book. Maybe she didn’t know how. Had she read our Self Publishing Handbook, she would have better prepared for uploading her manuscript to Lulu.

Another thing I noticed, while browsing the Lulu marketplace, is the amount of books that are published with the Lulu default cover, which is really a very unappealing cover. I always imagined Lulu choose it for the default, because they wanted the authors to know they could design their own covers, or choose a more appealing Lulu image. Unfortunately, many did not get the subtle hint.

Why go to all that trouble to write and publish your book, and not spend a little more time on creating a unique cover?

If you have any questions about our Self Publishing Handbook, please feel free to use the Live Help button at the top of this page. Not sure how long we plan to have this option, we are currently trying it out. But, if it is still on the page, and you see we are in, feel free to ask your questions.

In the early morning

For most of my married life, my husband was the early riser. These days, I beat him out of bed by an hour. I think it has something to do with age.

Mom is also an early riser, lives with us, and is a regular chatty Cathy in the AM. I ‘m not a talkative soul in the morning. I would think that after knowing me for my entire life, she would simply accept this fact, and cease her attempt in engaging me in post dawn conversation.

In the early morning, as I beat Don out of bed, I make my way to the quiet of the living room, where the window is partially open and I can hear the birds and breathe in the fresh cool morning air. I flip on my laptop, and begin to write. Somewhere during that course of events I manage to make it to the kitchen, turn on the coffee maker and then pour me a steaming cup. Don’s nightly routine includes preparing the coffee maker for the next morning, a ritual I appreciate.

I usually get a half hour of solitude before Mom realizes I am up. Inevitably I end up hurting her feelings. I do try to be nice, saying something like Mom, I love you, but I really don’t like to talk in the morning, I just want to enjoy this time and write. Of course, she has to ask me a dozen or so questions before she finally gives up, and then leaves, making me feel incredibly guilty.

Perhaps, like Don’s ritual in making the coffee each night, this is mom’s and mine.

It's about respect

Sometimes it takes a series of angry emails, virtual arguments (so to speak) to clarify what is important to a person. I’m battling a headache, something that started pounding yesterday as the Incident initially raised its convoluted head.

The Incident, as I non-affectionately refer to it, was simply discovering that a local non-profit organization had used two of our copyrighted images in their video. I don’t believe I am a stingy person, but I am also a business person, and understand that to play fast and loose with our creative property is equivalent to leaving the storeroom door open.

I was willing to allow the organization to continue using the images, providing they understand they were not to use them again in future projects, without prior permission.

Unfortunately, the video’s creator refused to acknowledge he infringed on our rights, and gave a myriad of faulty reasons why he could use the images without our permission. And, he was rather snotty about it.

When the dust finally settled, one member of the organization said they finally understood I wasn’t angry because I thought they were stealing from me, but because they weren’t polite.

Polite?

I chewed that over for a few minutes, and suddenly understood why each email that whirled between the video’s producer and I stoked my irritation.

It wasn’t about being polite, it was about respect.

It is disrespectful to take any person’s property, be it their car, money or creative rights to a photograph or article.

It is disrespectful to dismiss a person who comes to you with a grievance, refusing to hear what they say.

It is disrespectful to use belittling language, and resort to name calling, something that this individual did.

It was all about respect. I never realized until today how much I value respect. Why I think it is important to treat others with respect. And looking back, I have always bristled when I’ve witnessed others treating a person with disrespect.

To allow others to disrespect you, is to disrespect yourself.

Writing, bringing fame and riches or not...

During mid-term of eighth grade my family moved to Havasu Palms, which was a rustic and remote lakeside resort, then located on Fish and Game lease land, on the border of Arizona and California.

There was a vintage country store on the site, where visitors could purchase bait, ice, gas and groceries. It was my sister and I who normally tended the store on weekends or in the summer.

On slow days, customers would trickled in, leaving large gaps in our day with nothing to do. There was just so much cleaning and stocking to fill the time. There was no television at the store, no telephone, and the Internet was decades away.

My grandfather had given me a manual typewriter, and once I learned to type in my freshman year, I preferred the keys to pen and paper. I was in the midst of writing my first book, The Privilege Ones. And so, it was not uncommon for me to drag the red typewriter to the store, and use my free time writing.

One afternoon a fisherman wandered in to buy bait. He noticed the typewriter and the stack of paper. He asked what I was typing. I explained I was writing a book, and he immediately announced he was a published author. But his announcement was not given as a boast, or even a plug for his book. It was, in some ways, delivered to me as a warning, a cold bucket of water on my dreams.

He laughed, somewhat sardonically, that his book brought him only a few hundred dollars, and his writing career, was not only brief, it was unprofitable.

I never learned if he ever wrote anything again. But, it did (at an early age) make me realize that becoming a published author did not necessarily equate to becoming rich and famous. It also taught me, that my motivation to write must come from a place other than that which craves attention or riches, otherwise my labor might bring me grief and disappointment.

I finished my first book. It was written in first person, sort of; from the perspective of the family dog. It was a little less than eighty pages, and its stack of worn pages are fitted neatly in a drawer in my study. I don’t believe anyone has ever read the manuscript. I certainly never sent it off to a publisher. I can’t imagine there would be much hope in marketing a book written by a young teenage girl.

While my motivation for writing The Privileged Ones may have initially been cheered on by that long ago illusion of writing and fame, it regrouped during the process (thanks to that visiting fisherman), and I discovered I have other reasons for writing.

Desire to Write

For my first thirteen years I grew up in Covina, California. My family lived in an area known as Covina Hills. It was horse property, with lots of oak trees, and Walnut Creek ran by our home.

Covina Hills Road traversed its winding, snake-like pavement path through the area, while large trees arched and stretched their limbs overhead. Today the area is vastly different, but my memories are of that time, some forty years ago.

I have one particular memory, which has stayed with me these many years. It is perhaps my first recollection of a desire to someday write.

Late one afternoon I was in the car with my mother, as she drove down Covina Hills Road. I remember looking up, out the car window, and noting the trees that lined each side of the street, their limbs bowing over the byway, meeting high overhead, above the center divider.

I watched the leaves above as they, instead of us, seemed to be whirling by. They fluttered and twisted in the afternoon breeze, sunlight giving them erratic golden halos. Silently I imagined how I would describe the scene, what words would I use to depict such a visually appealing route.

The day of the typewriter

I wonder if today’s college students appreciate the wonder of word processing.

When I was in college, I had a script writing class. The objective of the class was to write an original screenplay. Writing an original script was only part of the equation, it also meant the work had to be typed, all corrections made. In those days, re-writes meant retyping the entire page/pages. Only three or four students from the class completed the assignment. I was one of them.

Once, I was approached by another student in our apartment complex. He asked if he could hire me to do some typing. Apparently he had heard all that insistent typing coming from our apartment, and assumed it was my part time job.

I imagine more students are completing that class these days. After all, with word processing, you can focus on the creativity, not on the re-typing.