I am a mess.

Jul 7, 2017 | Random, Writing | 18 comments

I thought about posting straight to Facebook on this one, but it’s going to be long and rambly and very blog-like and so I thought it would be best to put it on the “blog”. Smart, right?

Sure.

So, if you’re reading this you probably already know that we didn’t hit the USA Today bestseller list with the boxset ‘Hero Undercover’. I found out Wednesday afternoon after spending most of the day refreshing the site, and then the URL format changed and I was able to view the results for week 27 and I looked for us. I probably went through each page of the list ten times before it finally sank in that we’d missed it. We may have missed it by a tiny bit, hitting #151 instead of #150, or we may have missed it by a mile. The issue is that when it comes to lists like this there are only two outcomes, black and white, completely binary – you are either on the list, or you are not.

We were not.

Just kidding, we all know I’m not fine.

It’s not that I hadn’t thought about the possibility of us missing the list. Going into the “live” sales week our numbers weren’t where they needed to be, and we knew that. We were so far behind in fact that it felt impossible, and I got discouraged, but I talked with people far wiser and more experienced than me and worked out a plan of attack for release week.

If we went down, we were going to go down fighting.

And that was where I made my mistake.

People close to me in my life constantly talk about my Type-A personality. My tendency to work myself to death, to always have more on my plate than can actually fit, my obsessiveness with over-achieving and succeeding and doing the things that seem impossible. I admit, it is a huge point of pride in my life. I thrive in this exhausted, stressed-out, mildly insane space. I am successful in this space, and it makes me feel good about myself. It’s how I define myself… by this ability to do everything even when that is a ridiculous expectation.

My brain is as binary as success and failure, there are no gray areas.

And when I’m successful, when things are going well, when I’m checking things off the list and nailing it and getting shit done. I feel great. I love myself, I’m proud of myself, I celebrate internally.

The problem with defining myself by my success is that when I fail, I can’t just shrug it off, and I know this about myself too.

Before we even went into the live sales week I could feel the internal struggle to throw myself into the boxset with the excessive fervor I do other things in my life, and I tried to tell myself not to. Mostly, because I knew how risky it was for us to even hit the USA Today list, and I knew exactly what would happen if we didn’t make it. I could see it yawning in front of me like the huge black pit it is. There was a thin, golden bridge over that pit that 100% relied on us making the list. Everything else was a black, yawning hole filled with all my demons – and it’s been a few months since I was down there with them and so they were waiting. They’ve missed me. They told me to try, to throw everything into making the list.

They whispered in my ear that I could do it.

So, I did. I spent time, money, and effort doing everything I could think of to make it happen. And many, many other people did too. Other authors in the set, readers, friends, our publisher – but when we missed it the only thing that mattered in my brain was that I didn’t make it. I had failed. Missed the goal. Slipped off the golden bridge, and fell into the pit.

I wasn’t surprised. In the odd out-of-body type of way I watched myself lose it, and knew it was going to get worse before it got better. I went home after the day job and poured a large glass of wine and shared my discovery with a few people in the boxset, and some close friends. The Dom and I were supposed to go see a play that night, and I told him what happened, and he felt the risk in the same way I did. Knew exactly where I was headed, but neither of us could stop it. He asked me not to hurt myself, and I told him I wouldn’t.

“I won’t hurt myself. That’s your job, right?” I asked, holding the phone and standing in my dark kitchen drinking wine like it was water in the desert.

He laughed, because our humor is always relatively fucked up, and confirmed. “That’s right, it’s my job. I’m on my way.”

When he got there I was already losing it, in that high-pitched anxiety ridden freak out mode where all I want to do is scream and rage about how fucking useless I am. The demons had opened their arms and caught me, and I was completely theirs.

Worthless. Failure. Useless. Stupid. 

Why did I ever think I could make the list? Do I really think I’m special and unique?

It was pathetic how hard I’d tried for something I never deserved in the first place.

As if the world was trying to cinematically support my breakdown, a thunderstorm of Texas proportions kicked up and canceled our attempt to go see the outdoor play we’d originally planned. All for the best, really, since I was already pretty off the deep end into hating every aspect of myself. We tried to drive down to the play, gave up when the lightning was constant and the rain was hard enough that even with the wipers on full blast we were having to drive 40mph on the highway.

To be honest, the storm made me feel a little better.

But as soon as we got back to my apartment it all hit me again. I grabbed for the wine like a lifeline, and the Dom stood there in silence for a minute as I finished one glass and clumsily poured another with shaking hands. So close to a full-on anxiety attack that I could feel my ribs aching as I tried to contain it. He had bought us dinner, and wine, because we were supposed to be having a celebratory picnic while watching Merry Wives of Windsor on the lawn of a Dallas park, but this was not a celebration any longer. He said I had to eat. I said no. He reminded me that ‘no‘ was not an option when he gave me an order. I promised to throw up on him, he said he’d take the risk, and that I had to eat half the sandwich he’d brought if I was going to drink. When I stood there, borderline hyperventilating as the world crashed in on me, screaming failure failure failure, he sighed and asked me what I needed in the same way that you’d talk to a feral animal you’re trapped in a room with.

I told him I wanted him to use the belt until I couldn’t feel this way anymore.

So, we made a deal. I had to eat half a sandwich, I could drink wine, we would do cigar service on my patio and watch the lightning, and then he would belt me, fuck me, and put me to bed. All on his terms, and I didn’t get to ask for more of the belt than he wanted to give me.

And we did all that. I’ve got bite marks and bruises and welts, and they help. I like to lean against them, dig my thumbs into the ones on my thighs to feel that spike of pain, internal punishment for being such a fucking failure.

I was late to work Thursday morning, and the Dom tried to get me out of bed, but I was deep in the pit and there was no more anger, just emptiness. The void. I wasn’t worth being angry at anymore, wasn’t worth hating. I was just worthless.

And worthless people don’t get out of bed.

Eventually, he convinced me to go. I shouldn’t have, it was stupid. I spent hours at work on a project, and then the program messed up, and I lost all of the work. It was mid-afternoon, and I stared at my computer screen trying to believe that I hadn’t just lost ALL of the work I had done.

But I had.

At least by that point I was already empty, no more anger to happen, so I just got up and left work. I think I’ve walked out of work without telling anyone a handful of times in my life, and yesterday was one of them. I took xanax when I got home, grabbed a pillow, went into my closet and slept.

I slept a lot yesterday, and last night. I talked to a few people (including the Dom) who tried to pull me out of this in their own way, but the problem isn’t reality. Logic isn’t the issue. It’s me. I’m a mess.

I hide it really fucking well, because (remember what I said at the beginning?) when I’m doing well, I’m feeling great. I feel invincible. I feel fantastic. I look like I have everything together, mostly because at that time I do.

And I’m getting better today. I was able to get up with my alarm, and shower, and come to work. I still haven’t eaten yet today, but I’ll feel hunger at some point. The Dom will harass me until I eat anyway, and the bottle of wine he dropped off outside of my apartment is contingent upon me eating food, with protein. I know in the out-of-body way that there is nothing more I could have done to hit the list. I did everything I could, spent an irresponsible amount of money on promotion and giveaways, dedicated a ton of time to it.

I know this.

The problem is my brain doesn’t care. My brain is black and white, pass or fail – and I failed. This is the downside to being the type of person I am. This is one of the reasons I’m such a twisted masochist. I like being hurt, it makes me feel better. I have another session with the Dom on Saturday to try and fix this.

I want to pull out of the pit. I don’t want to listen to the demons. I don’t want to hate myself as much as I do right now. I know it’s ridiculous. I know that it’s hard for people to understand. I know that for others it’s as easy as shrugging, acknowledging that they did their best, and then moving on. It’s not even that I have a very good chance of hitting the list in August (with another boxset).

None of that matters to my brain.

Normally I’d just stay silent about this fucked up side of my personality. I’d keep quiet about all the not-fun-darkness that seeps in at the edges of my life, always waiting for me to slip up, make a mistake, fail in some way so it can swallow me whole.

But I’m lucky enough to have a lot of people who care, a lot of people who are worried about me, and a lot of people who don’t understand why I collapsed in on myself this week. Why I have all the feelings.

So, if you wanted to know, now you do. I’m working on digging myself out. I’m a real mess upstairs, but I appreciate all of you more than I can say.

And until I feel better, I have xanax, and wine, and I won’t hurt myself because that’s my Dom’s job. <3 So you don’t need to worry.

What’s the worst thing in the publishing industry? (plus some funny gifs)

May 10, 2017 | Random, Writing | 12 comments

Well, lovelies, I’ve got my opinion. I was inspired by Amanda Palmer (my favorite musician) to write this stream of consciousness style blog in the same style she writes her own, because I had an amazing opportunity last week to spend lots of time around many of the authors that Blushing has. The publisher ‘Blushing Books‘ added their own author event onto the front end of the RT Conference in Atlanta, and it was probably one of the most refreshing, invigorating events I’ve ever experienced.

And do you want to know why?

It was a ton of authors shoved into spaces together, to spend time together.

Now, let me talk to all of you for a minute on why this is so fucking special. Normally, when authors crawl out of their houses, force themselves out of their mostly introverted shells, it’s for an event to sell books. Which is in bold and underlined print because that’s exactly what it is. We’re supposed to be “on” the entire time. We’re supposed to represent our brand, our publishers, our books, and obviously this also means talking to all of our readers – which we completely love to do… but it leaves very little time for author-on-author chat.

Honestly? It usually leaves no time for honest author-on-author chat.

This does not mean we don’t love events, we do! We absolutely do. There’s nothing more thrilling as an author than getting a message, or meeting a fan, and having them be just as excited about a character or a story as you were. Hell, we spent weeks and/or months of our lives writing those characters/stories into life because we loved them so much. We fucking WANT to talk about them, but…

that’s not everything an author needs.

And, that is what became clear to me last week in Atlanta. So, the rest of this post is really for the authors, but I invite everyone to sit down and read and see things from my (our?) perspective.

So, what’s the worst thing in the publishing industry?

The bullshit.

That’s right, the bullshit. The petty, backstabbing, one-upmanship that makes all of us feel shitty, and sad, and want to crawl back into our introverted holes of anonymity where we never have to put on pants. Because, seriously, why should we put on pants just to be reminded that we’re not as famous / not as monetized / not as popular / not as highly ranked as the next author with their name on a cover? It. Fucking. Sucks.

Pants suck.

But you know what I saw last week at the Blushing Books author meet-up? Not a speck of that. I didn’t see a single bit of petty bullshit. Even the publisher who was putting on the event didn’t get in our faces. They threw us a party, and let us chat. They held events, and let us hang out. We spent time together, and we VENTED. We vented about the exhaustion of being authors. Some of us have day jobs, some of us are parents, spouses, in relationships, have to clean our damn houses and grocery shop, and still run a social media empire like we’re the fucking Kardashians (except none of us are making that kind of fucking money). And yeah, we vented about ALL of our frustrations. We vented about our publishers, about Amazon, about readers and reviews and the exhausting and never-ending cycle that we are always in.

How successful was your last book? How many reviews did you get? Where is your book ranked? What kind of reviews did you get? Did anyone important review your book? Have you been shared anywhere? Did you pay for advertising? How much did you spend on advertising? Where did you advertise? Did you get your stock photos somewhere specific? Was there a guy on the cover? A girl? A couple? Were they sexy? Was it abstract? WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELL DID YOU DO EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE SO WE CAN DISSECT IT AND DECIDE IF YOU DID IT RIGHT OR NOT?!

^^^ That shit?

Exhausting.

Bullshit.

OMFG WHY DO WE DO THIS?

Well…

We’re obsessed with our stories, our characters, and we finally got our hands on a keyboard to put them down on paper and then we threw them to the wolves just so we could have the privilege of joining in that insane fucking cycle that does its best to break us all down.

But you know what the best part of last week was? As we all let out our frustrations, our exhaustion, our gripes, every single beautiful author there was tipping back their drink of choice – from water, to tea, to wine, to vodka – and they were listening. And echoing. And supporting. And loving. And welcoming. We talked in events, and dinners. We giggled in hallways, and on balconies under the setting sun. We cursed, and spoke in a variety of accents, and… we communed.

We reminded each other that we’re not alone in this, no matter how alone we feel sometimes. We’re not the only ones tearing our hair out at 2am staring at the ranks and begging for just a tiny jump in points so we can reach that next goal in our heads. We’re not the only author in the world that reads a review that hurts, tries to act like an adult and brush it off, but still pours an extra drink, or adds an extra scoop of ice cream, or cracks open a bag of potato chips just to feel better.

We’re not alone.

What’s amazing about this weird job, whether it’s your full-time job or just one of many, whether you’re amazingly successful… or not… is that you ARE alone in it, and it’s hard.

It’s so fucking hard.

And we are answerable to everyone. It’s a constant process of pouring out of our own cup, and waiting / begging / pleading / sacrificing to the gods of the book world to get our own cups refilled even a little. To see our book do well. To hear praise from our publisher. To read the good reviews. To get the messages / emails / facebook comments / tweets from readers who loved the book we wrote. But that is a lonely waiting game, and since we almost all do this solo, it’s really, really hard.

So, I think we need more of that. We need to bottle the magic that happened at the Blushing author’s event and spread it. We need to support each other. Give each other that “YES! YOU FUCKING DID IT! THE BOOK IS OUT! POP THE DAMN CHAMPAGNE!”

THAT!!!!

… eeeeeven if we haven’t had the time to read the book. Because we all know we barely have time to write our own books, much less read all the books these amazing authors put out. We have to ration our time like water in the desert, because no one is making more time, but we all have the few seconds to hit the share button. To say something nice. To click the like / love / giggle button and give someone a smile. We all have a few minutes to remind each other that we’re not fucking alone in this.

There’s no need to backstab, to connive, to attack, to plot against anyone except for the villains in our own books.

Whether you’re an indie author, loyal to a publisher, or a hybrid of some weird combination – you should be proud. Even if your book never hits a bestseller spot. Even if you never get a “title”. Even if you have 5 reviews on all of your books combined… you fucking did it. You wrote the thing. You did the work. You spent the time.

You have a book.

Last week I saw authors making 10x what I make in a month hanging out in a hotel room with authors who wanted to be where I am right now. Not a single person put another author down. Not a single person made a snide comment about a shitty cover, or a poorly edited book, or a bad plot, or a weak character. No one logged onto Amazon in the middle of our hang-out to leave a snarky 1-star review from a secret account.

THERE WAS NO BULLSHIT.

It was a goddamn fucking utopia of authors, and it made me realize that we are the ones in control of that. Taking readers and publishers and editors and industry shit out of the equation – all that’s left is the authors. We’re just a bunch of awkward oddballs with too many people talking in our heads to allow us to be normal. We’re the weirdos who stay up at all hours and write. We’re the ones who can’t resist getting those words down on paper, even if we’re not sure anyone will ever read it. We’re the ones who still make meals, clean up, drive to work or the grocery or to the kid’s whatever, and then come back and try to write the words. Try to capture the story. Try to put these words down on paper before we lose them.

Can’t we just celebrate that?

Can’t we just have a drink (of whatever) and give each other that knowing nod of ‘I get it. I know it’s hard. It’s hard for me too’?

I think we can. I think we can lift each other up. I think we can acknowledge when someone else is suffering, and instead of ignoring it, we can reach out. We can share a little love. We can celebrate each other when someone succeeds, and comfort each other when we fail. We can do so much more with this than we are right now, because we have the words for it. Words are our fucking SKILL.

We can tell each other the right things.

We can say we care.

We can listen.

We can love.

So, since it’s my birthday today, all I’m going to ask for my birthday present is for you to pick an author (not me) and tell them something good. Whether you’ve read one of their books or not, see them on Facebook, or Twitter, or wherever, and say something kind. Say something uplifting. Say something loving. Tell them you get it. Tell them you understand, that you’ve been there, and if you want some bonus karma points? Listen to them.

Listen to each other.

Support each other.

We’re all in this together, no matter what genre we write, and we have enough on our plates without fighting each other.

And, just remember, even though I’m an average author with an average set of books, I’m still here to listen if you need it, lovelies, because I adore each and every fucking one of you.

You got this.

P.S. – Pants still suck. That’s not changing, no matter how much positivity we put out. Let’s be positive AND pantsless. That’s even better.

P.P.S. – Share this if you want to spread some love. It might reach someone who needs to hear it. I know I could have used it 10 years ago! <3