I always wanted to be a “real” author.  Long before I knew how to spell “synopsis” or understood the need for a rock solid query, I imagined stroking the cover of a book I’d written myself.

Now that I’ve stroked not just one but two of my own books, I understand there is more to being a “real” author than just writing a good story.  In order to give our creations the best possible chance at success, we also have to market and sell our work.  And apparently that concerns my subconscious, since last night it added a new anxiety dream to my repertoire.

Almost six years after the Olympics, I still have a recurring nightmare.  I’m at some distant regatta packing for a flight home that leaves in an hour, and not everything will fit into my luggage.  As I stuff and repack and turn to find yet another pile of clothes on the floor behind me, I know I’m Going To Miss My Flight.  Of course, my teammates are ready and waiting for me… and I HATE to be waited for.

It’s always a relief when I wake up.

Last night, I had a completely new anxiety dream. I’m having a glass of wine with a woman I barely know (and after last night, I’m not interested in getting to know her any better).  We suddenly realize I am ten minutes late for my booksigning that started at 5pm, the reason I’d come to town in the first place.  So we hop in her car and race off.  Since she’s the local, I figure she knows where she’s going… until we end up on the wrong side of town.

“Oh, it’s at that OTHER bookstore!” she says, and we speed off again.

One way streets.  Cars and pedestrians blocking the road.  Everything conspires against our getting where we need to go, even though it’s “just a few blocks away.”

By the time we finally arrive at the (other) bookstore, it’s 8:30pm.  Worst of all, I don’t even have a decent excuse. (“We were having a glass of wine and lost track of time” certainly doesn’t sound very professional.) I stroll into the empty store, determined to make the best of a very bad and quite self-induced situation.

“Sorry I’m so late,” I say.  “How many books did we sell?”

“Fifteen and a half,” the owner replies.

(Why my subconscious thinks you can sell half a book, I’ll never know.)

It gets worse.  The bookstore owner leads me to the back of the store where the last buyer is waiting patiently—and remember, I HATE to be waited for.  It’s a boy who can’t read, and he asks me to chisel my signature in the book cover, as if it were a piece of wood.

I want to reward the kid for being so patient, so I struggle with the completely inappropriate tool and hope I don’t cut myself.

Then I wake up.

Now I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a different interpretation, but to me this dream screams “real author.”  I’m no longer sleep-worrying about catching planes home from regattas, like an Olympic sailor; instead I’m worrying about book signings—forgetting to go to one, and dealing with an awkward situation when I finally remember.  I’m surprised my subconscious didn’t work in an aspiring writer who holds up the line to complain about how hard it is to get published.

My old anxiety dream had nothing to do with sailing, and this new dream has nothing to do with writing.  Maybe that’s because the writing is the easy part of being an author?

Anyway, I’m going to take this nightmare as a positive sign. I’m also going to take a nap this afternoon… and probably skip the glass of wine before tonight’s signing.

I know, I know, I wrote a few weeks ago I was finished with the new book.  But “finished” has different stages.  And though the authorly part was complete, the graphic design work (cover and interior) weren’t quite ready to go to press.

It’s quite unusual for an author to design her own cover, but most authors don’t have graphic design experience.  Being able to use all of my talents to create a beautiful book (as well as a good story) is one of the great things about working with publisher GemmaMedia.  Gemma actually found the original map that we used as a background, so it’s been a team effort right from the start.  We sent final files in this morning, including a Library of Congress number; now that makes me feel like a real author.

Many of you have asked about the publishing date, which is July 4.  Stay tuned for updates on a launch party around that time too.  And of course I’m starting to plan book signings, so let me know if your local bookstore or book club would like me to come visit.

And speaking of launch parties, we put our Herreshoff Marlin in the water this morning.  So the season of summer evening sails has officially begun.

It’s not often that my book life and my sailing life overlap, but it happened last week.

Last Friday, I submitted a file (only ten minutes late) that represented almost a year of hard work.  Cape Cod Surprise, complete with layout and cover art, has been sent off to meet the sharp eyes of my publisher and editor at GemmaMedia. [Insert appropriate “cheer” word here, along with much overdone punctuation.]

Writing a sequel requires all the same effort as the original book.  1. Dream up enough story line to start writing.  2. Figure out what the REAL story line is. 3. Edit. 4. Re-edit, to make all the little pieces fit the big picture.  5. Ask “is it as good as it can be” over and over, until the answer is “yes.”

In addition, the sequel required a little extra effort.  Because this time, I knew I was writing for publication—not just to brighten the eyes of my nephew at Christmas.  This time, I was on a deadline.  And it had to be even better than “good as it can be.” Better than the first book.   I believe it is… longer, richer—yes, better.  I can only hope my authorly bias is not blinding me to the faults of my latest creation.  I can only hope you the readers will love it too.

I also checked off an important sailing goal last week.  Kim Couranz and I won the Snipe Women’s Nationals in Jacksonville, FL.  This is the fifth time we’ve won this event (though only our third as a team), so that victory alone isn’t necessarily a goal as worthy of shout-out as shipping off a manuscript.  It’s where that regatta victory will lead us that counts: we’re now qualified for the Snipe Western Hemisphere and Orient Championship in September, an international regatta that draws together the best sailors in the class.  (And for those who keep score by gender, we are likely to be one of the few women’s teams at the event.)

I’ve written before about the three hats a writer must wear as she works through a project.  I’ve also written about the many definitions of success in this brave new world of publishing.  For all these reasons and many more, I made sure to celebrate last week’s writing milestone. There are so few finish line tapes across the road to publishing that when we hit one, it’s critical to raise a glass and breathe in the heady air of “I did it!”  Because all too soon my manuscript will be back for edits, like a teenager who returns from college with fresh opinions based on his contact with others.

Kim and I should’ve celebrated our regatta win with a raised glass too.  Instead we jumped in the van to drive the 13 hours back to Annapolis Sunday night, so she could show up for work the next day.

And it didn’t feel so important to consciously celebrate a finite victory like winning a regatta. It’s so much more obvious that we achieved our goal when there is a printed scoreline of firsts (what we sailors call “bullets”).

Authors have no such scoreline; instead we single out the good reviews and positive feedback, building a moat around our egos to protect against the less pleasant comments.  There are always more books that could be sold, more readers that could be touched, more Amazon reviews that could be written.

Besides, Kim and I will be celebrating all summer, as we push to improve our skills toward meeting our new goal (a respectable finish at the Westerns). Because that’s what self-motivated people do: as soon as we achieve one goal, we look for the next.

But for a few days, while my new book is out of my hands being edited by someone else, I will savor last week’s writing victory.  Because whether or not this sequel is actually as good as I think it is, I’ve now answered once and for all one of my great internal doubts:

Can she do it again?

Yes, she can!

And that’s a victory worth celebrating.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about success. Not the standard question, “how can I be more successful?”  (which is usually just a tasteful coverup for “how can I make more money?”)

My question is completely different: Have I already succeeded, and just failed to notice?

From 2000-2004, one very specific goal defined success for me – winning the US Olympic Trials.  With that ultimate date and location in mind, my team made a detailed list of  improvements to focus on day to day during our years of preparation: Improve Boatspeed.  Perfect our boathandling.  Sail better tomorrow than we did today.

We won the Trials, and went on to win two races at the Olympics in Athens.  Yes of course, it would’ve been even better to win a medal… but I digress.

The whole setup was ideal for a results-oriented athlete.  We defined a specific goal, achieved it, and -  bingo!  I’m an Olympian.  I felt like I’d just passed a signpost spelling out in a blaring display font:  “Carol Cronin has just reached a pinnacle of athletic success.”

Four years later, I checked off another box on my life’s list of achievements by publishing a book. “Oliver’s Surprise” has been very well-received by young (and not so young) adult readers around the world.  The book has taken me into classrooms full of kids and into bookstores full of adults who’ve all come to know me through my work.  I’m sure the sequel, “Cape Cod Surprise,” due out this July, will take me on an even more exciting ride.

Recently, I was even recognized by Redroom as a “rising star.”

All of this is just fantastic.  Yet none of it feels like a signpost spelling out in a blaring display font: “Carol Newman Cronin has just reached a pinnacle of authorly success.”

As writers, we each define our own goals. (Susan Kushner Resnick wrote a great post on this on Beyond the Margins.)  For some, producing great writing is enough; others want that great writing validated by publication; a few achieve bestseller status and make a living as authors.

So I’m the only one who can say what the writer-equivalent is for me of that winner-take-all Trials.

And that’s what the results-oriented athlete still living within this writer’s body finds so difficult.  My eyes dart around me, ahead and behind, looking for that signpost.

I used to think my ultimate goal was publication, and that did feel like a great accomplishment.  But then I began sharing my story with readers.  Those readers then taught me something new, and that new idea grew into the inspiration for another book.  And now a previously unimagined sequel is almost complete.

Don’t get me wrong – I’ve joyfully celebrated every step of Oliver’s progress, from idea to writing to editing to publication, and yes even to marketing.  As I will celebrate and enjoy each and every step of the sequel.

But I’m still looking for that signpost.

What’s your signpost of success?

For most people, the line between work and play used to be very well-defined in both time and space.  Work:  9 to 5, at office.  Play:  the rest of the time, in the rest of life’s spaces.

Nowadays, we can keep track of our work from anywhere, and it’s easy to interact with other time zones —  eliminating the distinction between “work time” and “play time.”   And since more and more people are now working at home, or telecommuting, the whole spacial delineation of “going to work” has also become, well… blurry.

Bottom line?  The Flintstones’ “yabba-dabba-doo” five o’clock whistle doesn’t mean much to anyone anymore.

Which makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

For the past twenty years, the line between my work and my play has been a finger-painted colorful mess.  I don’t get paid to sail, but going to a regatta might lead to an exciting new client, blog post, article idea — or even all three.  Reading my favorite sailing magazine or browsing a regatta website can be justified career-wise just as much as (or some weeks, maybe more than) logging onto Redroom or Backspace.  Booksignings are fit in around regattas, conferences, or even that absolute rarity — a real vacation.

Wherever my work and play take me, the best is when they overlap.  I’m very lucky to have spliced together so many of my skills (writing, sailing, reading, editing, desktop publishing, photo editing, communication) into a multi-faceted career that actually pays the bills.  That spontaneous Tuesday afternoon adventure off-island might point me to the next story; so could the next well-planned regatta on the other side of the country.  Either could also produce nothing more than great memories.  But taking time for what I consider important keeps me fired up to work harder when I get back to my desk.

I received some sage advice from a friend when I first started out:  “It’s not a living — it’s a lifestyle.”  In other words, you may never get rich following your passion, but you’ll always be happy.  So far, she’s been right.  I’ve been racing sailboats around the world the last twenty years, and I’ve NEVER had to ask permission to take another week “off.”  My schedule is dictated (mostly) by me and the priorities I’ve established — not by someone else.

So welcome, newbies, to the challenging excitement of the blurred line between work and play!  May you enjoy taking responsibility for how your time is spent as much as I have, for the last two decades.

And now that I’m a published author, is it really okay to deduct all the novels I buy for pure pleasure?

My sister Nancy has a theory, or at least she did when we were growing up: that the world is quietly spinning faster with each passing year. That was how she explained the complaint of every grownup—that time goes by faster and faster, the older we get.

Much as I’d love for my sister to be wrong (sibling rivalry never dies), I’d really appreciate someone proving this particular theory. Wouldn’t it be great to have a scientific explanation for such a universal experience? And it makes sense: when we come into the world, we assume the current rate of spin is normal. As our globe twirls faster and faster, the next generation climbs on and self-adjusts to the accelerated rate—the new normal. And so on.

I was twelve when Nancy first explained this to me, two years younger than her older daughter is now.  In those days, waiting for the next Saturday was just one step short of sheer torture. A decade later, months went by at a reasonable clip. A decade after that, seasons began to change well before they dragged into dull. Last year, even winter seemed too short. And then a few days ago I realized—hey! Where did this first tenth of the 21st century GO?

One of the many reasons I enjoy losing myself in the pages of a good novel is that time often slows down. Sure, a good action scene goes by in a flash, eyes chasing forward across words and paragraphs to make sure a favorite character survives with no lasting scars. But a great writer can also slow time to a turtle crawl, allowing us the luxury of time to smell, taste, hear, and savor the world the writer has created. (And maybe as a result, better understand the time-pressured one in which we live.)

When I get lost in my own writing I can even reverse time, turning the clock back to a world that was gone long before I was born. I sniff a distant harbor, trim the luffing sails overhead, feel the bow plunging into waves bigger than I’ve ever imagined before. Even as I edit, I luxuriate in bringing to life a scene that, up until now, existed only inside my head. Did it really happen? Well, no. But could it have happened? That’s the important question.

The non-linear aspect of creative writing adds to this time warp. In order to tell the story I know is hiding within the first draft, I have to spend more time than can really be justified to figure out the best possible word or phrase. Does it need another scene, or one less piece of dialogue?  The only justification is the end result.  So the hard work of telling the story—the actual wordcraft—reinforces the time-stretching too.

Is it any wonder that the faster our world spins, the more people discover the luxury of writing and reading?

And this, for me, is why books will continue to be valued as we rush ahead into yet another decade. Whether we choose to read on recycled paper, on a screen large or small, or on some not-yet-invented substrate, the stories we experience on the biggest screen of all—the one between our ears—allow us to adjust the passage of time to our own preference.

Even if my sister’s theory isn’t true, that will be a real comfort in the shorter and shorter decades that lie ahead.

Update:  Listen to an NPR story on this same subject.

Last week, a really nice article appeared in the New London Day, about–of all things–me.  Back in the late nineteen hundreds I used to read the Day on an, ahem, “Daily” basis, as a student at Connecticut College.  So the story seemed somehow more significant than the others that have appeared in newspapers around the country.

The hook was last Saturday’s book signing at the Mystic Seaport bookstore.  Even after so many events this year (and a few in 2008), an invitation to the Seaport is a special honor.

Better yet, the article (entitled “Sailing into a Writing Career”) also cleared up a dilemma.  At book signings, the question from readers and fans that I struggle with the most is this: “How did you go from Olympic sailing to writing fiction?”  Whether they’ve come to meet the author of a story about a twelve year old and the Great Hurricane of 1938 or a 21st century Olympian, the juxtaposition of the two – in the same body – is confusing, even to me.  Someday I’ll write a book about going to the 2004 Games, but one thing’s for sure–Oliver’s Surprise ain’t it.

Thanks to journalist Kristina Dorsey (who has never met me), now I have the link between Olympic sailing and writing fiction: Self-motivation.

As I told Kristina on the phone, “Nobody is making me sit down to write fiction that may or may not be published.”  And nobody forced me to buy three boats, fundraise, find sponsorship and teammates, and go on the road 200 days a year for a very un-guaranteed reward.  Success at the top end of my chosen sport requires a great deal of personal sticktoitiveness, and I sure can’t justify it from the financial end.

Hmm, that sounds a lot like fiction writing.

Many of us put a lot of time and effort into things for which we don’t get paid.  Or at least, we don’t get paid ENOUGH to financially justify all that time and effort.  Most people call these things “hobbies.”  For better or worse, I’ve now taken two “hobbies” far beyond the usual scope of the word –and found success in both.  As one of my Jamestown acquaintances told me a year ago,  “It’s not fair that you got to go to the Olympics and now you’ve gotten a book published too!”  The least I could’ve done, she seemed to be suggesting, was get something published ABOUT my Olympic experience.  I’ve often thought that would’ve been easier; an obvious leap from sailing to writing.

How nice, then, to have a random reporter figure out that it’s the same aspect of my personality driving both forms of success.  Olympic sailing and fiction writing require the same thing:  A dogged devotion to craft that has nothing to do with making money, one that probably couldn’t survive within a (potentially more lucrative) 9 to 5 mentality.

I spent three hours at Mystic Seaport last Saturday, handing out bookmarks and chatting with visitors from all walks of life.  I sold twice the number of books expected and spoke with close to a hundred people–by far my biggest and best signing yet.  And even though I was wearing my booksigning uniform (the Team 2004 podium jacket), only two people asked about the Olympics–one because she’d read the newspaper article.  In that setting, I was simply the author of the book lying on the table between us.

Now that I finally have an answer to the question, are people going to stop asking?

Read the Day article

The Writer builds the story...

One of the most challenging aspects of being a writer, especially in today’s world,  is that we must wear at least three hats. First we don our Writer cap (a hard hat, of course) and construct a story that is original or funny or touching or, even better, all of the above.

...the Editor Within makes it better...

Once the creative side is complete (and only the Writer knows when that is), we unleash the Editor Within (EW).  Somehow I am picturing red and white Dr. Seuss stripes for EW’s hat: she’s so annoying, but she’s the only one who can finish the job, editing and forming and molding the first draft into a perfect collection of words.  Editing does for writing what an old friend says ketchup does for food:  It makes the bad stuff good and the good stuff better.  And it  is the only way to actually communicate the real story to someone who didn’t write it.

On the best days, the Writer and the EW work hand in hand and the story develops into something different, better than anything the Writer could have come up with on her own.   It wasn’t until I was deep into editing Oliver’s Surprise that I discovered the story wasn’t about a boy and his skiff (as I’d originally thought); it was about a boy and a schooner.  Only my EW could’ve figured that out.

Most of the time, the Writer wants to muzzle the Editor Within and lock her up in the attic.  It’s probably mutual.

The last hat we must all wear is that of Marketing Director. (This is the fashionable one of the group who actually looks great in hats, partly because they are perched on top of perfectly quaffed hair above a thin, elegant neck.)

...and the Marketing Director sends it out into the world.

All of us who are serious about writing, even if we’re living quite contentedly under a rock, must find a way to get our stories Out There and share them with the real world.  Selling stories is a completely different skill set from writing them, and it’s the last thing we thought we’d have to do when we set out to be writers. But it’s also one of the most important differences between writing for fun and writing as a career.

Literary Agent Rachelle Gardner has written an excellent blog post on Why You Should Help Sell Your Book.

Because these three skills are so different, it’s important to only wear one hat at any given time.  Otherwise the skills required by one will bleed into the other, and none of it will get done well.

As different as Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief, and we must do them all equally well.  How do you make the transition between the three hats?

“Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.” Stephen King, “On Writing”

It’s been a busy year since “Oliver’s Surprise” went to press.  Book signings, visits to book stores, meetings with the publisher, author blogs.  Best of all has been talking with so many kids and adults who’ve taken Oliver into their imaginations. He’s brought smiles to faces on near and distant shores, and I’m sure that will continue with the second edition.

Now, after a full year of revising, designing, marketing, and of course selling books, it’s back to writing: I’m working on a sequel.  On mornings when the sunshine and perfect temps are calling me to join them outside, I’m sitting down at my desk and trying to figure out What Happens Next.  Some days it’s worth the sacrifice, and the story line flows through my fingers onto the screen.  Some days I check my email way too often.  On the worst days, I give up before lunch and write a blog post instead.  One way or another, I’ll get this next story written.

What I’m learning is that after such an exciting period of diving into the nuts and bolts to get my book Out There, it’s simply impossible to rewind and write from that innocent place that created the first Oliver.  That’s even more the case since the first book wasn’t originally written to be published.

For that and many other reasons, the next book will be different.

I’m often disappointed by sequels.  I go looking for more about my favorite character, only to find s/he has moved or grown up or changed too much to be recognizable.  And yet I wouldn’t want to read exactly the same story all over again; that would be too much like a  “formula” book.  I always have the feeling that formula authors start with a plot outline  and just fill in the blanks next to the characters’ names.  Lucrative, for sure, since publishers are always looking for more than one book.  But that’s not what I’m after.

What I’m after is to write a BETTER book.  More depth, more details, more drama.  All that without (hopefully) ruining the quiet charm that so many liked about the original.  And the only way to do that is to close the door and just write, trusting the characters to show me the way forward.

So for the next few weeks or months I’m going to close the door, maybe setting a brick or two on the floor to keep it shut.  I’ll muzzle the editor within.  Send  the marketing director to an island resort with a faulty internet connection.  I’ll write what comes to mind, without thinking about how it fits into the creative arc or who’s going to buy this crap.  It’s the only way for me to figure out What Happens Next.

And for now, I’m keeping mum about any and all story details.  I have a direction and a plan, but I’m not completely sure yet what will come of it.  Only this morning, Oliver threw me another curve ball. We’ll get there, together, with him leading me most of the time.  Then and only then will I start editing, and find out what I really meant to say.

What is it that you like or don’t like about sequels?  How closely should they follow the original story?  Let me know what you think, and maybe your comments will spur my creative process.

Newly Installed Ceiling Fan

“…If you ever get annoyed
Look at me I’m self-employed
I love to work at nothing all day.” (lyrics from Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Taking Care of Business“)

We’ve all seen the commercials touting the benefits of the work-at-home, freelance life.  Though I don’t have any pink fuzzy bedroom slippers to knock together while on conference calls, I also don’t own any suits… unless you count the “bathing” variety.  After all, spending money on clothes that impress is completely unnecessary when I’m the only one in the office.

After fifteen years of working out of my home office, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. No one glares at me over the cubicle wall if I giggle on the phone with a friend in the middle of the day.  Best of all,  I set my own schedule, make my own list of priorities, and dodge the worst of office politics. And if a call comes in for canvas work… I accept.  I don’t have to limit myself to anything less than the entire crazy roster of my skills.

I’ve also learned to give myself some structure.  I start the day with a workout (biking, running, or this time of year, swimming) without worrying about what the timeclock will say when I punch in.  After a shower, I eat breakfast at my desk.  By the time I’m finished, I’ve usually caught up with the overnight accumulation of email and can start in on that day’s project.

I write better and ideas flow more easily in the morning, so I try to get any creative work out of the way first.  Afternoon is the time for sending out new quotes, researching background for stories, bookkeeping, and pounding the airwaves for new work.  When I’m focused on a job or excited about a pending project, nothing can distract me short of the house burning down.  On days (like today) when the sunshine and warm breeze make it hard to focus, I give in and  knock off a little early.  I’ve learned that I’ll make up the hours and do a better job by coming back to work after dinner or skipping the next lunchbreak.

The downside (and of course there is one) is that it’s hard to delineate work and what, for lack of a better term, I’ll call non-work.  This past holiday weekend was a perfect example.  Relaxing on our front porch on Saturday afternoon, a quick email check was only three steps away.   That of course led to just a little editing… and next thing I know, it’s dinner time.  I have to be careful to stay away from the desk and the computer on “off” days so that home is still a place to relax.

The good news is that I love what I do and how closely connected my work is to the rest of my life.  Though there’s a clear line between billable and not billable hours, there’s no way to put a price on an idea sparked by a magazine article I read while I’m actively avoiding my email.  And who knows what next book idea will come from an afternoon sail around the island?

Working at home isn’t for everyone, but for me it’s a luxury.  And best of all, when a call comes to go to a regatta… I go.  No boss is standing between me and my sailing, except, of course, the ultimate boss:  the bank account and how much is left in it.

Time to go for that sail and spark the next book idea.