Cold Realities

I just finished reading The Missing Place, by Sophie Littlefield, and I know it's going to stay with me. After so many decades of voracious reading, twenty-plus years in the book biz and a lifetime achievement award for book geekdom, I've read countless fabulously, well-written, totally engrossing books. I can't necessarily tell you exactly what it is about a given story that will ensure I keep thinking about it after turning the final page, but I always know when I'm reading one and The Missing Place is such a book. 

The cold, empty landscape of North Dakota is the perfect backdrop for Littlefield's tale that brings together two very different women and makes them unlikely allies. In fact, the harsh, desolate landscape of Lawton, ND is as much a character as rough-around-the-edges Shay and genteel, cashmere-clad Colleen. United by the pressing, panicked need to find their missing sons, Colleen and Shay navigate unfamiliar territory, dead ends and corporate bureaucracy as they search for their sons who disappeared from their jobs as workers on an oil rig. Littlefield has created complex characters that are at once sympathetic and bordering on unlikeable. Sharp, streetwise Shay is quick to judge and not shy about speaking her mind, and yet she insists Colleen share her tiny, rented motorhome moments after they meet. Privileged, well-heeled Colleen spends her first hours in Lawton in a daze, as if she cannot believe people live that way, and yet, she recognizes that Shay’s quick wit is the key to her survival.

As the women delve deeper into the mystery of their sons' disappearances, learn how far the oil company will go to keep secrets and discover their boys have secrets of their own, they begin to understand that their love for their sons and the need to discover the truth makes them far more alike than either is comfortable admitting. The Missing Place is not only a story of revenge and redemption, but also of confronting the realities of the self, especially those that may be at odds with what is seen in the mirror.

Paperback Writer

Book geek that I am, I still get a little thrill from meeting an author and getting an autographed book. I walked away from last month's NCIBA trade show with a nice stack, thanks to the author reception after the show. One of the writers I met that night, Sophie Littlefield, included a little note of encouragement with her signature, as my friend Cheri told her I'd written my first book. I fought the impulse to argue, to offer some sort of disclaimer, instead giving an uneasy smile. This woman is a real, published author. Proof of her craft was in my hand. My "book" is still just a word doc taking up space on my computer. Can I really call it a book? Ms. Littlefield told me she'd sent out over 80 pitches before she'd landed an agent and her first book wasn't published until she'd written another.

I wonder if she knows how far her saying "keep at it" went toward re-kindling the fire that got me to the end of my submission draft. I pushed hard, for a long time, to finish the first draft, then a second, and then another. Then, after a flurry of agent pitch letters, some that went unanswered, some that resulted in, "Thanks, but no thanks," and two that expressed a desire to see more of my work (but ultimately went nowhere), I just had to set the whole thing aside. I was tired of re-reading and fussing with it, tired of thinking about it, tired of reading about yet another "fool-proof" way to land a book deal. But something happened that night at the author reception. I looked around the room and told Cheri, that I wanted to sit in that room, next to a publisher rep (many of whom are friends) and sign copies of my book. "So make it happen," she said with a smile.

That's the plan. Authors must be their own marketers these days, and as much as I dislike marketing—I get quite enough of it in the day gig—if I really want this as much as I say I do...back to it I go. Coming up, more agent letters. Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? 

I'm so Tired

In in the midst of yet another retail holiday, I'm trying to balance left brain tasks (keeping track of the production schedule and managing the site change calendar) with right brain (writing copy and creative for graphics). Rapidly switching between the two can be challenging on a good day. On a crazy-busy day full of executives changing direction and mindset it can feel nearly impossible. My brain (both sides) is tired. I needed to write some email copy yesterday morning and I had nothing. Not a great state to find myself in at the beginning of November.

After years in marketing, I'm mostly used to trying to be creative on demand and fit into given parameters. A unique, compelling email subject line in 36 characters or less? Okay. Headlines for site graphics, six words maximum? No problem. But I'm going to be grammatically correct if it kills me, and yes, it does matter. A boss I worked for years ago liked to tell me, "This is advertising, not English class." Um, okay...but I'm not going to perpetuate any word crimes just because everyone else does. My current pet peeve is the overuse of "gift" as a verb, as in "holiday gifting." Really? My boss wanted me to use the word in that context in an email subject line the other day. I told him it would cost him and I wasn't kidding.

As I was pondering why I care, and wondering why I can't just churn out mediocre copy about products I'm not emotionally attached to, I remembered a story I heard on NPR a few years ago about a technical writer who had just won a national poetry prize, in the first contest she'd entered. The interviewer wondered how a technical writer had come to be a poet and asked if it was difficult to go back to a cut and dried tech piece after writing a poem. The writer's response has stayed with me: "You have to engage your audience no matter what you’re writing." Oh. And duh. It doesn't matter what I'm writing about, or who is (or isn't) going to read it. I just need to work my craft and keep getting better at it.