rabbi.author

YOU’RE DONE WRITING – NOW WHAT?

July 3, 2012

Please join Jon Gibbs (moderator), Alice DiNizo, Neal Levin and me – all three of us published authors and members of the New Jersey Authors Network – this Thursday evening, July 5, 7:00 PM at the Howell Public Library (318 Old Tavern Road, Howell, NJ 07731). The topic isFrom Thoughts to Print: Getting Published in the 21st Century, and we’ll be discussing “different approaches to writing, getting published, and the various options available to writers in today’s market.”

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A BIG BALL OF WIBBLY WOBBLY TIME-Y WIMEY STUFF

June 11, 2012

“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint – it’s more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly… time-y wimey… stuff.” – The Doctor (in “Blink,” one of the creepiest episodes ever of Doctor Who)

So, what does time have to do with writing? Looking at blog entries, discussion threads, social media postings, and emails I’ve received the past few weeks, everything.

The writers of these blogs, participants in discussions, posters on social media sites, and senders of emails wonder how authors manage to keep up with their own blogs; post on others’ blogs; edit their about-to-be-published books; market their already-published books, whether through real or virtual interviews, readings, signings, conferences, social media postings; and still produce a book (or more) a year.

I share their puzzlement.

I would love to be able to say that the only ones who can juggle their time so effectively and efficiently are single, child-free, and either independently wealthy or have received seven-figure advances that free them from the necessity of a day job. But I can’t say it, because it’s not true. Many have kids, spouses, day jobs, hobbies, lives, and still manage to accomplish all the tasks described in the second paragraph.

All the advice – get up early, stay up late, always carry a notebook and pen to jot down ideas, keep a time log so you can schedule writing time in between Game of Thrones and reruns of M*A*S*H – sound great on paper, but . . . ah, yes, the ever-present “but.”

The only butt around here is the one I’m sitting on while watching (and reading) Game of Thrones and reruns of M*A*S*H.

I have spent almost four weeks on above-mentioned butt, nursing a bum knee following arthroscopic surgery to repair a torn meniscus. On sick leave. No carpool duties. No housework (not that I ever do it anyway). No errands. Plenty of time to catch up on TiVo and DVDs and books and writing. And I did three of the four. What didn’t I do? Write.

I’ve no excuse. My laptop (despite a balky touchpad), fingers, brain, and imagination were all in working order. They didn’t wince every time I took a step. So why didn’t I take advantage of my free time?

Actually, I’ve lots of excuses: brain fog from pain killers, difficulty sleeping, post-op fatigue, it’s hard to concentrate on my writing when I’m at home. But they’re just excuses, and not very good ones. I took pain killers for 3 days. I’m sleeping better, not to mention falling asleep on the couch. The op was a month ago. And I was cleared to drive ten days ago (and, in fact, am currently sitting in Starbucks).

It’s trite to say that if you want something done, give it to the busiest person you know. It’s trite because it’s repeated so often. It’s repeated so often because it’s true. There is something energizing about being busy, and enervating about doing nothing.

So, my self-prescribed solution: get busy. Finish that book about Chanukah trivia. Stop rewriting the opening pages of Yom Killer and start writing the following chapters. Organize all the potential marketing sources for Unleavened Dead. Click the links on all those archived blogs and add comments. Actually develop all those ideas I have for this blog.

And I will do all of those things. After a nap.

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http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/may/24/self-published-author-earnings?CMP=twt_fdhttp://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/may/24/self-published-author-earnings?CMP=twt_fd

SOBERING VIEW OF SELF-PUBLISHING

May 29, 2012

I recently read this article, sent by another member of the New Jersey Author’s Network. It’s a rather sobering view of the realities of self-publishing. I’ve never made any big bucks from my books (although I did get a nice advance from Adams Media for Talk Dirty Yiddish), but I’m still grateful to Swimming Kangaroo and now to Oak Tree Press for taking a chance on me. I’m particularly relieved not to have to try to do the formatting for Kindle and Nook!

Read and discuss!

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IT’S OFFICIAL!

April 16, 2012

I have received a contract from Oak Tree Press to publish the 2nd Rabbi Aviva Cohen Mystery, Unleavened Dead! Publicaton date to be announced. Keep watching this space for further news.

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YOUR CHANCE TO “BUY IMMORTALITY”

April 15, 2012

Do you dream of immortality? I can’t guarantee you’ll live forever, but your name can, or at least as long as people read, in the third Rabbi Aviva Cohen mystery Yom Killer. And it’s tax deductible, too.

As part of Congregation Beth Tikvah’s fundraising auction, I’m offering chances to purchase naming rights to characters. Prices range from $18-$72, depending on how major the character is. I’m also auctioning off the rights to name the villain.

Check out “You Name It” and all the other great goods and services on http://www.32auctions.com/organizations/3415/auctions/3806?page=1

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Aviva cleans her fridge for Pesach (and chats with her sister)

April 2, 2012

In honor of Pesach, beginning at sundown this Friday, I am reposting a part of a chapter from Unleavened Dead, the second Rabbi Aviva Cohen mystery. I wish the description of the leftovers in her fridge were more fictional.

To my Jewish readers, a zissen Pesach, and an easy clean. And to those of you who celebrate Easter or the Vernal Equinox instead, save some chocolate-covered marshmallow Peeps for me until after Pesach.

I closed the freezer door, and as I opened the lower one to the refrigerator, I hit the speed dial for Jean’s number. “Hello?” her deceptively sweet voice greeted me.

“Hey, Jean. It’s me, returning your call. What’s new?”

“Why, yes, thank, you, I am feeling fine. So nice of you to deign to call. Do you have any idea how many hours ago I left the message? And why do you call only after I call first?”

“I’m always afraid you’ll collapse from shock if I make the first call. And I called as soon as I could.” I was fibbing again. “I was at a conference in Philadelphia all day and just got home.” This time I crossed my fingers and held my hand behind my back. Somehow, my sister always made me feel like a pesky six-year-old kid again. Which I’m sure was exactly how she still thought of me.

“Hmm, yes, well, be that as it may. I just wanted to let you know I’ve changed my travel plans, so you don’t have to pick me up at the airport.”

I was supposed to pick her up at the airport? Someone forgot to tell me. I bet that was the important, gleeful news Trudy had for me – I was appointed to meet her mother instead of her. No wonder Trudy was going to ply me with food first.

Jean continued, “I was going to fly to Philadelphia, then drive back to Boston with Larry to spend some more time with him and my grandchildren and, of course, Mom, and then fly home from Boston. But now I’ve decided to fly both ways from Boston so I can have a few days there before I come for the Seder and then spend the rest of the week with them. And even with the fee for changing the tickets, it’s still cheaper to travel to and from the same airport. Did you know Mom’s not coming to Trudy’s?”

“Yeah, Mom told me last time I spoke with her that she wasn’t up for the long drive. I feel terrible about it. I haven’t seen her since December and I’m not sure when I’ll get there again.”

“Don’t you get a spring break?”

“No, Jean, I live in a university town, but I don’t work on a school schedule. In fact, I’m busier than ever this week – regular services Friday night and Saturday morning, a wedding Sunday afternoon, Pesach services Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, then Shabbat again the following Friday night and Saturday morning, and Pesach services again Sunday and Monday mornings. Plus the community Seder on Tuesday night. And in the meantime, I’m trying to clear out my fridge before the cleaning service comes on Friday.”

“You complain you can’t afford to visit me, but you have the money for a cleaning service?”

I tried, I really did, not to get exasperated. You’d think I’d be used to her after all these years. “I’ve told you before, it’s not the money, but my schedule. You know my work time is other people’s leisure time.”

“You have the month of July off. Visit me then. Believe me, we have air conditioning.”

“I’ll think about it when they figure out how to air condition the outdoors. Oh, yuck.”

“What?”

“I’m clearing out the fridge and just opened a container. I’m not sure what it was in its former life, but I think I may be brewing a cure for cancer.”

“Why am I not surprised? Your room always was a dump. I’m not sure why the EPA didn’t declare it a toxic waste site.”

“Probably because that was forty-five years ago, before there was an EPA.” I wasn’t sure about my facts, but reasoned that she didn’t know either. I was right, as she didn’t challenge me.

“And I suppose you’re going to spend your money eating out instead of at home the rest of the week. Why are you cleaning so early? You always waited till the last minute. If you bothered at all.”

“I always clean for Pesach. And I told you, the cleaners are coming on Friday. Tomorrow is the closing banquet for the conference, Wednesday night I’m going to Trudy’s for dinner, and Thursday I’m meeting Steve for dinner.” I mentally kicked myself as I said that last bit.

“Steve? Steve Goldfarb? Your ex? Are you seeing each other? It’s been over a year since his wife died, so he’s done mourning. Now’s your chance. I always liked Steve.”

No you didn’t. But I saw no point in reminding her that she thought I was jumping into marriage with Steve too soon after the breakup of a long-term relationship I’d had with a pseudo-hippie/organic gardener who later made a fortune when he sold his flash-frozen organic vegetable company to a mega-corporation and now owned one of the most successful organic Kosher wineries in California. And I especially didn’t want to remind her that her hesitation about our marriage proved to be right.

“No, we’re not seeing each other, as in ‘seeing each other.’ It’s just a friendly meal.”

“I wish you’d stop having boy friends and find a boyfriend.”

“I’m happy by myself. After all, who would put up with me and my schedule? And I didn’t notice you running out to find someone after Harold died.”

“That was different. Do you know the ratio of single women to men in my age bracket down here? It must be ten-to-one. And I was much older than you were when you and Keith divorced. Now that was a good catch. I can’t believe you let him go.”

You didn’t think my second husband Keith Rubenstein was such a good catch when we first married and he worked at a poverty law center; you didn’t like him until he became a big bucks corporate drone. “It wasn’t working, Jean. We wanted different things out of life. He wanted an accessory and I wanted a partner. Oh, double yuck.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know. I think it’s a new life form. It just winked at me. Listen, I’ll see you soon. I really have to concentrate on this refrigerator. I’m not sure, but I think some old pickles just spoke to me.”

“How can pickles go bad? They’re already preserved in vinegar.”

“I don’t know, maybe they hung out in with a rough crowd of slimy lettuce. Give my love to Mom.”

“And to Larry?”

“Of course, to Larry, and to Karen. And to the kids. Are they coming, too?”

I already knew the answer. My nephew’s kids were in college and unlikely to take off from classes on a weekday, especially to travel to South Jersey from New England. “No, they already had spring break. They’re staying at their colleges for the holiday. But they promised to look in on their great grandmother. Such nice boys.” Unspoken were the words, “Unlike Josh,” who, to be fair, was only eight and she’d only gotten to know him for the past year or so. But, to be fair to Jean, something I seldom am, Josh is what is known as a “high maintenance” child.

“Well, give my love to all. See you soon.”

I finally could give all my concentration to the refrigerator. It was even worse than I thought. After dumping all the unidentifiable objects, I kept a couple of containers of yogurt, a jar of peanut butter, and some milk not yet past its sell-by date so I’d be able to eat at least something at home the next few days. By the time I’d emptied tins half-filled with green tuna, bottles of fuzzy tomato sauce, and jars of mutated olives into the garbage disposal, my recycling bin was overflowing with glass and metal. Some of the leftovers got thrown out directly into the trash, along with their storage containers; I was afraid I’d unleash poison gases if I opened them. I turned on the lights in the rooms facing the back of the house and opened the shades so I could find my way through the dark backyard to the composter, where I added the fruits and vegetables that had begun to morph into creatures that any director of horror films would love to use. Everything else went into giant black plastic trash bags, which I dragged to the curb and added to the trashcan. Being green has its limits, and if I hadn’t gotten that stuff out of the house, I would have been turning a very unflattering shade of green.

The non-perishables would take more time, so I’d save them for another day. I’d have to sort out the opened and unopened containers, bringing the former to a food bank and storing the latter in the garage. The peanut butter in the fridge would get mixed with some corn meal and flour and remnants of trail mix and then frozen until I put it out for the birds.

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SPRING HAS SPRUNG – EARLY

March 24, 2012

As my former classmates at Simmons College back in the late ‘60s may recall, this is the time of year when I would wander around the quad declaiming, in a loud voice, the immortal words of that well-known poet Ann Ona Muss:

Spring has sprung.

The grass has riz.

I wonder where da boidie is.

Some say da boid is on the wing,

But dat’s absoid.

Everyone knows da wing is on da boid.

And I’m not even from the Bronx.

Here in South Jersey, spring has definitely sprung, several weeks early. I was picking up supplies at a local wild bird store today, when the temperature was near 80, and found out that someone in my town had already seen a ruby-throated hummingbird – almost a month earlier than usual. I usually put out the sugar water feeders on April 15. I was thinking about doing it this year on April 1. Now I’m going to do it tomorrow, March 24.

The hummers probably won’t show up in my yard until later in the summer, after the trumpet vine blooms. What’s left of the trumpet vine, that is, after most of it was torn out when we had to replace our old fence, which was being held together by trumpet vines and bird droppings. But we did have two hummers most of last summer, and they tend to return to the same feeders every year, so I want to make sure I’m ready for them if they come back early.

I have to keep reminding myself we still have to get through another week of March and half of April before we can be fairly certain it won’t snow. And our official frost-free date isn’t until May 15, although I don’t recall a frost after mid-April for the past few years, a recollection confirmed by a Google search. It’s hard to think about the possibility of snow, though, when walking around outdoors in sandals in March.

There’s a downside to all this nice weather, though. Just talk to any owner of a ski resort or a snow removal company or a hardware store that stocks ice scrapers and sleds. I doubt they’re happy about this past winter.

And neither are the farmers. They are worried that fruit plants that are blooming too early – peaches and strawberries, for example – will suffer if there is a frost. And it is sad to see the magnificent blooms on a magnolia tree turn black overnight when the temperatures drop.

Farmers – and those of us susceptible to bug bites – are concerned, too, that insects whose numbers are controlled by their dying off over the winter have been enjoying the mild weather as much as we humans, meaning we may have a bumper crop not of plums but of mosquitoes and cabbage loopers and grubs and root worms and brown marmorated stinkbugs and ants and termites and ticks and . . . well, you get the idea. And I’ll get the calamine lotion.

Is this winter a precursor of things to come? Is it evidence of climate change, or just a weather glitch? We won’t know for several more years. But in the meantime, I plan to enjoy every minute of it, even this weekend, when it’s going to rain and be in the 50s. But at least we don’t have to shovel rain.

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NATURE

A QUERY LETTER IN THE SPIRIT OF PURIM

March 8, 2012

(TO VIEW THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS “LETTER,” CLICK ON: http://www.cncbooks.com/blog/2012/03/06/an-age-old-dilemma/)

Thank you for your interest in the manuscript of my first novel, Starlight Shines on Starlight Manor Nursing Home. You have asked me for a market proposal. I thought it was the publisher’s job to distribute the books. But I tried anyway. I took the nursing home bus when it made its weekly run to the supermarket – my aide usually buys me my supply of Ensure – and I talked to the manager, but he said they do not sell books.

I promise you that my family, my fellow nursing home residents, and the staff will buy the book. They know I have named all the characters after them.

My great grandson said I need to learn to use a computer. He is the one who “scanned” (he said it was like teletype) the typewritten manuscript (I even used an electric typewriter!) to send to you electronically. He did show me how to turn on the computer, and he even set up an “email account” for me, but until I have my cataract surgery, it is too hard for me to sit in front of the glowing screen. I even find it hard to watch my favorite soap operas most afternoons. I am dictating this letter and he is typing it into the computer for me.

By the time the book is published, I will have had both knees and hips replaced, and will be able to walk by myself to the refrigerator for the food to attach to my feeding tube. I might have to delay the orthopedic surgeries, though, until I recuperate from the heart bypass surgery. I am not sure I will be able to travel by airplane to appear on Oprah or The View, as I doubt oxygen tanks can be taken on airplanes. But, do not worry, I have all my wits and all my own teeth, and, at 97, can play a mean game of whee bowling while seated in my wheel chair.

I always thought it would be fun to write a book. What a wonderful hobby for a retiree!

I look forward to hearing from you again, but you will have to send me a message by regular mail. My great grandson is going back to college, and I am afraid if I try to turn on the “email” by myself, I will “crash the internet.” I don’t know what that means, but I remember when Wall Street crashed back in ’29, so it cannot be good.

Sincerely yours, Mrs. Penelope Snoodle

Proud widow of the late Wilfred Snoodle III

Author of Starlight Shines on Starlight Manor Nursing Home

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TRAVEL TRAVAILS

March 4, 2012

It is obvious to me that car rental agencies did not run focus groups before deciding that instead of taking shuttle buses to and from the airports to remote locations to pick up and return cars, customers would now walk interminable distances, with their luggage, to pick up and return cars from the airport parking lots. The procedure may be more efficient for the companies, but are a pain in the butt for those of us who rent cars. At least shuttle buses would drop us off in front of the terminal, where we could check our bags at the curb and go right to security. Now, in addition to the aforementioned walk, we have to wait in line (even if we have printed out our boarding passes) in order to check our luggage.

I know I could use carry-on bags only, and often see fellow passengers get on board the planes with bags larger than the one I checked. But I am, I admit it, short, and shrinking as we speak (in height, not width). There is no way I can lift a suitcase over my head into one of those compartments, and I’m too proud to ask for help. (The exception being when my tires need to be inflated; then I’m willing to play the helpless middle aged lady card.) My one carry-on bag – a soft-side duffle on wheels, containing my meds, jewelry, laptop, and magazines for when the plane is taking off and landing and I can’t use my Kindle, fits under the seat of almost every airline I’ve flown.

In addition to the indignity of having to walk with my bags 20 miles in the snow, barefooted (subjective opinion), to wait in line, I was 10 minutes from the airport, looking for a non-gouging gas station (the pumps at first one I found were off-line; fortunately, the next one was only three miles away), when I got a notification that my flight had been delayed for 2+ hours.

So here I sit in the airport, still a half hour before the original departing time, wondering why I travel.

I love going to new places. I hate the process of getting there and returning.

There were good things about the travel process, though. The free apps I downloaded to my iPhone 4S were one. MapQuest works as well as the GPS Gary uses; even the voice is the same, although “she” doesn’t sound too petulant when I refuse to follow the route plotted for me. GasBuddy, which I’ve had for a while, was fairly accurate, although it once insisted a gas station that was .4 miles away was 60 miles; I think I had forgotten to change my location. Unfortunately, BirdsEye Lite, which lists bird sightings and sites, kept crashing. I’ve sent an email to their tech support before deciding if I should buy the full version. But it worked well enough to point me toward a wildlife refuge only a few miles from my hotel (and on the same street as a Kosher restaurant; that location didn’t come from any app, though – a van with the name of the restaurant passed me when I was heading toward the refuge, and I googled it). Flight View was great and sent me a text when my flight was delayed. I’m not sure how well Trip Advisor would have worked because I forgot I had it.

The best things about the trip, of course, were seeing my parents and aunt, and talking on the phone for an hour-and-a-half with an old friend (which, in these days of cell phones, we could do any time); getting in some terrific birding and visiting two places, Corkscrew Swamp and Ding Darling NWR, I’ve long wanted to see; and being at Sleuthfest, where I renewed old acquaintances and made new ones.

So despite the wait here at the airport, the trip was worth it. But I do wish someone would invent a Star Trek, or even a Blake’s 7, transporter already. Beam me home, Scotty.

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Personal Reflection