Spam: Mystery meat and a surprising folder

I remember when Spam was just this mysterious meat product from Hormel. It came in a can and it had this weird gelatinous layer on top. I pretty much left it alone.

But now spam has a whole new meaning - it's that annoying junk mail people send you - you know, offers from a prince in Nigeria to share his bank account, a new sex device from Canada, and lots and lots of promotions.

I have a spam folder in my e-mail - I usually leave that alone, too. I mean ... it's spam, right?

Kind of. But today, at work, I realized it was really full of mail. Out of curiosity, I clicked on it.

Ohhhhh Noooooo!!

Here's a surprise: Non-spam stuff sneaks in there, too. I had a letter from a former colleague (I was wondering why he didn't respond!!) and two, count em, two queries from book bloggers who were interested in reviewing my book.

Luckily, they weren't terribly dated, and I could still respond. But it gave me a nasty start.

So I learned two things today: Check every folder in your e-mail. And don't screech loudly at work. People tend to stare.

You're not just a writer, you're Writer, Inc.

It used to be pretty easy to pigeonhole ourselves professionally. He's a plumber, she's a dancer, I'm a writer.

It's not so simple anymore. The plumber has to be an accountant; the dancer is a nutritionist, and the writer... well, the writer has to be an entrepreneur.

I don't think it matters whether you have a high-powered agent or if you're going it alone. Writers today just don't have the luxury to sit in their garrets and polish their prose.

I thought they could - or, at least I could - for a long time. Then I met Susannah. Susannah is a high-powered exec in my building. She has sleek hair, wears tailored suits and is surgically attached to her Blackberry. On the surface, we have little in common.

I met Susannah during one of the endless rounds of meetings we both attend - she as a manager, me as a minion. I discovered she was funny, smart and a voracious reader. She found out I was an author. She bought my book, and she liked it.

And in her spare time, she gave me advice. You're a business, she told me - develop your product. Market yourself.

Me? What? The artist in me rebelled ... but my ego understood. So I listened. She told me about brands, about customers, about what works and what doesn't (This post, for instance? Waaaay too long).

Changing my perspective has helped immensely. My stories are the same, sure. But now the author thinks more like Majeske, Inc.

From newspaper to novel is quite a change

I was a newspaper reporter for years. I was assigned stories (or better yet, thought of my own). I interviewed sources, taking notes and developing my own quick-write shorthand. Then I wrote up my story and turned it in.

It was edited by the copy desk, and it was usually published the next day. And that was that. It was very quick, and the process was fairly simple.

Oh, sure, we scheduled photos, and sometimes there were snags. Other times, there were big projects that took weeks, even months, but usually, things were very fast-paced. We had a daily product to fill, after all.

I longed for the days when I could write my own stories, with my own characters. I'd build my own worlds, create my own dialogue, set my own twisty-turny plots.

Now I'm doing it. And you know what? It's ... hard. Anyone who writes fiction will likely agree with me. I'm realizing, belatedly, that it's much easier when your story is laid out in front of you, when your quotes are given to you, and when your characters are standing right in front of you. Starting with a blank slate is freeing, yes, but a bit overwhelming, too.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining. I still love it. But it's a change that has definitely taken a little getting used to.

So close ... to fame on Amazon

For just a few minutes there, I was almost famous. I was so close.

See, I called up Death on Deadline on its Amazon page to see if I had any more reviews posted (I have a few pending) and my jaw dropped in amazement.

There, right by MY book, my hard-scrabble indie little baby, was an Amazon seal of approval. YES! It was right there! It was GOLD! And it said "Best of 2011 So Far." Really? Seriously?

I did my traditional seated happy dance, but it wasn't enough. I almost got up to do my standing-up happy dance when I stopped. Wait a minute. There was a little box around the seal. Like ... maybe ... it didn't go with my book. Like ... maybe ... it was just kind of a misleading little ad. Misleading in my favor, sure, but still.

I looked closer and read the small print. Oh. It was just an ad for Kindle books in general. More expensive Kindle books by traditionally published authors. Dang it.

I suddenly flashed back to junior high school, to walking down the hallway to algebra class. "Hey," I hear. I see the most gorgeous basketball star ever to walk the halls of Benjamin Franklin Junior High flashing his trademark grin and walking over to me. Me? The big nerd? I stop in my tracks, swallow hard and smile back tentatively. I keep smiling, too, as he walks past me to link arms with the gymnastics star standing right behind me.

Dang it. I was so close.

Finished your book? Start the next one!

I had a terrifying question asked of me the other day. Oh, it didn't start out scary. It just ended that way.

"Hey, I liked your book," read a comment in my e-mail. I did a little happy dance in my chair. "What's America doing next?"

America is America Miles, the protagonist in Death on Deadline. And right now, she's waiting on me.

And it's all my fault.

I should have listened to my husband. He told me months ago - right after I published Death on Deadline - that I needed to start working on my next book. I just shrugged. And glared.

"I will, I will," I told him. "I JUST finished. That's like asking a new mom when she's having another baby."

Geez. How rude.

Well, I hate to admit it (because wives are always right, of course) but he wasn't rude. He was right. I should have been writing.

Because now I'm late. And my fingers are flying double-time. So don't wait. And don't be offended. Just write.

It's writer mom vs. kids this summer

There are two camps in my household these days. One camp is trying to finish a book and is on a self-imposed deadline. The other camp is on summer vacation and has no deadlines whatsoever.

The camps are not particularly compatible.

One camp is trying to create compelling, creative prose. The other camp is tearing apart the basement looking for Spongebob goggles that may or may not actually exist.

The first camp is doing her best to create a humorous book of essays, knowing that humor is a delicate, subjective topic that must be crafted with just the right amount of tact and dignity. The second camp is learning to do cartwheels in the living room and shouting things like "Lookit mom!!lookit mom!!lookit mom!!lookit mom!!"

The first camp is realizing why famous writers of old often turned to the bottle or ran away to desert islands to think. And while she won't do either of these things, she also is realizing that deadlines are flexible and kids are only kids once.

The first camp is waving the white flag. The second camp is just wondering why there aren't more Doritos in the house.

Seriously - can marketing yourself be fun?

At the end of an email the other day, a potential reviewer wished me well on my book sales. "Isn't it fun?" he added.

All day, I couldn't stop thinking about his comment.

Fun? Seriously? We're talking self-publishing, right? You know - selling books, getting reviews, developing your brand, all that. It's marketing, and that's necessary. But fun?

Writing is fun for me. Creating a story, building a new world, finding those twists and turns that keep readers spellbound - now that's fun. Marketing ... well, fun wouldn't be the first word I use to describe it. But I'm starting to wonder if I'm judging too hastily.

Are there others out there who have as much fun with marketing as I do with writing? Is there a way to have the best of both worlds? Maybe it's just a change of perspective. Maybe it's more. Either way, I think it's time to find out.