I’m not gonna lie.  I don’t like anniversaries or birthdays or anything else that makes me realize how fast a year has gone by.  I usually try to celebrate with something totally anticlimactic.  You know, leftovers and some cheap beer, Gilligan’s Island reruns.

I mention this because exactly one year ago, I published my first novel, DEATH BY SARCASM, to the Kindle Store.  And going  against Standard Operating Procedure, I did two things to celebrate.  One, I bought a Ruger New Vaquero  .45 in Stainless Steel with a 4.62” barrel.  Here’s a picture of it.

The second thing I did was jot down a few trivial musings that occurred to me.  Not really lessons, just some random observations.

Hungover in Vegas is not the time to proofread a book.

Shocking news, I know.  Picture this:  I had just been laid off from my day job.  After a few weeks of job searching, I landed a three-week freelance gig at an ad agency in Las Vegas.  They put me up in their corporate condo.

I was a bit of an emotional wreck.   I would put in my day at the agency, not doing much, frankly.  And then I would go back to the condo, open the sliding glass doors to a nice balcony and start drinking.

However, I had already made the decision to publish the book to the Amazon store.  And on one of my first days in Vegas, I received the file from my formatter.

So, whenever I was sober, I did the proofing.  Of course at that point, being sober meant I was also hungover.

Nonetheless, I dutifully did a final proofread in a frame of mind made up in equal parts of depression, anxiety, and an alcohol-induced haze.  I did not do a good job.  For one thing, the manuscript had already been proofed by myself, my editor and my agent (with whom I had already parted ways.)

And  I fully expected to sell no more than FIVE copies of the book.  I am dead serious.  I figured five at the most.

So, off my corrections went.

Then the first few reviews came in mentioning typos.

Lesson learned.

I now employ not one, but two professional proofreaders.

I love them with all of my heart.

Anonymity and The Milgram Experiment.

I’ll admit, this is a bit of a stretch.  If you recall, the Milgram Experiment posited that a person “comes to view themselves as the instrument for carrying out another person’s wishes, and they therefore no longer see themselves as responsible for their actions.”

Because I write eBooks that are sold via the Internet, there is much opportunity for people to participate in the process anonymously.  Maybe with a review under an assumed identity.  Or maybe you’re a competing author and decide to slap your name and your book titles all over my product pages via the ‘Customer Tags’ mechanism.

Anonymity is a weapon.  And everyone has a different view on how to use it.  I personally think some people come to believe that their anonymous creations are totally separate from themselves.  Therefore, they’re not responsible.

Whatever.   Like so much in life, it does you no good to worry about someone else’s decisions.  They’re the ones who have to live with their choices.

I’m just busy trying to write the best books I can.

The importance of being a real writer.

I used to be amazed by the absolute snobbishness and vitriol displayed by literary fiction writers when they deigned to comment on “genre” writers.   Basically, these supremely intelligent writers felt that crime novelists, romance writers, and horror authors weren’t “real” writers.

Of course, the genre writers  responded with gleeful ferocity that literary novels are “people we don’t care about doing things that aren’t interesting” or something along those lines.

Then along came the ability for writers to quite easily self-publish and sell their books on Amazon.

Now, all traditional authors (and everyone who wants to be traditionally published) rose up in arms and said these self-publishers aren’t “real” writers.

Many people have a fundamental need to locate their place in a hierarchy.   And the higher they can place themselves in that hierarchy, the better they  feel about themselves.

Again, whatever.  I once worked at a small ad agency about an hour north of Milwaukee.  The owner decided to hire people from Milwaukee agencies, who proceeded to make the hour drive every day.  Well, this group naturally looked down on the people from the smaller town.   Mocking them for being “hicks.”  And then one day, the owner hired a person from Chicago, who then came in and mocked the Milwaukee folks for being beer drinking, cheese-eating hillbillies.

You get the idea.

I keep in mind that Bob Dylan liked to think of himself as a “guitarist.”

I just try to write the best books I can.

Everyone doesn’t have to like me.

Have you ever seen the Seinfeld episode?  The one where George can’t stand that someone doesn’t like him.  Jerry asks, “Does everyone HAVE to like you?”  And George replies, “YES!  YES!  EVERYONE HAS TO LIKE ME.”

Who doesn’t feel that way?  I had a reader give me her opinion and then tell me in slightly ominous tones that I “had better take her advice.”  Another reader told me that if I didn’t clean up my language, he would have to find a new author.

Well, any successful writer will tell you the same thing:  you can’t write a book for someone else.  You have to write it for yourself.

If it makes me laugh.  If it gets my heart racing.  If the character is someone I enjoy spending time with, then it goes in the book.

I don’t know if people will like it or not.

I’m just doing the best job I can.

Readers and fellow writers

This may have been the biggest surprise of all.  I’ve met, collaborated with, and exchanged thoughts and ideas with some tremendously talented writers.  And I’m not talking about the typical, phony, “Oh good for you!” fake-isms.  No, I mean the genuine, honest exchange of encouragement and support we give each other.   And I’m pretty damn cynical.

Fan mail from readers?  Are you serious?  I was sure the first one was a fluke.  I figured she was a deranged, drug-addled mental patient who’d somehow gotten access to the Internet.   But then I got some more.

It’s unbelievable.  They don’t care if my book was free, 99 cents or $2.99.  They could care less if I was published by Random House or Phil’s Bait Shop.  They actually take the time to write me and tell me they liked my story, or my character, or a certain line of dialogue.

I still become slightly flummoxed when I get one.

And I’m pretty damn cynical.

I love writing.

Fuck yes it’s fun to make money.  But I love writing.  You know why?   Because it makes life so much more interesting.  Everything, and I mean everything, is grist for the mill.  No experience, no matter how mundane, vile or seemingly innocuous, is left out of the hopper.  It all goes in.  And that fascinates me.

That first draft is agonizing, no doubt.  The editing and the polishing are much more palatable.   Would I rather be fishing on the flats in Florida?  You bet your sweet buttocks, baby.  For awhile.  But eventually, I would get an idea that intrigued me.  That challenged me.  That made me wonder if I could bring it to life and turn it into a great story.

That’s why I will always keep writing, and why I will always keep writing the best books I can write.

Plus, now I keep my .45 next to my laptop.

Anniversaries can be so sentimental.

If you’d like to stay up-to-date with all of the latest books, offers, special discounts and giveaways, please stop by and LIKE my author page over on Facebook.  Here’s the link!

And thanks, as always, for your support!

Dani Amore Facebook Author Page

A retired FBI profiler uncovers THE KILLING LEAGUE, a competition among active serial killers to prove who is the greatest killer, and learns that he and a woman whose life he saved are the grand prize.

EARLY REVIEWS:

“Move over James Patterson, Dani Amore has arrived.”  Fans of James Patterson will jump for joy when they read THE KILLING LEAGUE by Dani Amore.  It moves at breakneck speed with sharply drawn characters in a plot that is absolutely riveting. The villains are horribly evil, and the heroes are real people you care about.  It’s a cliffhanging, white-knuckled, red-hot thriller by an astonishing new talent.” –R.Mullens for Amazon.com

“Dani Amore writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. She brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre she chooses. This lady is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for her.” –J.D. Rhoades, best-selling author of Gallows Pole

“Amore is definitely one to watch.” — Edgar-nominated author Craig McDonald

“Dani Amore’s writing reminds me of the great thriller writers — lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –author Robert Gregory Browne

Being labeled the writer in the family has its advantages and disadvantages.  The biggest plus is the latitude it gives you in questionable behavior at family gatherings.  Maybe some off-color remarks or overindulging in Uncle Tony’s limitless supply of homemade wine.  If any objection is stated, my family has learned to respond with, “Well, she’s a writer you know.  Writers are crazy.”

The disadvantage is the never-ending requests for writing assistance.  Everything from holiday cards to letters to attorneys to an acceptance speech at the Bridge Club.

However, occasionally we “writers of the family” get ourselves into trouble.  In my case, when I first heard the story of how my mother’s home in Italy was taken over by German soldiers in World War Two, I actually said out loud, “Hmm, I should write that.”

My mother, just after World War Two.

Although there was widespread agreement that I was the right woman for the job, the project went on the backburner.  After all, I had only been to Italy once and it was when I was young.  I remembered very little.

Then, a couple of years ago, I had the time, money and opportunity to go to Italy again.  My parents were spending the summer in the small town they grew up in, and I could spend three weeks with them.

Before I left, I read all of the books I could on World War Two, with a special emphasis on what happened in Italy.  I studied maps, memoirs, and documentaries until the larger context was firmly imbedded in my mind.  And then I packed up my laptop and flew to Italy.  I decided to get my touristy stuff over with first, so I went to Venice, Florence and Rome before settling back into small town Italian life with my folks.

They were eager to tell me more of their story.  So we walked the hills, drove to the mountain locations where my father and other men hid from the Germans, and visited areas around Mt. Cassino where the fiercest fighting of the war took place.

In the afternoons, my Dad would take me to the local bar where he and all the men of the village played cards.  I sat in the sun drinking 24 oz. bottles of Peroni (my Dad told me to order the big bottles, they were a much better deal) and writing.

And then I got lucky.  My father still owned his childhood home, so that’s where we were staying.  My mother’s home, the one that had been taken over by the German Command during the war, was now owned by a very wealthy man who lived in Brazil.  I had gone to my mother’s house, and walked around the exterior, but the house itself was locked up.  I was very frustrated, knowing that I was going to have to write a lot of scenes set inside the house, and I couldn’t get in!  So close!

And then on my second to last day, the owner from Brazil arrived in the village.  After some discussion, I was able to tour the house with my mother.  It was a life-changing experience.  She told me the structure of the house was virtually unchanged from the war.  She herself hadn’t been in the house in thirty years.

Now in America, my mother as a young woman.

I took pictures, video, and copious notes.

And then I flew home and wrote the book.

I know the expression “labor of love” is overused and cliché but I have to use it now.  The girl in the story is my mother.  It was incredible for me to think of her at that age, in charge of a house filled with German soldiers, protecting her younger brother and sister.  And to think of my father, not much more than a teenager, hiding from German soldiers who were looking for human shields to put along the front lines.

My mother and father have always been strong, loving, caring people.  And I think no experience in their lives shaped them as much as their time during the war.

They are my heroes.

And this is their story.

$2.99 on Amazon:

The one book I always recommend to writers is THE WAR OF ART by Steven Pressfield.

Here’s the link if you want to buy it on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/War-Art-Through-Creative-Battles/dp/0446691437

It’s a fabulous collection of thoughts on the writing mindset and a concept Pressfield calls “Resistance.”  It’s a slim tome, but an incredibly well-written, funny, moving, and inspirational book.

But one of my favorite parts is when Pressfield talks about writing a book in 1973-74 in a trailer somewhere on the West Coast.  I think it might have been Big Sur.

Anyway, he was talking about being focused, and how he had no radio, no television and never read the newspapers.  He had one friend, a fellow writer, with whom he would occasionally chat.  Other than that, he wrote.  Every day.  All day.

My favorite part of the story, though, is when he finished the novel, sent off the manuscript and re-entered the world.  It was only then that he learned about the Watergate scandal.  That Nixon had resigned.  And Gerald Ford was now President.

He had missed all of it.

Because he’d been writing.

I think of this story often, which is why I’m writing a blog post about it.

It is now a different time, a different world.

As an indie author, I am a writer first and foremost.  But promotion plays a big role in my job description.  Like most indies, I have a blog, accounts at Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.

So the need to be disciplined, to separate writing time from promotion efforts and platform-building is more important than ever.

That discipline is something I’m trying to get better at.

The Internet is like me on a hot summer day sitting on my back patio with an ice-cold beer.  It seems like I go out there and say, I’m just going to have one, but a half hour later, I look down at the ice bucket and there are four empties in there.  Why, the nasty neighbor kid must have slipped his empties in there when I wasn’t looking!

Same thing with that alluring series of tubes.  I’ll decide to hop on Twitter for a few minutes to re-tweet some of my friends’ posts and maybe slip in a blurb about one of my books.  Next thing you know, I’m clicking on links, reading articles, and watching video of a dolphin and a kitten swimming together while Hervé Villechaize masturbates in the background.

What the hell?

I’m trying to catch myself more and more.  If I start to click on that evil little Firefox icon, I stop myself.

Do I really need to see the latest article about the new Kindle right now?

After all, I tell myself, Steven Pressfield missed Watergate.

By the way, that book he wrote during that time period?  It didn’t sell.  Did that stop him?  Hell no.

Gotta go folks.  I set aside time for this post, and time’s up.

Feel free to comment below about your own issues/struggles/victories regarding writing and discipline.

But don’t spend too much time, you’ve probably got writing to do.

If you read the headline above, you may think I’m going to launch into a rousing defense of indie authors everywhere.

I’m not.  Frankly, I think there are a lot of bad indie books, but I also feel there are a lot of bad books put out by the established publishing industry.  I also think there are a lot of fabulous indie books, as well as amazing traditionally published books.

So why write this post?

Well, I recently read a thread on which indie authors giving their books away for free, or pricing them cheaply, were compared to street corner prostitutes with syphilis, metaphorically willing to service clients orally for pocket change.

Being a person with a sarcastic and often caustic sense of humor, I laughed initially.  But then I thought about it.  And I thought of some of the bestselling novelists who are giving away, or have given away, their books away for free.

Lisa Gardner, for instance, offered her novel ALONE for free.  Andrew Gross offered one of his novels for free.  Currently, Ted Dekker has a short story/prequel for free on Kindle.

I don’t hear anyone referring to Ms. Gardner, Mr. Gross or Mr. Dekker as cheap whores.

So what do I make of this?

Well, I work in advertising.  So I’ve experienced firsthand the meeting of brands with the marketplace.  I’ve sat through many, many focus groups.  The result?

I believe good products survive.  There are always critics.  Some with sound, astute comments.   Others, sheer nutjobs.  Like the lady in a focus group who raved with great eloquence about my television commercial, then proceeded to talk about having sex with aliens in the Everglades.  (True story.)

So what do I think of the glee and vitriol that seems to accompany the skewering of indie authors?

Couple things.

No fear of retribution.

I think it’s a lot easier for someone, let’s call him Wannabe Writer William, to bash an indie author than it is for him to trash a bestselling novelist.

Why?

Well, the bestselling novelist, let’s call her Bestselling Betty, has clout within the industry.  She’s with a big publishing house and probably a big literary agency.

(Who knows, maybe Wannabe William has submitted his unpublished novel to both and is hoping to hear some good news – he wouldn’t want to jeopardize anything.) Bestselling Betty also writes dynamite blurbs and the occasional book review.  If William ever sells his book, he might be asking Betty for a blurb.

Does he want to piss her off?

Hell no.

But what about bashing Two Jobs Ted?  Ted’s a grocery store manager and a part-time reporter for his local paper.  He’s married, with three kids.  He’s also an indie author who just published his first book.  It’s good.  He didn’t have money to hire an editor, but he had friends he respects read the book, as well as proofread it.  It’s a little rough around the edges, a few typos slipped by, but overall, it’s a good story.

Wannabe William reads it.  He catches the typos.  Maybe there’s a small plot twist that doesn’t make sense.  Wannabe William decides to bash Two Jobs Ted.  This is just the kind of thing these indie authors are putting out while his book sits in the corner, garnering no interest.  So William tees off on Ted.  He’s not afraid of Mr. Two Jobs – what’s he going to do, send William some day old bread from the grocery store?  Write an unflattering story about William in his paper, the East Bumfuck Bugle?

The Power of the Asterisk

You all know the guy or gal.  If they ever lose a game, or their favorite team gets knocked out of the playoffs, they have a knack for creating what I call the Asterisk Excuse.  It usually goes something like this:  “Well of course my team lost, three of our starters were out with Indonesian Malaria, and the waterboy spilled Ecstasy into the team Gatorade.”

You get the idea.

Wannabe Writer William has yet to sell his novel.  And it pisses him off to see indie authors selling books, getting reviews, maybe even making it on to a few bestseller lists.  But what really chaps his ass is when they refer to themselves as “authors.”  It infuriates William!

Each rejection letter from an agent, editor or publisher makes William feel worse, and fuels his anger.

What would make him feel better?

To point out that books from indie authors all have asterisks.  They’re not “real” books or authors.  Want proof?  Look at Two Jobs Ted?  He sucks!  In fact, ALL indie authors blow!

There, now William feels better.

My response…So what?

Sorry, that’s my take on everything I just said.  So fucking what.

The marketplace is cold and cruel.  Yes, there are hidden agendas.  Yes, there are mean spirited people who love to rip others to shreds.

Again, so what?

Raymond Chandler, when asked about the dead body in the trunk of a car in his timeless classic THE BIG SLEEP, replied “Oh, I guess I forgot about that.”

In Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe has his hero take off all of his clothes, swim out to the wreck, then immediately begin stuffing food into his pockets.

Oops.

I was just reading a new thriller by a New York Times bestseller.  The hero of the book, who is supposed to be incredibly intelligent and street-smart, was obviously being duped.  I had a basketball coach who if he felt you telegraphed a pass would scream at you, “I saw that one coming from Cincinnati!”  Well, I’m guessing every reader saw that plot twist coming from Cincinnati.  I stopped reading the book.

Again.  So what?

If you want to write a book, write it.  Tell your story.  If you’ve got the money, hire a reputable editor, proofreader, and ebook designer.

If you don’t have the money, do the best you can.

Just know that when you go out with your book, the headhunters will show up sooner or later, looking to crack your skull.

Do what I do.  Read their reviews.  Hear them out.  Honestly ask yourself if they have a point.  Use the good feedback to make yourself a better writer.  Do a better job with each book.

If their take on your book is as bloody as all 120 minutes of The Passion of the Christ, that’s okay, too.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

As both a person.

And a writer.

Hey, if you get kicked in the crotch seven times,  say “fuck you” eight times.

And then get back to work.

I’m between relationships right now.

I’m not necessarily happy about that, but I’m also not necessarily sad about it, either. The fact is, there is never a dull moment in my life. I’m not sure how this came to be, but it’s the truth. I’m usually looking for ways to simplify my life, not complicate it.

Which calls into question the decision I made a year or so ago to adopt an Italian Greyhound whom I promptly named “Vinnie.”

The fact is, I once had a full-size greyhound who was a spectacular dog. She passed away about six years ago.

I had held off getting another dog because as I mentioned above, I’m usually trying to de-clutter my life.

But I had always liked the Italian Greyhound breed. Don’t know why. I’d met a few on walks and just seemed to have a natural affinity for their calm, leisurely personalities.

And then a friend had a co-worker who had a very young Italian Greyhound who was too much to handle. It seemed this co-worker was trying to make the dog an indoor dog, including putting barriers up in certain rooms. Well, the little guy was figuring out ways around the barricades, or jumping over them. The co-worker was going to take the dog to the humane society.  So my friend brought the dog over to me. And I’ve had Vinnie ever since.

I will tell you this:  He’s a smart little fucker.

And like all Italian males, he loves the ladies. He barks like crazy when a man is around (which isn’t very often, hint hint). But when women come over, he turns on the charisma.

But his favorite thing to do is find panties. Preferably used. He likes to find them, bring them down to either his bed, his couch, or his window bench. He rests his head on them. I think he views them as trophies. (Don’t all men?)

Lest you think my house is full of previously worn underwear, and that I live some kind of rock star lifestyle, well, you are right. About the rock star lifestyle, not the underwear. Okay, not really a rock star, more like a Lawrence Welk background singer.

No, Vinnie will knock over the laundry hamper to get my panties. He’ll jump on top of the washer, stick his snout under the lid, and root out my panties. He’ll snatch panties while I’m in the shower.  And female houseguests?  Oh, boy!  Variety!

He’s relentless.

To be honest, I’m both frustrated and flattered.

Anyway, I’m glad you stopped by the blog to meet Vinnie.

Girls, check your undies.

If there’s a way to steal your panties over the Internet, Vinnie will figure it out.