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8 Reasons to Self Publish (and 3 Reasons NOT to)

My Castle Heart Publications

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Many of you have been coming to me with book dreams in hand, wanting to know my tips for how to get published.

I’ve posted quite a few resources here, but if you truly want to create a physical book that you can hold in your hands, here’s the one question you need to answer first:

Do you want to traditionally publish or self publish?

I spent years weighing the pros and cons of both, finally choosing self publishing. Does that mean I recommend self publishing to everyone? Hardly.

Here are my crib notes from years of research and my own experience. If you’ve published your own book and want to weigh in, by all means, add your nuggets of knowledge in the comments below.

Here are my top 8 reasons to self publish (and 3 reasons not to).

Please note that these tips are specific to publishing a children’s picture book…

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Now accepting new clients

We took a couple-few years off to write novels (and were pretty prolific), but we’re ready to get back in the game. You need words? We got ’em. Words to describe your product or service…

Source: Now accepting new clients

Breast Cancer, one year later

A year ago today I got a life-changing phone call. I had infiltrating ductal carcinoma: breast cancer. It’s sort of a sad anniversary. I feel in a way as if I lost a year of my life (along with my hair, a chunk of boob, my fertility, and a few lymph nodes). But at the same time I gained so much knowledge. I know now how much I am loved. I know I can handle anything. I know I’m a survivor. I know now precisely what is important to me: My family. My health. My peace of mind. And what’s not: Stuff. Appearance. Impressing strangers. Being “cool.”

The parameters of “success” have changed drastically for me. If I’ve got my family, my health, and peace of mind, I’m good. No matter what I’m wearing, what I’m driving, what’s in my bank account or on my business card.

So thank you, cancer, for the clarity.

To update on medical matters:

  • I have three Herceptin infusions left, and then I’m done! I’m assuming I can get my port taken out, and that will be a huge deal for me.  Already planning a new tattoo to cover the scar.
  • I have had two injections of the estrogen-blocker thus far without any side effects. They were one-month doses. Today, I think Dr. Cap will bump me up to a three-month dose.
  • The daily pill I take to keep estrogen-hungry cancer from coming back is tiny and without side effects. So that’s awesome!
  • I’m supposed to have my annual mammogram this month, but I’m hoping since I just had a breast MRI in January (completely clear, btw!) I can get away with skipping it. Probably won’t fly, but worth a shot.
  • My  hair has come back as thick as before and is starting to curl. My husband loves my short hair and thinks I should keep it this way. I’m more curious to see what happens as it grows, but I’m not ruling out cutting it later.
  • My eyebrows and eyelashes are starting to fill in. I never lost them completely, but they were thin and scraggly AF.
  • I’m feeling normal and healthy. Not sick or weak at all. This seems like a miracle to me. Science is fucking awesome.12772035_10153449574902616_7427532228197249375_o

This still counts as “medical,” but I think it’s pretty important. I have a history of depression, starting in college and off and on throughout my twenties. I sort of figured (or at least convinced myself) I had “grown out of it.” But cancer kinda threw me for a loop. A month ago, I admitted to Dr. Cap that I thought I might be depressed again. That I expected when treatment was over that I would spring up ready to kick ass and take names. “But I still feel broken,” I said, as a tear rolled down my cheek. (Poor Dr. Cap, he’s the only one I ever cry in front of!) He asked me if I felt like hurting myself. “Not today,” I admitted. He told me that depression with cancer is not unusual at all and prescribed Paxil and put in an urgent referral for their shrink. The shrink’s office called two days later to tell me that they don’t take my insurance. [Just want to say here that that’s basically the worst thing you can do to a person who’s depressed: tell them they aren’t “right” and give them work to do (finding a new shrink)]. I still haven’t found a shrink, but…

I’ve been on antidepressants for a month and I feel like I’ve been living in a cave and finally found my way out into the sunlight. I’ve begun actively looking for a new job, I socialized with old friends, I’ve been going to the gym five days a week, and my husband and I just signed the lease for a house on a half-acre after living in an apartment for over a decade. Did I mention science is awesome?

Anyway, I’m feeling like a billion bucks. Like so great I think I’m grateful to Turdy the Tumor, because I can’t help thinking that that little cancery fucker led me here, to this good place with my family, my health, and peace of mind.

The Existential Job Search

I’ve been meaning for months now to write a post about how similar cancer and pregnancy are. Basically, your body isn’t your own, people are amazingly supportive, there is a ton of literature and personal stories of friends and acquaintances to take place of statistics and the unknowable. I was going to be much more in-depth and humorous, but that’s the gist of it. (Maybe I’ll get it right in the book. Should I do a book?)

My final point in the cancer-is-a-baby-you-never-asked-for theory–and the one that’s especially relevant for me now–is overestimating the “after.” When I was vastly pregnant with my youngest spawn I remember looking at thin people in magazines and on TV and thinking “as soon as I drop this load of baby I’m gonna squeeze my ass into that there miniskirt and drink five margaritas and DANCE!” etc. During chemo and surgery and radiation I had a lot of similar thoughts about how I was going to bound up out of this “sickness” and just be ON FIRE FOR LIFE! So full of energy and appetite and enthusiasm! Unstoppable!

Well, those notions were just as unrealistic as the post-baby ones. Six years later I have yet to squeeze into that there miniskirt (and at this point I think my miniskirt days are done even if I were svelte).

hit by a busI have been stuck in an existential quagmire. Thinking about what’s next and if anything is next. What I’m trying to say is that it’s hard to plan for an uncertain future. Yes, yes, I know “any of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow!” but honestly, when you say that to me it’s as if you’re dismissing my actual legitimate concerns. Here’s a cold, hard, fact: There’s a 30% chance that I’ll be dead in five years. That’s not me being a pessimist; that’s reality.

Now, I’m doing everything I need to do to be in the 70% on this. I’m still getting Herceptin infusions every three weeks through April, and I’ll be on hormone therapy (aromatase inhibitors) until 2021, and of course I’ll have annual mammograms.

But cancer is a sneaky, persistent little fucker, and if it feels like coming back, it’s going to.

So, I can live with that. But it’s hard to LIVE with that. It’s difficult to make long-term plans under that kind of cloud. For instance, I would like to go back to school. I’m 15 credits short of completing my bachelor’s degree and it’s something that I regret not finishing. BUT, what I’d really like to do is get a degree in something healthcare-related and that would require many many more credits than 15. But here’s the thing: How much money and effort and time I’d be studying and ignoring my family am I willing to spend if I only get five years? Or four? Or three?

But if I’m in the 70%, what if five years goes by and I’m cancer-free but I’m still at square one on that degree because I was too scared and worried to start something I might not be able to finish?

I’m having trouble bouncing back from this cancer business. Physically, my complaints are few: My armpit is still numb from surgery. My right boob is noticeably smaller than my left (both surgery and radiation contributed to this). I have scars and a medi-port. My eyebrows and eyelashes are sparse. Chemo brain hasn’t abated much. Luckily, I’m a writer, so when I can’t for the life of me come up with “calves” I improvise “shin butts.” My hair is coming in pretty well and I think it says “unfortunate haircut” more than “cancer” now.

Emotionally/psychologically? I’m having a rough time. Crippled with indecision, angst, and weltschmerz based on an unknowable future I turn to Samuel Beckett.

Samuel Beckett

“I can’t go on. I’ll go on.”

So, I’m taking baby steps back into the World, and I hope the World will welcome me.

 

 

The magic of letting go

Yes, I’m one of those annoying people that read The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. I started tidying (which should be called “throwing out”) on January 1, and while I don’t think my life has changed much, I’ve definitely learned some things.

First of all, I am sort of bulimic when it comes to possessions. I acquire and hoard (the binge) for a decade and then I purge things in a giant “fuck this shit” explosion. In my last purgesplosion I threw away a lifetime’s worth of journals and all of my school yearbooks. If you are a writer you will understand the exquisite pain that haunts me about that decision.

The ten or so years in between binge and purge are very, very cluttered. So. January 1 rolls around and I’m going to get started. I begin with the sock drawer. A giant sock drawer that contains a universe of socks: athletic socks, knee highs, fuzzy socks with lotion cooked in, socks with capes, socks that haven’t seen their mate in years. A lot of fucking socks.

So here’s the thing with the KonMari method: you hold each object in your hand and if it “sparks joy” you can keep it. Otherwise, out it goes. This can be a tough call. Because what might at first register as “joy” is really something else. It might be “But so-and-so GAVE me those,” or “But I might want to wear those in a Halloween costume one day.” That’s not joy; that’s rationalization. Unless I owned both socks, they were still in good shape, and they made me happy to put them on my feet, they went in the giant black trash bag.

After socks I did underwear. I folded them reverently and precisely until two madcap drawers of crazy became one small drawer of peace and order.

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Shirts were next. I went from this

 

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IMG_4432Now every shirt I put on gives me that “Hey, this looks and feels good” spark. I’m not wearing also-ran black t-shirts, I’m wearing the good black t-shirts that feel just right.

But I’ll be honest, some of those shirts were really hard to get rid of. In particular my Xbox and GamerchiX garb that I’ve been hoarding for sentimental reasons even though I left Microsoft over five years ago. Here is where what is magic and different about Marie Kondo’s book comes in. I was able to tell those shirts and hoodies “Thank you. You represent an important part of my life and accomplishments that made me proud.” No, I didn’t say it out loud because I felt a bit silly. But it allowed me to acknowledge how I felt about these inanimate objects and release them.

shirt and chucks with Rock Kills Kid

GamerchiX shirt PLUS orange Chucks. RIP.

I had some of the same trouble with shoes.

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Does anyone really need 11 pairs of Chuck Taylors?

My orange Chucks that I bought for the Tokyo Game Show. These cheapo little black flats from American Eagle Outfitters that I wore all over Paris and Versailles. It made me sad to let them go, but I feel so much lighter with just what I need and love. 

me and my flats in Versailles

Me and Mom and my little black flats at Versailles.

I was really proud of myself, and moved onto books with enthusiasm. Ms. Kondo says to do all books at once, but honestly my living room floor isn’t large enough. So, I did one bookshelf. Yep, just one. And it took ALL DAMN DAY.

IMG_4452Why? Because I’m a unapologetic and life-long bookworm. I’ve purged many many books over the years, and I’ve read almost exclusively on Kindle since, well, the OG Kindle debuted in 2007. But the paper-and-ink volumes that I’ve held onto have meaning to me. They represent more than a job or a trip. They are my parallel selves, my possible me’s. The alternate Christa that learns Latin for instance, or writes profiles for the New Yorker (still my dream job!).

IMG_4455Or the me that becomes a professor of folklore and mythology. These books here? Joseph Campbell’s Masks of God series? They represent a future that never took place. But it was a dream that I–at the time a poor single mother attending college on a Pell Grant–was so excited about that I spent money I should have used for food or diapers on these four paperbacks. Joseph Campbell represented this dream and I held onto his complete works for far longer than I needed to. As you may have guessed, I didn’t even read most of them. I was determined to at the very least hang onto my Campbell. I sat on the floor surrounded by these books and sulked. I mourned that woman I never became. That career that didn’t happen. Because that’s really what I was afraid of letting go. In the end I hung onto books that can’t be replicated in e-ink: art books, image-heavy references like atlases, and books that are works of art unto themselves like these children’s books from 1907.

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I mean, those endpapers! *swoon*

Anyway, at the end of a long painful dusty day I got a jam-packed, double-parked bookcase down to two simple shelves. I found interesting bookmarks. The funniest was a letter to me from the Friends of John Kerry and the saddest was a train ticket stub for a friend that killed himself.

Most importantly, of course, I offloaded a bunch of books that had become both physical and emotional baggage and turned it into cash at Half-Price Books.

Which I spent on more books.

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Breast Cancer: The End.

It is done.

What began with a lump almost one year ago is finally over.

From the diagnosis

Turdy the tumor ultrasound

Darth Turdy

Through six rounds of chemotherapy

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Rocking the chrome dome during Round 3

Surgery on my breast and lymphnodes

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Damn you, cancer!

and 30 doses of radiation,

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this blog has been a place for me to collect my thoughts, sort out how I felt about what was happening to me, document the experience for the future, and sort of inadvertently–though in the end most importantly–help fellow cancer patients feel they weren’t alone.

I went from this:

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1st dose chemo. May 5, 1015

To this:

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Today. December 30, 2015

Thank you for going along for the ride. Thank you for not turning away from the ugly realities of scars and chemo shits, peeling nipples and weakness, doubt, and flat-out terror. You kept me going, readers.

What’s next?

First, the end is not the end. The day after my final dose of radiation, I was back at the hospital for an echocardiogram. I’ve got Herceptin infusions every three weeks until May. I’ll start a five-year hormone therapy treatment mid-January, and in the interim I’ll have a bone-density test and another MRI on the “good” boob. I’ll have diagnostic-level mammograms for the next three years. I told my daughter all this isn’t fighting cancer because the cancer is gone. It’s more like treatment that says “…And STAY OUT!”

IMG_4398Because of all this ongoing…stuff, it’s been sort of hard for me to call this “the end.” Then I received a fancy bottle of champagne from my dear friend Sara. I mean, how could you NOT celebrate with this? So I decided to stick a pin in this moment and create a milestone. This is the end of one journey. I made it. And now it’s behind me.

There WILL be a celebration. I’m still figuring out the details. Is it selfish to throw yourself a I Kicked Cancer’s Ass party? Would anyone show up? I want to celebrate it being over of course, but I also want to celebrate the friends and family and even strangers who made it easier.

 

Radiation – End of Days

I haven’t been very good about updating during radiation. The fact is, for the first three weeks, everything was gravy. I got up in the morning, got the kid off to school, read the paper, did the crossword, played games on my phone for a while, then drove the hospital, got zapped, drove home. NBD.

Then, suddenly, after the 16th session, I noticed that I had a wound under my boob. Turns out that poor area–that hadn’t seen sunlight in decades–was the first to get burned. And I, unknowingly, was scratching it in my sleep. I’d actually scratched myself raw before I noticed it. That’s when daily wound care with Nurse Rad started.

After the underboob, the armpit went, and finally the nipple. I tell ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve had your nipple skin peel off. It’s gross to look at, and it’s REALLY painful. It’s Vicodin painful. Here’s some grody photos I took along the way. I tried not to make them too “booby.”

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Underboob.

Rads -side and under

Side and underboob. Burnt and starting to peel. The purple marker is where they drew lines for the “boost” portion of treatment.

rads neck and side

Burnt and peeling sideboob, shoulder, and neck. The neck/shoulder business is from radiating the lymph nodes. Those guys got five more zaps than my boob did, because that’s the area the cancer is most likely to recur.

Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself for being so tough about radiation, but it turns out I just hadn’t really been tested yet. I was tired as fuck. I’d go to radiation, get my wounds soaked and salved and wrapped, then I’d go Christmas shopping for a while and finally come home and collapse. I often fell asleep before dinner.

My conclusion about radiation: It’s true what they say. Your skin will burn and then peel and you will be massively tired.

I have one session left. I’m smiling, and healing.

The Magic Words

Complete Remission.

Hooray, right? When did this happen?! Oh wow!

The Boss

Here’s the thing: I posted those two magical words on Facebook over a week ago. And one of my friends commented “I can’t wait for the triumphant blog post.” So, I’ve been waiting to feel triumphant and have come to the conclusion that…it ain’t gonna happen.

See, I was apparently in complete remission as soon as my surgeon took out those little cancer chunks back in October. But no one told me. See, I’m not a doctor obviously, and this is my first–and hopefully only–cancer rodeo. But I’ve read a lot and I’m a very active patient. I pay attention and I follow up and I ask questions. So the key phrases the search engine in my brain was looking for when Dr. Superman called me with pathology results were: “No evidence of disease” or “remission.” I knew enough to understand that “cured” was off the table. That’s not a word you use with cancer.

So, I didn’t hear those words and I freaked out. I had a meeting with Buffy the Cancer Slayer and still, those words were missing. And in all subseqent meetings with every person on this superfun cancer “team.”

Did I ask “Am I in remission?” No, I guess I didn’t. I’m fairly certain I’ve asked “Is there any more cancer in me?” and have been told that we have no reason to think so. No evidence. No evidence of disease, right? Only no one strung those three words together.

So, the last time I was in for my Herceptin infusion I saw Dr. Captain America and I asked him this question:

“So…do I HAVE cancer or did I used to have cancer? Am I an ex-cancer person?”

He replies. “Ex. You’re in complete remission.”

Well, halle-fuckin-lujah! But could no one have SAID that like maybe two months ago?!

Words are important. And I’m thrilled to hear those magical words and to repeat them to all the friends and supporters who care about what happens to me. And I’ve tried really hard over the last week and half or so to shed the frustration and focus on the outcome. I don’t have cancer anymore! Hooray!!!!!

But, gosh, the last couple months of my life would have been different if Dr Supe had just said “remission” when he called me that day. I was ready to hear it. I was ready to celebrate. And I kinda feel like I got ripped off.

 

Schooled is free this week

Have you been waiting for the perfect opportunity to try the Lexy Cooper mystery series? There’s no time like the…present.

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From December 7 through 11 the digital version of Schooled (Lexy Cooper 1) is absolutely FREE!

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What’s Schooled about?

Lexy Cooper is a Community Manager at Xenon Corporation, maker of the Xenon24/7 videogame console and Xenonline gaming service. When a young woman’s nude body is discovered on the Xenon corporate campus, Lexy’s uncle, homicide detective Mike Malick, catches the case. As Malick investigates the crime, Lexy works the case from inside Xenon and discovers more about the seedy underbelly of the games industry than she ever wanted to know.

What do readers say?

“Filled with great characters, and a twisty-turney perfect murder mystery plot.”
“Witty, empowering, and deeper than you think.”
“Lexy is a character I find myself thinking about even weeks after finishing the novel.”
“A captivating thriller that introduces you to the inside of a big company that sells widely-loved entertainment products.”
“An awesome mix of humor, action, sex and more.”

Download your copy and tell your mystery-lover friends!

 

Radiation: The Dirty Dozen

I had my 13th radiation session today, but “dirty dozen” is much more clickable than “baker’s dozen,” don’t you think?

I met with Dr. Spiderman on Friday (the day after Thanksgiving) and he asked me, “So, how is radiation going? Is it better or worse than you thought it would be?” And I told him it’s much better. That I’m not really getting the fatigue I’d heard about, and the skin that’s being radiated looks exactly the same as the other, non-zapped side. Spidey, resplendent in a fuchsia button-down shirt, said, “Fine. Be that way.”

I joked back, “Are you sure the machine is plugged in?”

Just in the last couple of days have I started to feel tired. Like fall-asleep-on-the-couch-before-dinner tired. I don’t know if it’s the radiation, but it probably is. I haven’t been keeping track of my protein intake at all, and it’s supposed to be 60-90 grams per day. My appetite has been rather crappy, in fact. And speaking of crap…yep, it’s still cha-cha-cha all day err day. Not sure wtf I’m talking about? Click here. I’m not even sure I care all that much anymore. It’s just the way it is.

cha cha cha

Hair update: It’s fuzzy and dark! It looks like hair!

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102 days post-chemo

Meanwhile, it’s the holiday season! I’m trying to be super excited, like when I was a kid, but I don’t think it’s possible as an adult. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner at Snoqualmie Lodge, but driving back I was missing the old days when we (my mom, dad, brother and I) would go to my uncle’s house. We didn’t go home after the meal, but played board games and watched football and told stupid jokes until it was time for pie. Of course a couple sets of divorce and kids growing up changed all that, but each holiday I feel like something’s not quite right. Yes, some of the magic was recaptured when I had kids, and having a small person in the house who still completely believes in Santa and flying reindeer is about as good as it gets in Adult World. But I’m always unsatisfied on some level. Maybe everyone feels that way when they grow up?

This year, cancer and midlife crisis and my natural melancholy personality are combining to make…not Captain Planet, but something much worse. Let’s call it Captain Blah. And I feel guilty because there’s this expectation that I should be particularly hashtag blessed to have another Christmas with my family. And I AM, but…it’s just the same old shit. The same getting and spending. The same search for a ‘wow’ gift that the recipient will shove in a closet somewhere. I move a mountain of plastic garbage from the store to plastic bags to stockings and boxes (and eventually into a landfill). I organize the family into some kind of gathering and half-hearted gifts are exchanged and I get the feeling that no one really wants to be there; they’re just going through the motions because it’s what you do. Or they’re humoring me. Have I been forcing my desperate Christmas on my kids and parents all this time? I think I may have. The whole thing feels phony and wasteful, but I still try really REALLY hard to get into the twinkle lights and the music and the peppermint/pinetree holidaygasm. Does anyone over the age of 10 have magical Christmasses anymore? Are we all faking it? I’m not going to stop doing it, but I guess I’m just wondering if I’m alone in my Grinchdom.

Christmas isn’t the only thing I’ve been angsting over. Spending time in the city I grew up in (because that’s where I get treatment) has led me to drive past my old high school (remodeled and unrecognizable), the place I used to line up my quarters to play Donkey Kong (now a vitamin store), the parking lot I learned to drive in (now a –spit between my fingers to ward off the Evil Eye–Wal-Mart). I was even recently near my uncle’s old house where I had so many wonderful childhood holidays. It feels like a lost world. Like a place I can never return. I guess childhood is like that. But then as I was driving past my alma mater I remember that when I was going to school there I would often have the feeling that my life was just a dress rehearsal. Merely a preamble until my ‘real life’ began. I’m not sure when that feeling truly ended, but I know it lasted into my twenties.

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Christmas 1975

And now here I am feeling as though my childhood was the real deal and I’m living some inferior reflection. Or something. And it’s difficult for me to engage in this shadow-world. It doesn’t feel quite real. I’m having trouble spotting the small joys because I’m drowning in the hate and violence (and I don’t even watch television news!)

Honestly? I think about death a lot. Every day. Why go back to school, or start a new career if I’m just gonna die? Why do anything for that matter? What, if anything, will matter once I’m gone? Please note: I have no reason to believe that I’m going to die in the near future. I mean,  yeah, I have a better chance of dying from cancer in the next five years than people who haven’t had cancer do, but I have no indication of imminent demise.

Am I happy? No. But am I supposed to be? Whoever came up with the idea that the goal in life is happiness? Human history is a steaming pile of not-happy. What makes us so fucking special that we think food and shelter aren’t good enough? Why are we compelled to gather designer shoes and iGadgets? Why is our grandest ambition to be on fucking TV?

This post kinda went off the rails. Sorry for that. So yeah. Radiation’s going fine. I almost worked on my book today. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and plotting, which is a good sign. And, lucky me, I have a new writing assistant: the naughtiest kitten in the world. Maybe this should be my new author photo?

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