Category Archives: writing

Oops, I did it again

A couple years ago, I very happily reported here that I’d sold a “book of my heart,” which is a term authors use to describe a book they’ve written not to market trends but because they felt compelled to tell that particular story.

That book, Fall from Grace, was released by Bancroft Press in 2018. My favorite review of it came from Midwest Book Reviews, which called it “a novel for our times.”

As I reported at the time, it was a novel that didn’t fit easily into any of the categories traditional  publishing houses use to market books to booksellers (stores, in particular). It was a faith-drenched book about a broken marriage, but it dealt with mainline Protestantism and evangelicals, their world views, how people in both groups try to live Godly lives, even if they don’t always agree on what that means.

The book was dinged by some readers who posted reviews on Amazon, but it was clear these readers were expecting a traditional Christian fiction read, an “inspirational” novel where there’s no hint of impropriety, not even a mild curse word. (For my thoughts on that, here’s a post about Christian fiction.)

To that censorious reader, I offer a proactive apology: Sorry, but I did it again. I wrote another novel with faith issues that contains bad language at times. I haven’t sold this novel yet to a publisher. Maybe I never will. Maybe I’ll self-publish it at some point.

Titled The Reed Boat (for now, at least), here’s the story:

When her billionaire older husband discards everything to become a minister, young Emily Pendleton supports his decision–until she discovers he intends to discard her and her baby, too. As she raises her daughter alone, she seeks another tossed-aside item, a cheap cross necklace her late mother had given her that holds a key to a heartbreaking past. A novel about the sacrifices women make for their children, The Reed Boat is ultimately a story about mothers protecting children from unscrupulous men.

The reason this book will probably be a hard sell in the publishing world is because it contains a subtle pro-life message. Trust me, it doesn’t hammer the issue or hit you over the head with it. If you’re among the majority of Americans who want abortion to remain legal but only under certain circumstances (53 percent, according to Gallup in 2019), then this story will not offend.

gettyimages-200569519-001-2048x2048I suspect, however, that the publishing world isn’t filled with those kinds of Americans. I suspect the publishing world is populated by people who hold the view that abortion should be legal under any circumstance, with no restrictions at all (25 percent, according to the Gallup poll mentioned above). So even if a book is primarily about keeping innocents safe from men who might harm them, it will have a hard time finding a home in the publishing world if there’s even a hint of sympathy for the pro-life stance.

I’d love to be proven wrong on that. If there’s an editor out there reading this who doesn’t hold that view, I’ll happily send you a copy of the manuscript.

What about Christian fiction publishing? Maybe it might fit there, but not in Christian romance, because The Reed Boat has no clear romance HEA. And I do include some language that those publishers might believe is problematic.

Again, I’d enjoy being proven wrong on this supposition, as well, and I’d gladly email the book to Christian fiction editors willing to give it a read.

I’m happy to report, in fact, that there is, as of this writing, one editor looking at the manuscript, and I’m querying some agents, too, about it, most of whom I’ve not yet heard from. It’s early days yet, though, on that process.

I don’t know if The Reed Boat will eventually … sail. But I do know sometimes authors feel compelled to tell a story, whether it’s their muse or the Spirit moving them. The Reed Boat is that kind of story for me.

 

 

 

 

 

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In the wake of serious illness

Olivia’s Heart Song, the second in my Bethany Beach trilogy, deals with a serious health issue. At age thirty, Dan Newhouse just had surgery to fix a heart defect which had gone undetected until he’d reached adulthood. Now he’s looking at his life through new eyes and making changes, something an older friend and client of his understands, as the friend tells Dan about his own brush with a life-changing experience in his youth:

“When Grace and I were just starting out, before the boys came along, I was in an accident. Piece of machinery fell on me. Wrong place, wrong time. Long story short is I was out of work for a half year… That kind of thing…being too close to the Grim Reaper when you think you have quite a few years to make his acquaintance, let alone stare him in the face…well, the day I woke up from the knockout was as if I’d been reborn.”

Anyone who’s faced serious illness or accident can probably relate to these sentiments. I remember once hearing a man express thanks for being afflicted with cancer! How could that be? Well, maybe he was being a bit too glib, but his idea, that serious illness can shift your view of life in a good way, is anything but shallow. It forces you to evaluate what’s truly important, what can be easily discarded, what  you have to let go and what you need to hang on to.

We often lead our lives in a state of true blissful ignorance. We ignore our mortality. Yes, all of us know our days eventually come to an end, but we can go days, months, years without thoughts of that end intruding on our daily lives. Not so if you face a serious health challenge. Then, those thoughts pop into your mind more often. They shine a bright spotlight on all the clutter in your life, and make you think about cleaning it all up.

Like many, I’ve faced the Big C in my own life and had to go through the three usual therapies: surgery, chemo, radiation. While I wouldn’t go so far as to say thanks for the affliction, cancer did force me to refresh my view of a lot of things.

One piece of clutter I cleaned up in my life around that time — throwing out old journals. As I looked them over, I realized they were filled with whining and complaining (mostly about the publishing industry as I struggled to get published!). But there was too much joy in my life for those journals to be my written legacy. So…out they went.

When I was in treatment, time seemed to stop for long periods as I dealt with the challenges of each day, of crawling out of the fatigue and relentless schedule of treatment to the light of normalcy. Olivias_Heart_Song_600x900But normalcy is hard to find in the wake of such experiences. You do wonder about aches and pains, if they signify something serious, in those months after treatment ends. I read an article about the post-treatment phase that noted it’s common for cancer patients to be particularly fearful immediately after they’re discharged from care. After having been tended to almost daily for months on end, they’re suddenly free — free of health care visits but also free of the care itself! That can be scary.

In Olivia’s Heart Song, Dan Newhouse is in that stage, right after surgery, still emotionally fragile, still overly conscious of his body’s every ache, his heart’s every beat. When he meets a former army nurse recovering from her own heartbreaking troubles, he wonders if he can feel whole enough to love someone…and if she could view him as more than a sick man who needs tending. The story follows them both on a bumpy path to recovery from physical and emotional wounds as they sort out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.

I hope it resonates with people who’ve faced serious illness and lets them know they’re not alone in their fears and hopes, their struggles to feel normal again.

This book, like the first in this series, is set along the Delaware coastline, an area my family and I enjoy a great deal, a quiet region filled with nature preserves, serene bays, miles of sandy beaches, and great restaurants and shops.

Olivia’s Heart Song is now available at Amazon.

 

 

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Excerpt: Reese’s Summer of Promise

From Reese’s Summer of Promise by Libby Malin

(Tales of Bethany Beach, Book One)

PROLOGUE

Reese Newhouse jammed her hands in the pockets of her parka, one fist curling around her smartphone as if to crush it and the email she’d just read on its small screen. She stared out at the churning Atlantic, leaning into the corner of the boardwalk railing, blinking her eyes fast to keep from crying.

Dammit. She wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Not now.

This officially had to count as the Worst. Valentine’s Day. Ever.

With a sniffle, she squinted through bright sunshine to watch intrepid surfers, clad in special wet suits, riding the chilly waves that still roared into the shore from a Nor’easter that had slipped up the Delaware coastline miles at sea the night before. In its wake was a sparkling dusting of snow on the sand and boardwalk, creating a glistening winter wonderland at odds with the dark, ugly thoughts in her heart.

The town felt deserted, as if all its residents had been alerted to an emergency and only a few diehards remained. But it was February, not the “season.”

Even when Bethany Beach was bustling, though, it still had the air of a small town about it with a short boardwalk and three-block main street filled with quirky stores, eateries and the usual national franchises. Most folks thought of bigger resorts for their summer fun, but Bethany, along with the 117 miles of seacoast that made up Delaware’s eastern border, was a hidden gem.

Today, Reese was glad Bethany was so quiet, with few people about to observe her heartache.

She breathed deeply. She had to put on a good face. Must not let her father and brother and aunt see her like this. Not today. Not on this occasion.

She heard their steps coming up behind her and turned, forcing her muscles into a slap-happy grin of greeting that she hoped would fool them all.

“You should have gone in. It’s cold out here!” her father, Theodore Newhouse, said as he hugged her, pressing a light kiss on her cheek.

“Such a beautiful day,” she managed to mumble, her cheeks already feeling stiff from her plastic smile. Her brother, Dan, looked as grim as she felt, his face white as the snow with two bright red spots on his cheeks from the cold. He nodded to her, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his collar turned up against the chill. “Besides…I thought we’d…do the ceremony first…then eat…” She gestured to the restaurant behind them and peered over their shoulders, scanning the walkway. “Where’s Aunt Nancy?”

“She’s got a bad cold,” her father said, an odd sense of relief in his voice. “Didn’t want to make the drive from Wilmington.” And then she noticed that no one was carrying…the box. The box that contained the urn with her mother’s ashes. And she knew. Once again, he was postponing scattering them, using Aunt Nancy’s absence as an excuse, most likely, and that of her sister and her family, who’d had to beg off when the storm had left them stranded in their Virginia home waiting for a power outage to be fixed.

“Dad…” she said, softly, her own pain now pushed aside as she considered his. She reached out to touch his arm, and he turned his head away toward the sea, as if studying those surfers was an assignment he had to complete before they went in.

She swallowed. She noticed Dan grimacing and shaking his head slowly, staring at his feet. He’d obviously tried convincing him already to go through with their plan, to no avail.

Their mother had been gone since December, and their father had yet to honor her wishes by scattering her ashes along the shore she’d loved so much. They’d finally convinced him to do it today, Valentine’s Day. And they’d planned a family meal together afterward in the expensive new hotel restaurant on the Bethany Beach, Delaware boardwalk, to take the edge off the sad task.

But once again, her father had found a reason to delay the task, to keep his beloved Jean near him.

She couldn’t fight this battle again. Not today, at least. Not after…that email.

Struggling with her own pain, she straightened and let her phony smile fall. She had to shepherd this group to some sort of peaceful ground and put aside her own heartbreak. She was the senior sibling here, with her older sister, Sarah, stuck in Virginia.

“Come on,” she said, putting her hand through the crook of her father’s elbow. “Let’s go in and raise a glass to Mom, at least.”

At that, he turned to her, and his lips twitched up, as if to offer thanks, but she saw the unshed tears in his eyes and looked away, afraid he’d see hers, as well.

Together, the three of them entered the restaurant.

***

Reeses_Summer_of_Promise_1600x2400A painful two hours later after a meal of good food they’d hardly touched, she bid them farewell in the restaurant parking lot, whispering in her brother’s ear as she kissed him goodbye, “We have to talk.”

After she saw them get in Dan’s car and drive off, she got into her own truck and pulled out her phone again to face the reality she’d tried mightily to push aside during the family dinner.

Fingers trembling, she slid the message into view, part of her hoping she’d misinterpreted it the first time. But, no, her reading comprehension skills had been spot-on.

A “Dear John” letter. But she was the “John.”

“Dear Reese,” it read, “I’ve been putting off writing this, but just can’t anymore. I wish you all the best in the world, but I’m just not ready to get married…”

Her fiancé, Lieutenant Sam Bakersfield, was dumping her. Did he even know it was Valentine’s Day? Probably not. He was deployed in Afghanistan. Special forces. Maybe even at an FOB with minimal communication ability. Maybe that’s why he’d chosen today, knowing it would be hard for her to try to Skype or FaceTime with him once she got his bad news.

As she stared at the device and swallowed hard, it rang. Sarah. She didn’t want to take it, but she knew why Sarah was calling.

“He didn’t do it,” Reese said on a cough as she answered the phone.

“Why not?” Sarah asked. “It wasn’t because I couldn’t make it, was it?”

Her sister’s absence had probably provided their father with a convenient excuse, but if he wasn’t ready to let go, would it have helped to push him where he didn’t want to go? Her strong, self-assured father was no more. In his place was an indecisive, distant man she didn’t know how to reach.

She wiped a tear from her eye. “We had a nice lunch. It was okay. Dan was here.”

“Should I come up?”

“No.” She couldn’t face Sarah at this moment, beautiful, confident Sarah with the great husband and great kids, the perfect life. She couldn’t even tell her yet. Not now. “Look, can we talk later? I’m in my truck. And I’m cold.”

They ended the conversation, but still Reese didn’t move, her gaze fixed on the phone in her hand, wanting to look at the offending message one last time, wanting never to see it again, caught between before and now.

With a growl, she pulled the small pear-cut diamond ring from her hand, intending to throw it to the floorboards. But as she raised her fist for the toss, angry resolve left her, and she instead arced her clasped hand to her lips, her grip so tight the diamond cut into her cold fingers.

A strangled cry broke from her throat, and she leaned on the steering wheel and sobbed.

CHAPTER ONE

Four months later

Beep-beep-beep! The backhoe’s warning cut the air as Reese slid the big piece of equipment into Reverse, then cranked the gears to move forward to another patch of ground, manipulating the boom and dipper to punch and dig the earth before her.

She wiped her brow with a gloved hand. Sweat collected under her hard hat in this late May heat wave. Although it was morning, her shirt already clung to her frame under her vest, and her feet swelled in their tightly laced work boots. And she had a headache.

No rest for the weary, she thought, as she soldiered on. She was only operating the backhoe because the guy they’d hired for this job had left for a better gig in New Jersey two days ago. Usually Reese was in the construction trailer managing the site work, as VP of Newhouse Construction, or at the office going through paperwork. Her father was the president, but he wasn’t on the job much.

As she pushed the machine into another gear, she saw the crew chief, Ben, waving at her. She halted the backhoe and turned off its engine, quickly dismounting the mammoth vehicle with the agility of a gymnast. Working on her father’s sites since high school, she knew how to operate almost every piece of equipment they owned, a skill that came in handy when they were short a worker on a tight deadline. Like this one.

“What’s up?” she asked Ben, pushing her hard hat off her brow and pulling off the hot gloves.

The stocky rusty-haired chief pointed at a spot near the tree line of the big brown muddy area they were working, prepping it for a housing development, a contract that had to be finished in record time. She’d been the one to agree to the deadline when she’d bid on the job. They’d lose money for every week they went over it.

“Found something. Might be an artifact.” He sported a half smile, and Reese realized that habit of his annoyed her. It was as if he was always…sneering…at her. Prior to her father’s absence from the job, Reese had handled a lot of the business’ paperwork while her dad had interacted with crew and staff. Six months into her expanded leadership of the team, Reese wasn’t sure that Ben had completely accepted her as a boss. Others had, and she’d been proud of how she’d managed them. Ben was a bit too old-school in his attitudes toward women on the job, though.

“Crap.” Heaving a sigh, she followed him to the spot. Finding any kind of historical artifact on a work site meant delays at the very least and complete cessation of the project at the most. Reese loved and respected history. Just not on her work sites.

When she saw what the item was, she breathed a sigh of relief. Just a metal lockbox of some sort, nestled in a pile of sandy moist soil, the only kind there was this close to the Delaware coast. It lay open and empty.

“We shot photos of it,” Ben said. And then he pulled a wad of papers from a big pocket on his work vest. “These were in it.”

Her relief buzzed back to anxiety as she took the bundle from him. Tied with rotting string, the mildewed, deteriorating bunch could still be identified through some scribbles on the top—they were letters. From the 1940s.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Being a resident of the area, she knew its history and that of the stark watchtowers that still dotted the Delaware coast. Round silos of concrete—poured quickly in one piece, the history went—they had slits for the lookouts who were meant to keep an eye out for enemy efforts to block the Delaware Bay during World War II. Even a lost ship would be a win for enemies in these waters. A ship sunk in that bay where Lewes, Delaware looked across at Cape May, New Jersey, could have kept precious fuel at upriver refineries from reaching important destinations. An old fort at Cape Henlopen—Fort Miles—had big guns aimed at the sea to forestall any unwanted naval traffic in the area. They’d never been fired on enemy ships, but thousands of men had been stationed there before ultimately being sent overseas to Europe and Asia at the end of the war.

A piece of history from that era might be valuable.

“At least it’s not bones,” she muttered, but Ben heard and nodded. Unearthing an old cemetery or Indian gravesite would mean a complete shutdown as experts poured in, making it an archaeological and not a construction dig.

“I should hand this over to somebody,” Ben said, as if she wouldn’t have thought of it herself. And then, he added, “We haven’t found anything else.”

“Okay,” she said making a decision. The last thing she wanted was local or state authorities rapping her knuckles for not doing the right thing. “Don’t work this area today. Just keep leveling the ground near the road. I’ll take these into town and figure out what to do with them.” She placed the packet in her own work vest pocket and grabbed the handle of the lockbox. “Keep things moving,” she said.

She looked at her watch. If she hurried, she could take the find to the local historical society, then pop over to the office and finish the paperwork on Newhouse Construction’s next bid, then run to the store and pick up some groceries her father needed, and drop them at his house in time for lunch, which she’d promised to have with him today. She’d be back at the site this afternoon.

Reese liked being busy, but this was getting ridiculous. Ever since her broken engagement, she’d poured all her energy into work. And for good reason. Her dad was still mourning, working half days when he worked at all, often not coming into the office. She’d gotten used to not bothering him with decisions after he’d snapped at her more than once when she’d asked the same questions several times.

Now she was used to working independently.

As she tramped off the site toward her truck, her hat tucked under her arm and the lockbox dangling from her fingers, she noticed a lone figure approaching from the road. She’d seen him around before, mostly on the beach, horsing around with other men, playing volleyball. Or at least trying. He had a pronounced limp most of the time, and Reese suspected he was military from the short cut of his brown-blond hair, the muscular build, the all-business air. Military in town to do Pain and Torture at Dover Air Force Base up the road was her guess.

Physical therapy—but the soldiers, sailors, airmen who had to go through it called it pain and torture. Reese knew because her best friend, Anne Lee, was head of PT at the base health center, a civil service position that she loved. She handled PT for a variety of military—army, navy, air force, marines—at the inpatient health facility there.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Reese Newhouse,” he said when their paths crossed. He shot a glance over her shoulder toward Ben, as if he expected her to lead him there. It wasn’t the first time she’d had men think Reese Newhouse wasn’t a woman.

“What do you want with Reese?” she said without rancor but with a no-nonsense tone.

“I wanted to talk to him about the backhoe operator position,” he said. At least he looked her in the eye when he spoke instead of scouring the worksite for the “real” Reese Newhouse.

“I’m Reese Newhouse,” she said. “Talk away.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he thrust out his hand for a firm handshake and looked her in the eyes. His were a mesmerizing crystal-blue.

“I’d like to apply for the job,” he said, pointing to the now-silent piece of equipment. “I saw your ad online.”

She’d posted it just hours after getting notice from her former worker. She tilted her head, taking stock of him. If he was military, as she suspected, why’d he need a job?

Not her business, she thought, as she evaluated him further. Strong, capable-looking, muscles straining at a dark green T-shirt. The limp wouldn’t be a problem if he had experience.

“Did you fill out the application?”

He nodded. “Yup. But thought I’d stop by to seal the deal.” He grinned, and she could tell from his confident gaze he was used to charming people with that smile. Dimples formed on either side of a perfect mouth, and warmth emanated from his face, as those blue eyes sparkled with good will. Even she was sucked in. And after Sam, she’d sworn off military, even military types.

Nope, no soldiers, airmen or sailors for her. When she returned to dating, she was going to look for teachers, doctors, lawyers, librarians or even mime artists. No more pumped-up bravado and machismo. She saw enough of it on construction sites, and all it did, she thought, was muddy a man’s thinking. She’d take straightforward and bland, someone honest with her and honest with himself, thank you very much.

Still…those eyes…those muscles…

But he wasn’t date material. He was worker material. And he’d shown up at the work site instead of just filling out the online application. She had to give him points for initiative.

“Okay. I’ll look over your app during my lunch break. If you stop by the office at, say, one-thirty, I’ll give you an interview, assuming your application passes muster.” She wasn’t one for being coy, and she’d not been flooded with apps since posting the position. Now that construction season was underway, machine operators were sometimes hard to find.

“Good enough,” he said, and put out his hand to shake as confirmation. This time, his grip was gentler, as if he had nothing more to prove. “Name’s Zack Davies, by the way. And I printed out my application…just in case.” He pulled two neatly folded sheets of paper from a back pocket and handed them to her. Initiative and preparation—she was impressed.

“Okay, Zack.” She took the papers and did a brief glance. As she suspected, he was military all right. Army. That meant he was probably from around here if he was doing PT at Dover. The military would let members do therapy near their homes, even if it was at another branch’s base.

“I’ll look this over,” she said, then nodded and moved past him, headed for her truck. As she walked, she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was watching her, staring at her back. She shook it off. It was nothing except the satisfaction of having a good-looking man give her a positive once-over. She’d take the compliment and get on with her work.

(c) Libby Malin Sternberg 2019

Reese’s Summer of Promise is available now in paperback and for Kindle.

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Favorite Beach Read 2019: Reese’s Summer of Promise

I’d love it if my book was the “Favorite Beach Read of 2019,” but I don’t even know where to submit it for such an honor. So I’m daydreaming with the title of this post. I hope you’ll indulge me as I tell you a little about this book and why I hope it becomes readers’ favorite beach read of the summer.

First, let’s talk about what makes a good beach read. For me, it’s something not too dark, that keeps me rooting for the characters, has a layered, not shallow, plot, and, yes, involves a happy ending. Throw in a beach location, and it’s a beach beach read!

Reese’s Summer of Promise is the first of three books set along the Delaware coast. So, beach setting–check!

Its main characters are strong, independent people. There’s Reese, who can operate a back hoe and other heavy construction equipment as VP of her father’s construction company. There’s Zack, an army man home to do physical therapy for a leg injury acquired in Afghanistan. Both start their summer “friendship” still stinging from rejection. He received a “Dear John” letter from his fiancee while in the “sandbox,” while Reese received the same breakup from her airman fiance when he was similarly deployed. So, interesting characters–check!

Reeses_Summer_of_Promise_1600x2400As to a layered plot, both Reese and Zack shy away from commitment after being deeply hurt, and they both are dealing with other challenges. Reese, along with her two siblings, is still trying to get her recently widowed father to honor her mother’s wishes and have a memorial service, scattering her ashes along the coast she loved as much as Reese does. Zack is working hard to get his leg back in shape, determined to rejoin his unit wherever they are next sent. Throw in this mix a discovery of old World War II love letters involving a soldier from nearby Fort Miles. As the summer progresses, Reese wonders if the soldier made it home alive…just as she is falling for her own soldier and learns he might be going in harm’s way once more. So, layered plot – check!

The Delaware coastline is a favorite spot for my family. We love vacationing there, especially at the “quiet resort” of Bethany Beach, where Reese lives and works. The book takes readers on a journey to this beautiful area, its bays and salt marshes, its eateries and beaches, and its history. Concrete silos from World War II still dot its coastline, and soldiers were once stationed at Cape Henlopen’s Fort Miles with guns trained on the entrance to the Delaware Bay so no enemy ships could get through to the refineries up river.

As with all beach settings, romance seems to float in with the tide, and Reese can’t resist its pull any more than Zack can, despite the fact that they both start in the “friend zone,” not intent on anything beyond a summer fling, something Reese’s best friend, Anne, urges on her, as she thinks about Zack:

“I’ve sworn off military men,” Reese said, gazing over to where Zack and his friends ambled on the boardwalk. She cringed for him—he’d given up on hiding his pain and now openly limped. They were all so intent on proving to the world they could take it—whatever “it” was. She’d spent enough time with a man like that. Sam had been full of bluster and pride, eager to show her around the base, to brag about what he did, how he helped schedule all the big transports out of Dover. No more. Swagger just hid the truth—they were human.

Then she remembered Anne was dating a military man, Gabe something, a pilot at Dover. They’d only been going out about a month.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with military men for other people,” Reese added, so as not to offend Anne.

Anne was the one snorting now, then she sat up again and returned to her more serious mood. She lightly touched Reese’s hand.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being…intrigued by a man, military or not. It doesn’t mean commitment. It means enjoying yourself. Look, I wouldn’t be surprised if Zack was interested in you. He’s only here for the summer. What’s wrong with a summer fling? You deserve it.”

Reese’s Summer of Promise will be available soon at Amazon. The Kindle price is a bargain, so I hope you check it out and look for the next in the series after you visit with Reese and Zack. And I hope  — and daydream — that readers will find it a favorite beach read this year!

Visit Libby’s website at www.LibbyMalin.com for information on her other novels.

 

 

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Storytelling: Haves vs Have-Nots

Years ago, I read an article about the now-defunct soap opera Another World. I was a fan at the time. I’m unashamed to admit I enjoy serial storytelling, and soap operas rule in that genre, keeping plot lines and characters alive (sometimes even after they’re supposedly dead!) for years, even decades. I’ve even written a book, a romantic comedy, about a soap head writer (My Own Personal Soap Opera).

Marriage_of_Mac_and_Rachel_Another_World_1975

Rachel and Mac get married on “Another World”

In the article, an Another World head writer or producer talked about the core of the soap’s storytelling. Haves vs. have-nots provided the foundation for most if not all their tales. One of the soap’s biggest stories involved the character of Rachel Davis (played by Victoria Wyndham), daughter of single-mother Ada, who villainously connives to seduce and try to marry one rich fellow after another, ultimately landing on wealthy Mac Cory (played by Douglass Watson), with whom she finds happiness (and, of course, sadness as they break up, make up and…on and on).

That story thread, haves vs. have-nots, provides a foundation for some of my own tales in one way or another. My stories aren’t always about rich vs. poor, but they almost always carry an element of upper-class vs. middle or working class, maybe because I felt those distinctions myself over the years as the daughter of two wonderful parents who worked hard all their lives (in white collar jobs) but made sure their two children went to college. I even went to a music conservatory.

Talk about class tensions. In that highly competitive atmosphere, the “haves” were those with musical pedigrees, maybe parents who played in orchestras or maybe just a lifetime immersion in classical music. Everything I knew about classical music came from those conservatory teachers at the time. In that sense, I was a “have not,” acutely aware of my lack of standing, afraid I’d trip up and mispronounce a composer’s name or, as I did one day, bring into a class a ridiculously sentimentalized arrangement of an art song, not realizing how this selection might reveal what a cultural neanderthal I really was. Screen Shot 2019-04-03 at 11.10.27 AM

The conservatory was in Baltimore, my home town, which for many years was very socially stratified, with various groups living in specific regions of the town–old money in Roland Park and Guilford, ethnic whites in Highlandtown, Jewish people on the west side, steel workers in the suburbs of Dundalk, and African-Americans in the inner city.

This experience of class lines, of feeling like a “have not,” even if my family wasn’t poor, undergirds the first adult mystery I ever wrote, Death Is the Cool Night. In this novel, a troubled young conductor, Gregory, can’t remember his actions on the night his nemesis is murdered. As police investigate the crime, he wonders if he did it…or if the real killer is a charming young woman, Laura, from an upper class family, he’s falling in love with.

Throughout the story, Gregory feels his sense of being a “have not” as acutely as I did as a student at Peabody Conservatory, where the book is set.

For a few years, I tried, through literary agents, to sell this book to traditional publishers. It received rejection letters that could have read as back-cover blurbs, but no one wanted to buy. World War II-era books were not popular back then, and its time period worked against me.

So I self-published it, and even managed to snag a wonderful review from a a major trade journal that said, in part:

“Blending operatic drama, sumptuous description, and noir, Sternberg gracefully puzzles out her tormented characters’ actions and motivations…” Publishers Weekly

If you’re reading this on or around the post’s publication date, check it out here for a free read. If you miss the free days, you can still give it a try!

Libby Sternberg

 

 

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Excerpt: “In Sickness and in Health”

An excerpt from my latest novel, now available at the Kindle store….

by Libby Malin

He was making her an offer: marriage, perhaps for a short time, depending on his prognosis, during which she’d live a life of luxury and leisure except tending to him. Not as nurse or maid, mind you, but as companion and dear friend. As helpmate. As hand-holder. He’d hire nurses and maids, and all Ava would have to do was manage them. He’d expect fidelity during the marriage, and she heartily concurred. Once married, she’d live up to the vows and she’d expect the same as him.

Once married—yes, she said that. She spoke with the same level of sincerity and seriousness. She told him he wasn’t crazy, that she was the one who’d originally floated the idea, and that she wasn’t about to laugh at him for taking her up on it, especially given his current situation.

They talked, in fact, as if this were a business deal. But even so, she found herself staring at him, her heart breaking thinking of the loneliness he’d probably felt after his parents passed, and then being alone again in the doctor’s office, getting bad news.

She’d felt lonely during her DC ordeal, and she’d not faced anything as grave as this.

She, too, began to feel that her “inspiration” the night she’d arrived at the beach—to marry a rich man, and the call it had prompted her to make—was some sort of quirk of Fate, leading them to each other, if only for a short time.

This, too, nudged their interaction into overdrive. There was something about a possible death sentence that made everything more intoxicating, that made colors more saturated, emotions more pronounced. Why, she might even say she loved John. Loved him as a human being in need. And who was to say: perhaps she’d fall in love with him, too. She’d always liked him. Well, in that impersonal way of high school kids. But they’d not moved in the same social circles much, so she’d just not had the chance to interact with him. After the beer-soaked proposal at the pool party, she’d even crushed on him. Until she realized he wasn’t going to ask her out. She had to admit she’d found him attractive when he’d landed on her doorstep the other day. Very attractive. And if he’d taken measures to start dating, she would have responded positively.

She squared her shoulders when they arrived at the medical center in Wilmington. Step one: be that helpmate he required. She’d signed up for that task for this day. Maybe that was the way to approach all of it, just in twenty-four-hour segments, one day after another, not looking farther than evening.

The day was tedious and stressful, and if anything was going to test her inclination to say yes, it was the frustration and boredom of medical testing. The check-in and directions to the right office. The endless papers to fill out, the same ones for the radiologist as for the medical center in general. The signature on the privacy papers—yes, she agreed when John asked if he could put her down as someone the doctors could talk to. The showing of his insurance cards, the looking up of said insurance program, the checking of blood pressure and pulse, several times, once for each location they moved to, from office, to waiting room, to private waiting area of the scan area.

The sitting around sea-green waiting rooms flipping through last month’s People magazine waiting nearly two hours for a scan because there was a technical issue with one of the two machines in the medical center, and because it turned out John was, in fact, claustrophobic, and they’d had to pull him from the room, give him a Valium, and wait for it to affect him before putting him back in the schedule. Oh, and there were more checks on his BP and pulse then, too.

All of this was done, of course, with stiff smiles on their faces, little reassuring grins as if to say, “This is going okay, isn’t it? Just a few little bugs here and there, but it’s so ordinary, so normal to have these speed bumps, so comforting to feel irritated at this, this small thing…”

Although she’d done nothing but sit and read the entire afternoon they were there, she felt as if she’d run a marathon when they finally slipped out of the building and breathed fresh air. Her muscles ached, particularly those around her mouth and eyes.

“If I heard ‘Strangers in the Night’ one more time, I would have screamed,” she said.

“Your voice would have been covered by the racket I’d make heaving a chair at the speaker system,” he said, as they made their way to his truck in the multilevel parking lot.

“At least they turned off the TV,” she said. “Watching bodies being cut up in the morgue on CSI: Miami just doesn’t seem like suitable fare for a hospital waiting room, you know?”

At that, he chuckled. So did she. And the tension of the day led them to full-out laughter as the aches left them and they relaxed, and that led to him touching her arm when they reached his vehicle, and she leaned in, and he wrapped her in a hug. And they shared their first kiss.

Not bad. Not bad at all, she thought, as his warm lips pressed against hers and he deepened the kiss. She liked that he didn’t wear aftershave, and she breathed in the clean scent of his soap, something that had a tinge of coconut oil in it, she thought, reminding her of suntan lotion and the sea.

They stayed locked in an embrace, his forehead pressing on hers, for a few moments. “Thanks,” he breathed. “It really made a difference, having someone—you—with me.”

0-6She squeezed his arm. “I was happy to do it. Really.” The tedium of the afternoon lifted, the fatigue memory misting away as well. She felt good. About herself. About life. About everything. And especially about being with John. This was Fate bringing them together.

“I think I’m awake enough to drive,” he said, but she shook her head.

“Nope. I take my duties to my future fiancé very seriously. I will drive us home.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up a bit, and she thought she noticed a visible relaxing of his shoulders. Good. She was glad if she could give that to him.

They both got in, and he leaned his seat back, confirming her belief that he really did need to unwind.

She started the engine, and after a few jolts as she got used to the brakes and action of the accelerator pedal, they were on the road south to Bethany Beach.

(c) Libby Malin Sternberg 2019

Read the entire story of Ava and John’s journey to love through bad and good health by heading to Amazon and picking up a copy of “In Sickness and in Health”!

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“In Sickness and in Health”: New Novel!

Drumroll, please… I’m announcing the release of a new novel, a sweet romance/women’s fiction with some inspirational overtones, In Sickness and in Health. It’s available at the Kindle store and will be on sale for 99 cents for a while, so grab a copy by clicking on this link! 

0-6Here’s the story: Ava Fulton moves to Bethany Beach, Delaware to lick her wounds after a DC scandal sent her into hiding. There, she decides the best way out of her problems is to marry a millionaire, and she just so happens to remember one from high school, John Baylor, now a very successful man who’d shyly tried to court her as a teen. When she reconnects with him, though, she finds he faces grim health news and she tries to be a good helpmate through his medical crises. Only after they marry and his prognosis changes does she realize she’d wed him planning to be a widow, not a wife. They struggle to make a go of their union and a new life in general, eventually heeding an inner call to something greater than either of them together.

And here’s a Q and A about the book and its characters:

Where did the character of Ava Fulton come from?

She originally came from the character of Sheila in my romantic comedy Fire Me! In that book, the heroine spends a day trying to get laid off to snag a generous severance package. She discovers she has some competition in coworker Sheila. I’d envisioned In Sickness and in Health being a sequel to Fire Me, following Sheila’s life. Something happened as I was writing, though–I kept thinking of the heroine as Ava! That name just dogged me as I wrote, and I realized I wasn’t writing Sheila at all but some other woman and her story. So I abandoned the idea of a sequel and wrote this standalone novel instead. As soon as I did this, the novel flowed more easily, the writing became a joy instead of a chore.

The first part of the novel, which you subtitle “Dying,” is about John’s struggles with a serious diagnosis. Was that hard to write?

Sadly, I think many people have experiences similar to John’s, either dealing with a serious diagnosis or being helpmates/friends to people who face such a fate. I’ve dealt with the Big C myself and know the anxiety one experiences during testing, etc. Although I’m a ten year survivor now, I do find myself writing more stories that incorporate some of those health experiences in one way or another. Maybe I’m far enough away from it now that it’s easier for me to explore as a writer.

The second part of the novel is subtitled “Living,” however. What happens when things change for John and Ava?

I don’t think I’m giving away any spoilers to mention that John’s prognosis takes an upward turn…and that’s when he and Ava have to figure out how to live together! Previously they’d been focused on the possibility of him dying, of being in declining health. Once they realize that fate might not be in store, they have to do some heavy lifting in their relationship. This creates a comic moment or two as they struggle with the “in health” part of their marriage vows.

Do they make it as a couple?

Well, readers will have to read the book to find out! 🙂 They have a bumpy road, to be sure, but they do eventually find peace and fulfillment…in a surprising way. I hope readers enjoy discovering how their stories end.

Is In Sickness and in Health an inspirational?

Yes, no, maybe. 🙂 The term “inspirational” covers Christian books–fiction or nonfiction–with faith themes. In Sickness and in Health is…something in between. Like all inspirational fiction, it’s clean and sweet. No sex scenes (the curtain closes even with a married couple like Ava and John in the bedroom), no bad language (or if there is, it’s scant), but, yes, some mentions of faith. I’ve written before on this blog about how general fiction, for the most part, has mentions of faith blanched out of books, but this isn’t the way a lot of people live. Even non-churchgoers can have rich faith lives, can believe in God, and they can even pray often. So I think a book like In Sickness and in Health probably reflects more of an average person’s connection with things spiritual than a lot of general fiction, even literary fiction, does. In my novel, Ava and John start out as good people who don’t even realize they are searching for something more in their lives until they discover ways to put their spirituality into action. It’s not a preachy book at all, and I must admit I hesitated to put a discussion of this aspect of the book on the blog for fear it would turn some away. Ava and John’s faith journey actually has some comic moments in it, and, though it shapes their eventual path, it is a gentle and tender path, not a judgmental one.

This book is set primarily at Bethany Beach, Delaware. Why Bethany?

Bethany Beach is one of my very favorite places, and we go there often. It is a small, quiet resort on the many miles of coastline that make up Delaware’s eastern border, and we vacation there every summer, and visit several times throughout the year. I have several other books in the works that are set there, so watch this space for news of those novels!

In Sickness and in Health by Libby Malin is available at the Kindle store. If you read and enjoy a book, consider leaving a review. Indie authors in particular are helped by reviews. They aid in bringing books to the attention of other readers!

 

 

 

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Excerpt: Heart Condition by Libby Malin

Excerpt from “Heart Condition,” by Libby Malin, a sweet romance, part of a series set in the Bethany Beach, DE area. (c) Libby Sternberg 2019

Heart Condition

by Libby Malin

PROLOGUE

“Mr. Newhouse? Mr. Newhouse? Daniel?”

His eyes focused slowly, searching for the source of the deep voice with a slight Indian accent. Just a second ago, he’d been…somewhere.

His mind struggled through fog. He felt safe, but not well. Numb. A little queasy. Cold. Yes, cold. Refrigerator cold. That’s where he’d been—in the cold operating room. Nurses, doctors, all busy, in blue scrubs. He’d not had a sense of the room’s layout, only seeing the patch of ceiling above him as he was wheeled in. He knew there was lots of equipment there, shiny and bright, as if just delivered and still in its packing, never used. Every once in a while, a face had appeared over him, just the face. The hair pulled under a baglike net, mouth covered with a mask, gloved hands raised in the air. “Doing okay, Mr. Newhouse?” They’d told a joke…and he’d fallen asleep, out cold, before the punch line.

Seconds ago…in a bright, sterile room. Where was he now?

He heard soft bustling noises nearby, a muffled screech of metal rings on a curtain rod, a cart rolling by? He saw two figures on the right. Mom. His heart raced, a fast beep from a nearby monitor pinging it into the room. No, Mom had been gone for more than a year now. This was Sarah, his oldest sister, who looked like her.

And his other sister, Reese. And Dad. They stood by his bed. The light seemed dimmer here, softer. He blinked.

“Mr. Newhouse? Everything went very well.” The doctor, still in blue scrubs, that was who’d been speaking. Dan turned toward this voice on the other side of the bed. For the first time, he noticed the man had neatly manicured fingers, pinkish nails that looked as if they’d been trimmed by an expert as a matter of pride. That was good. A surgeon should take care of his hands….

“It went very smoothly. I’ve already explained it to your family, and I’ll be in to see you tomorrow when you’re awake.” He smiled and patted him on the arm.

“How long….” he managed to murmur, his lips feeling chapped and not connected to his mouth. “How long it take?”

“About five hours. Right on time,” the surgeon said with good cheer.

Five hours. What had they told him—three to six? So “right on time” meant less than the maximum? Why so long?

“You’re going to be fine, Dan,” Sarah said, but he heard the strain in her voice.

“The doctor said you can be back to normal real soon,” Reese added. Then, tacked on, “Of course, we told him you never were normal.”

He smiled and would have laughed…but it hurt. Or tugged. It felt strange. He was under what seemed a mountain of blankets, but when he glanced down, it looked to be only a thin sheet and covering. It felt soft, thick.

“Just rest, Mr. Newhouse. The nurses will get you comfortable and tell you what you can and can’t do. You should get into a room soon.” And then the doctor said to his family, “I’ll be by tomorrow,” as if they hadn’t heard him say the same thing to him.

The doctor left, replaced by a nurse who said, loudly, as if his hearing had been affected, “How are you feeling, Mr. Newhouse?” She looked at the latest readings on the machine connected to him, checked an IV bag.

“Like someone is sitting on my chest.” Everything he said sounded husky and deep, his voice an octave below its normal tone to a basso profundo. And it was hard to speak loudly. It took too much effort and…scared him. He was afraid it would hurt, pushing the air out of his chest.

“That’s normal. You’re going to a room soon.” She must not have heard the doc promise the same thing.

“His color already looks better,” his dad said, gruffly. He looked scared as all hell.

“Mmm-hmm. Should see a big improvement in the quality of his life,” the nurse commented. And then he heard her say, under her breath to his family, “So young…”

So young. He was thirty. But he felt one-hundred. And, despite what the doctor said, he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel normal again.

CHAPTER ONE

She kicked the pot right into the water. She hadn’t intended to, but she’d turned to adjust another plant—fragrant lavender in a cobalt-blue container—and her toe hit the little black resin pot filled with lemon-yellow daisies kerplunk into the depths of the Little Assawoman Bay. That’s what happens, Olivia, when you try to cram a yard full of flowers onto a condo deck.

“Hey!” A voice came from below. A male voice. A specific male. Her landlord. The one whose slow, careful movements screamed old and tired but whose tan face and sandy-blond hair whispered young and eager.

“Sorry!” she said to the unseen shouter. Daniel Newhouse was his name. She’d met him exactly three times, and each time she’d been struck by the same things: he was good-looking, serious and…weak. Or rather, frail. He’d just had surgery, apparently. She knew from calling his rental management office when he was in the hospital. A too-chatty secretary had spilled that info.

Not my problem, she said to herself. Then she yelled it in her mind: Not. My Problem.

Olivia Bentley might be a nurse, but she no longer practiced the art and science of the caring profession. She’d put aside her scrubs last year after her father had died, leaving her a sweet inheritance as his only child. Her mother had passed when she was a girl.

No more nursing for her. No more…having your heart wrenched out as you watched patients struggle. As you watched some…lose the battle.

She shook her head, and a stray lock of frizzy auburn hair clouded her vision. As she pushed it aside, she breathed deep the smell of ocean air and absorbed the stunning shimmer of this spring day on the water. Brilliant blue sky. Abundant sunshine. Sleek, elegant terns winging over the marshy grass.

Just what she needed. She stopped her deck gardening, and plopped into a lounge chair, her feet propped up. Exactly what she needed. 41922363_2001352436589756_6283387358473617408_o

But as she closed her eyes, a news reel of memories flashed through her mind. Blood. Unspeakable trauma. Doctors and nurses around tables, tending the wounded, calling to each other for equipment, blood, sutures, IVs.

“Don’t give up, Hank.”

Her eyes popped open as she tried to figure out if she’d whispered the words or just thought them.

With a sigh, she heaved herself off the chair and went inside to continue unpacking, cleaning, arranging. If she lost herself in chores, she’d forget.

***

Dan leaned against the railing of his condo sipping on a mug of coffee. He heard the sliding door upstairs as his new tenant left the deck. He was beginning to set his clock by her routine. Whenever she stretched out on her chaise, he could do a mental countdown to when she’d shoot up and start doing something else. She never seemed to stay out there for more than a few minutes at a time, popping up to head inside, as if something kept her from really relaxing. And, like him, she’d spent some restless nights there, too, coming outside when Morpheus abandoned them in the wee hours.

She was a petite, curvy pixie, the kind of woman painters from a different era celebrated, but who’d never fit in with the rail-thin looks on today’s fashion magazines.

Ever since he’d first met her—when she’d come to his Baltimore law office to sign the lease for the condo unit above his at Fenwick Island, Delaware—he’d been intrigued. Not just by her bright green eyes, kewpie-doll mouth, porcelain skin and sensual figure. Sure, he’d noticed those things, but there was something else about her, something familiar, because it was territory he now knew, as well.

No, he’d been intrigued by the way her eyes didn’t smile when she laughed or grinned. Something was off there. Nurse retiring at the ripe old age of, what, thirty? That was his guess. His rental management secretary had filled him in on a few more details, how she was “between careers” or “taking a break.” Something. But she had the rent money, and that was all that mattered. Everything else—the sleeplessness that led her to the deck at night, the inability to relax, the haunted look in her eyes sometimes—wasn’t his business.

Not my problem, he thought to himself.

No, his problem was sticking to doctor’s orders, recovering from his heart surgery, and…figuring out what to do with the rest of his life now that he’d resigned from his Baltimore law firm, sold his house, and moved permanently to what had just been his beach home in the past.

He was officially a beach bum.

And he had his own problems with finding peace.

When he heard her walking around upstairs again, he wondered at the wisdom of taking the lower condo for himself and renting out the top one. But his was roomier, with an extra bedroom and a small den. Not that he used the den much. When he was browsing the internet or emailing on his ancient laptop, he preferred sitting at the kitchen counter, where he could see outside to the gently lapping waters of the bay.

Which was what he was going to do now. Check the internet, read the news there, and maybe even Google Olivia Bentley, RN.

____________

(c) Libby Sternberg 2019  This book is finished and will be on submission to agents and/or editors soon.

 

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A Tutorial on Publishing

If you’ve ever thought of writing a book and trying to get it published, here’s a quick tutorial on how the publishing business works with steps on how to proceed from blank page to published book:

STEP ONE: Write the book. Edit the book.

If you’re writing a novel (fiction), and you’ve never been published before, you have to have a complete, finished manuscript before you approach agents and editors. Nonfiction can be sold to publishers with a proposal only (synopsis, sample chapters, outline), but fiction writers usually have to finish the whole darn thing. That means writing between 50,000 and 100,000 words of story. If you’re not up for that, you’ve chosen the wrong field. 🙂

Writing a book is a huge task, and while you don’t need a degree in literature or creative writing to do it, you should think about storytelling, about what keeps you engaged in your favorite stories (fiction or nonfiction) and how the author tells the tale. There are no storytelling “rules” (there are grammar and usage ones, though), but you should give some thought to how to wrestle your creativity into a shape that makes sense to readers and will keep them turning pages.

Once you finish writing, it’s time to edit. Look for a critique partner or beta readers who can look at the manuscript with fresh eyes to catch inconsistencies and embarrassing mistakes and offer frank opinions. Even consider hiring a professional editor to look over your work — this is particularly important if you decide to self-publish. Don’t neglect this step.

STEP TWO: Decide on the publishing path — traditional or self-publishing.

Writers today are fortunate to have available different ways of getting their books into readers’ hands. The stigma of self-publishing as “vanity publishing” has all but been erased with the advent of e-books and the ease with which one can make stories available in these formats. Here’s a quick summary of the definition of both kinds of publishing and advantages and disadvantages to each:

Traditional publishing: This is when a reputable press buys your book, edits it, contracts for cover art, prints the book, sends it out for reviews, and distributes it to retailers. In the traditional publishing model, money flows one way: from publisher to author. The author gets an advance, (usually paid in installments — one when the contract is signed, and another when the revised/polished manuscript is ultimately accepted by the editor) and if sales are brisk, the author receives royalties (a percentage of each book sale) for as long as the book is available.

Advantages: The money in the advance comes to you before a single book is sold to the public. You only need to write the book and do some promotion, while everything else is handled by the publisher. The money you receive from traditional publishers is usually much more than you make self-publishing as an unknown author.

Disadvantages:Getting a book contract is difficult and often requires first landing a literary agent (more on this later), advances for books are decent from one of the “Big Five” publishers (Penguin Random, Macmillan, Simon & Schuster, Hachette, Harper) but small from small presses, and writers often have little control over cover art, distribution, and promotion, and sometimes see no royalties whatsoever.

Self-publishing: This is when you, the author, handle all the book-related tasks, from writing to editing to layout to cover art to printing to distributing to promoting. Phew! Those are a lot of tasks. Many authors will subcontract with self-publishing businesses to handle most of these activities, but it’s possible, with persistence and some skill, to control them yourself. A good place to start (after the book is written and edited) is with the Amazon self-publishing platform, but there are reputable firms (such as Draft2Digital) that will handle, for a percentage of royalties, layout and distribution, etc. While you don’t earn advances in self-publishing, if you handle the entire process yourself, you get all the royalties. You will end up paying subcontractors, however, for tasks you don’t handle on your own.  book_banner

Advantages: You control the whole process. You can write the book you want without pesky editors telling you to change this or that. You can choose your own cover art (paying a subcontractor for it or using the free services of platforms such as Amazon to construct your own). You decide how and where to promote. You also keep a much larger share of royalties, only giving up a small percentage of each book sale to distribution platforms such as Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Disadvantages: It’s a heckuva lot of work (see above) and not for the faint-hearted. You don’t earn any advances. Sales are hard. Brick and mortar bookstores usually won’t take self-published books except on a consignment basis. It’s hard to get reviewed (though Publishers Weekly has a good program, through its BookLife portal, for self-published authors). Without the distribution paths of a major publisher, you will find it extremely difficult to get attention for your book and to make a lot of sales.

A Few Words About Literary Agents

Above, I mentioned that you need to land a literary agent before you can sell to a traditional publisher. This is because almost all traditional publishers are closed to submissions except through agents.

Literary agents perform the following tasks:

  • they help you polish your book if they think some tweaking will make it more marketable;
  • they identify and submit to appropriate editors who might be interested in the type of story you have told;
  • they negotiate a contract once a sale to a publisher is made;
  • they work with subagents to sell ancillary rights (film/TV/foreign, etc.)

As with traditional publishers, the money flows one way in an agent/author relationship: from agent to author. Reputable agents do not charge fees. They are paid when you are paid. They take a commission, 15 percent, of your sale. If they manage to sell ancillary rights, they usually get 20 percent, which they split with the subagent involved.

Landing a good literary agent is difficult. They don’t take on any client. They look for clients who are marketable, who have stories they think they can sell. They have personal likes and dislikes, and they often specialize in certain genres (fiction, nonfiction, romance, YA, sci-fi/fantasy, etc.).

You need to do a bunch of research before querying agents, to determine if they are right for you. A simple way to start is to go to a bookstore, look at books similar to yours and glance at the “acknowledgments” page. Authors often thank their agents there. Make a list of these agents as the start of your search.

You can also research agents at websites such as www.agentquery.com or the subscription site www.publishersmarketplace.com

Once you identify agents who might be right for you, go to their agency websites to find out how they prefer to be queried. Some want email queries only. Some want email queries with the first chapters and a synopsis attached. Some use submission portal sites.

STEP THREE: Promote your book.

Whichever publishing route you take, promoting your book will be one of your responsibilities. Yes, traditional publishers will help if you are published through them. Their marketing teams will get your book reviewed, and they will try to get you featured in publications, on blogs, and on television and radio, but most authors only get book reviews out of these efforts and little else (unless you have a “platform” – a job or topic that gives you a higher profile). In fact, I’ve often thought that the best promotion a traditional publisher can do for you as an author is to get your book in as many stores as possible, and to get it placed cover out (not spine out) on shelves or on “new releases” tables. Those efforts cost money, by the way. The publisher pays for that “real estate” in stores.

The promotion you can do on your own includes the following:

Construct a website. Readers like to look up information on authors, so consider putting together a website. Some authors use free services (like this wordpress blog!). Some contract with web designers to put up attractive pages that include info on the author, his/her book(s) and more. This doesn’t have to be extravagant, though. The goal is to provide readers with some quick info about you and the book(s). Keeping it simple — and possibly free — is fine.

Construct an Amazon author page. Amazon allows authors to post biographies and links to their books. Take advantage of this service. It’s free.

Contact local media. Traditional publishers won’t be familiar with your local, small-town newspaper or local talk radio, so you should either suggest to your publisher they send your book to those media outlets or simply do it yourself, with a nice cover letter asking if they’d consider reviewing it or having you on-air as a guest, with a press release announcing its publication (with a headline promoting your local connection: Ourtown Resident Publishes Fantasy Novel).

Seek reviews from family and friends. Once your book is on e-tailer sites like Amazon, ask family and friends if they’d read it and post a review there. Be aware, however, that Amazon doesn’t like to post reviews from people with obvious connections to the author. So if all your reviewers in the family have your same last name…their reviews might not make it onto the site.

Identify book review blogs and respectfully request a read and review, as well. Sometimes, book blogs will also feature author interviews or have authors as “guests” for a day. You can offer a free copy to the bloggers to give away to a lucky reader in some sort of contest the day the review or blog post appears.

Do book signings. Look at signings as a way to get more publicity. Send a press release out to regional media about the signing. It gets your name in the paper and possibly online, on air, with the title of your book. Sometimes, a signing will be the “hook” upon which a local paper hangs a story about you and your tome.

Book signings aren’t likely to generate a ton of sales at the stores involved, though, so the publicity (getting your name and book title further into the public eye) is a better goal than actual sales at the signing. A Barnes & Noble staffer once told me that the average number of books an unknown author sells at signings is…three. So don’t think of book signings as a way to sell huge numbers.

Look for speaking opportunities. If you’ve written nonfiction or a novel with a current event/special topic focus, look for organizations at which you could talk. Local clubs are often on the lookout for speakers, and they might even let you sign and sell some of your books after your presentation.

There are lots of other little things you can do (I’ve been known to take copies of my books on vacation to leave in rented condos!), but the overall goal is creating that elusive “book buzz.” To me, book buzz means that enough people have heard of you and your book that they start thinking they better buy it! It takes an enormous amount of promotion to get to that sweet spot, though, so don’t be disappointed if you can’t quite reach it.

STEP FOUR: Enjoy being an author

Few writers become best-sellers. The vast majority of books in stores today are written by authors who have “day jobs,” who don’t support themselves by writing books. Becoming a best-seller is part skill and part luck. It can hinge on many things outside your control. So, don’t think you’re a failure if you don’t hit those “top ten” lists.

You’ve told your story, written a book. You’ve accomplished something big and difficult. If your audience is small, you still can be proud and happy to be sharing your tale with those who are interested.

And who knows? Maybe that next story you’re so eager to tell will be the one…that propels your book to the top of the charts!

Libby Malin Sternberg is a novelist who has sold to traditional publishers (Harlequin, Dorchester, Bancroft, Five Star/Cengage, Sourcebooks) and who has self-published. Her books have been reviewed by Publishers Weekly, the Washington Post and more, and one of her novels, Fire Me!, was bought for film by Fox Studios. She was an Edgar finalist for her first novel, a YA mystery.

 

 

 

 

 

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Five Paragraph Short Story: Marry Me

by Libby Sternberg

In summer’s long farewell, on a warm day that smelled like tea, she made her getaway. October’s beach still scorched from the sun’s baking it all day, but the bubble-thin edge of tide on her toes felt tepid, dampening the chiffon hem of her dress. A deep sigh of relief oozed out of her. Then she turned from the horizon. She wiped her face with a tissue, kept her sunglasses on, strode into the rental office and picked up her key with quick nods of agreement when asked if she had been at the resort before. Yes, she had. She knew the drill.

A few moments later, she unlocked a second-floor condo door, threw her bags on the master bedroom bed, all except one which she stashed on the kitchen counter. After a trip to the bathroom, she rummaged through the kitchen tote, poured herself a whiskey, strode to the deck, slid open the door, and plopped onto a wicker chair staring at the sun-glinted manmade pond.

After she’d guzzled the two fingers she’d poured, she took her glass back into the kitchen to get another. But first, she detoured to the bedroom where she removed at last her backless white wedding dress, a sporty look for a garden ceremony. She pawed through her duffel and found shorts and a tee and squirmed into both in a few seconds’ time.

Then it was to the deck again with her drink, this time drawing her knees up against her chin as she stared at the pond and then at her phone. Why didn’t he call?  Surely he’d fly off his damned perch of indecision now. She’d stood outside the window of Gus’s hamburger joint and looked at him as she had a hundred times throughout grade school, high school, and her college years, each look a question: Do you want me?

Someone knocked at her door.

These five-paragraph short stories are part of a series, usually inspired by songs. This one was inspired by Thomas Rhett’s “Marry Me.” 

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