Leslie Tall Manning's Blog

Along with a love for reading novels, I love reading book reviews. I must read ten to twenty reviews a week, and not just books I’m interested in, but all kinds of books. I do this because I like to see how today’s reviewers have adapted over time, how they navigate within an ever-changing publishing world, and their different styles of review writing.

In pre-social media days, the only reviewers one could find were in magazines and major newspapers, and on Public Radio. They were usually older, with a degree in journalism or communication. Today, anyone can call him or herself a reviewer. For an author like myself, having so many people reviewing books is both a positive and negative aspect of the industry, but I will go down that twisted tunnel in a future blog post.

A short while back, I stumbled onto a review site I’d never seen before. This particular reviewer—let’s call her “Sally”—is in her early twenties and has been reviewing books for two years. This does not mean that Sally is a well-rounded reader, for most of what she reviews are Young Adult and New Adult mystery/romance. But she has found a niche within the genre and consistently reviews one book a week. Sally is a careful and relatively solid writer. She enjoys receiving free books in exchange for honest reviews, a common trait among young reviewers today. She is not one of those pretenders who slams down ten books at a time while tossing them all the same amount of stars, and writes reviews riddled with typos. Sadly, this is one of the negative sides of open forum reviewing.

Okay. So back to Sally.

A short time ago, one of her reviews jumped out at me because she did something that pissed me off: Sally gave away the storyline while offering trigger warnings.

Up until a few years ago, publishers did not offer trigger warnings on book covers, nor did they detail them in their reviews. As a young person, I read everything I could get my hands on from Stephen King to Jack London. If the author frightened me or made me cry, then he did what was intended: he affected me. When I began writing full-time in the late 1990’s, the phrase “trigger warning” wasn’t even in the industry’s vocabulary. Writers could write about monsters, aliens, pedophiles, rapists, war, arsonists, abusive parents, robbers, etc., and no books offered a trigger warning beforehand. Perhaps this is what made reading exciting.

Unfortunately, when Sally reviewed this particular book, she shared specific scenes within the story that could be deemed shocking to someone…or no one. One of her trigger warnings cautioned that the book has a scene where a girl cuts her finger and has to go to the emergency room for stitches. Her other warnings included abusive parents and a mean dog.

As a published author, I make sure my readers know what the book is about by the back matter. If the word “murder” or “demon” or “arson” or “creep” is on the back cover, doesn’t it stand to reason that an anxiety-ridden person may choose not to read the book? Is it really necessary for writers and publishers and reviewers to worry about every single reader who may or may not have a fear of something? Of anything?

I recently read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. To begin with, there’s the title. What else do I need to know about this book? It’s obviously about a murder. Then I read the back matter. Yup. Horrific true story of a murder of an entire family. I read the book for the literary quality, even though I knew it would be upsetting. I’m not going to call the publisher and tell them to put a trigger warning on the cover. If you don’t want a book to upset you, then don’t read it. Not sure by the back matter if the book may trigger some anxiety? Then ask around. Read some accredited reviews, and not just those from speed readers. There’s almost no excuse today NOT to know what a book is about before reading it. It should not be up to the author or the publisher to add trigger warnings to every book about every single situation that may or may not upset a reader.

Sally screwed up as a reviewer. By offering so many trigger warnings, she, in effect, gave away much of the story, and that is never a good thing, certainly not for the author who will lose possible sales. I plan not to read the book because too much was given away.

Look, I am sympathetic. I work with young adults for a living and have held them in my arms during a global pandemic. I know people with mental illness; friends who suffer from anxiety. And I sympathize with all of them. I really do.

But when it comes to reviewing books, please remember that less is best. I only want to know how you feel about the plot and the characters and their personal journeys. I don’t want to know the details of every single scene because you think that warning me ahead of time will help in some way. Trust me. I don’t need you doing me any favors. I can figure out what to read on my own. When a trigger becomes a spoiler, dear reviewer, you’ve gone too far.

Hi ya, folks! I'm coming out of my writing cave to announce that my latest YA will be released by mid-summer. RULES OF FALLING is a bit edgier than my other YA titles, for 16 and up.

Quick blurb:
"Erica O'Donnell, a seventeen-year-old chronic fainter and odd-girl out, must find a way to expose a deadly arsonist. Gradually peeling away layers of deception from those she trusts the most, Erica wonders how far she is willing to go to uncover truths--and how many people will get burned in the process."

Cover release and ARCS coming soon!

Hope everyone is happy and healthy, and enjoying the budding of spring.
: )

I was recently invited to a book club to discuss my novel, GAGA, even though it was published in 2015. Because this particular book club offered fresh insights regarding my main character’s world, I decided I would write a blog on how the book came to fruition and why it keeps such a tender place in women’s (and men’s) hearts.

Side note: Yes, there is a famous singer named Lady Gaga; no, this book has absolutely nothing to do with her. As a matter of fact, the novel was first begun, including procuring the title, while Lady Gaga was barely out of high school. In case you wondered.

GAGA Summary: When her husband releases her from a stagnant marriage, a freelance writer gets a chance to score the biggest interview of the decade. All she has to do is leave her daughter behind, change her name, dress like a crazed groupie, and for one month follow a comeback rock band as they tour the US.

Genre: Women's fiction, commercial/literary

Core themes: Rock and roll, high school crushes, throwing fears to the wind, and starting over

Time Period: Contemporary

Comparable Book Titles: In Her Shoes by Jennifer Weiner; Tempting Fate by Jane Green; One Day in December by Josie Silver

Comparable Film Titles (for those who compare books to movies, which is fine with me): Music and Lyrics; Almost Famous; Enough Said

The back story:

Waaaaay back in early 1985, (I won't tap my foot while you do the math), I dated a guy who bought and sold venue tickets for a living. Perhaps scalping is a better word, but I digress since this story is not about him. He and I used to take limos to music concerts all over Southern California, where I lived at the time. I was in my early twenties. One of these concerts was Hall and Oates, an incredibly popular guitar duo. (If you have never heard of them, feel free to look them up.) The San Diego Sports Arena was mostly packed during the opening band, since the lead singer was Corey Hart, who’d made a hit record out of the word “sunglasses” and was a hot ticket at the time. He even wore his Ray-bans while he entertained the crowd. As during most concerts, my date and I sat in the front row. I even brought my older sister to this particular concert, as witness to what I am about to share with you.

Corey Hart and his band played a while, and they were quite good. Near the closing of their act, Corey shouted into the mic, “Who wants to come up and sing ‘Sunglasses’ with me?”

Of course the audience went wild. What teenager, twenty-something chick, or cougar wouldn’t want to stand next to this popular hot singer of the day? And to boot, he really did (and still does) have a lovely voice, not to mention he plays a few instruments.

As I mentioned, I was sitting in the front row. Or, I suppose by now we were standing, as concert-goers often do at a concert. In any case, Corey was looking out over the audience, scanning the babes in their tight tops, short skirts, big Aqua-netted hair. And there stood I, dressed in a preppy yellow (ugh, yellow!) sweater I’d owned since junior year of high school, a pair of jeans (probably Levis), and a pair of docksides (popular footwear at the time, even for non-boaters). The height of my hair, on a scale of 1 to 10, was about a 6 that evening. That was me. Middle of the road. Not gorgeous, but young and presentable; not sexy, but bubbly and self-assured. You see, my background is in musical theatre (oh, poor Corey, if he only knew…) and I LOVED being on stage. The bigger the audience, the better. I am still the same way today: a stutterer in front of a small group, a loud theatrical persona in front of thousands. But that didn’t matter at first, because Corey wasn’t looking at me. He didn’t even offer a quick glance my way, down there at his feet, front row, center.

But his bass player did.

The bass player made eye contact, pointed to me, leaned over the end of the stage, and extended his hand. My date pushed me toward him, and I literally crawled up the side and onto the stage with the bass player’s help. (Thank God I wasn’t wearing a mini skirt and heels!) Then Corey saw the plane Jane his bass player had pulled from the ocean of pearls. He looked both surprised and sad. I think he was hoping to bring up a sex kitten from a Cosmo cover, not some preppy girl who looked like she worked in the sweater department at JC Penney.

But I didn’t care. I was onstage!!

The bass player pushed me over to Corey, then Corey shouted something into the microphone, keeping it cool, playing the game. He turned to me, slid off his sunglasses, and positioned them on my narrow face.

“Let’s sing my song together,” he said, or something to that effect. And I should have nodded, or screamed like I’d just won the double whammy on the Price is Right, or fainted. But I did none of those things. Instead, I said, nearly begging, “Oh, please let me do harmony, please…” He looked at me like I was a total goob; an idiot. I’m sure he was wondering why I wasn’t trembling with glee, or giving him shy playful looks. Like maybe if I had done one of those things, I would have been asked to come backstage, share a glass of wine, spend time on the bus... Instead, I explained that I was an alto, that I HAD to harmonize. That I loved singing and he and I would sound great together. And that’s what I did. The song played, Corey sang the melody, I sang the harmony, and the song ended. I thought we sounded pretty good. Heck, maybe he’d ask me to join his entourage, be a female backup singer, or a roadie.

Instead, I was cast aside like the non-fan I appeared to be.

The rest of the story only has to do with me being pushed backstage by the same bass player who'd invited me up, and a security guard who did not believe me when I said I’d just been onstage singing with Corey. Eventually, I was led back to my seat. By then, Corey and his musicians were finished, and Hall and Oates were preparing to play. Regrettably, the sunglasses gifted to me were stolen a few weeks later.

So then. Great story, right? But how does this actually relate to my book, GAGA?

Well, I’ll tell you.

The guy who got me into the concert knew a photographer who had taken a photo of Corey and me together onstage. (In the old days, the only ones allowed into venues with cameras were press people.) My date secretly paid the photographer for a copy of the photo. Then, as a surprise, he had it blown up into an 11x 14 inch poster. For some reason, I mailed the poster to my little sister, and she kept it in pristine condition and a few years later gave it back to me.

While I only dated that particular guy a few more times, and Corey Hart only had a few more hits (he did go on to win numerous music awards and is still famous in many countries), the poster stayed buried in a box and moved with me wherever I went.

Soon after I began writing in the late 90s, I unburied the poster and hung it on my wall, a reminder that throwing our fears to the wind is a much better way to live than treading water in a pool of regret.

GAGA became my third novel, rewritten many times over the years, and published in 2015. It is the sweet yet complex story of a woman who feels her life is stagnant, then realizes the only way to vanquish this tedium is by taking more than one risk; of understanding that we are in charge of what our lives become, and if we wait around for the right moment, if we make excuses for why we don’t do things, the right moment never comes.

You see, the right moment isn’t next year, or next week, or tomorrow. The right moment is now.

It is always now.

GAGA’s protagonist ventures beyond her comfort zone and plunges into a venture of a lifetime, but only because she says yes instead of no. If she’d said no to going undercover as a groupie and following a heartthrob rocker on his comeback tour, there would have been no book. GAGA, like the memorable poster that hangs next to my desk, reminds us that the old adage is true: Life is short.

Trust me on this, especially if you are still young. It seems like only yesterday I was standing on a stage singing a song with a famous rocker. In real years, that was decades ago. And yet every day, as I being my writing, I look at that photo like a talisman, for that critical moment caught in time was a jumping off point for me—a sort of catalyst—though I did not know it until years later.

Have you ever thrown your fears to the wind? Do you have a reminder of some kind—a photo, saying, or personal story of bravery—to lift you up, to keep you going when you want to jump ship? Or perhaps your own jumping off moment?

Look, you don’t have to go onstage with a rock band to prove you are fearless. There are countless ways in which to do this. But do it, in whatever way works for you. Throw it out there. Throw it out there now.

What’s the worst that can happen?

I have been writing since college in the mid-nineties. As a late bloomer and theatre major, the first major work I wrote was a play that was eventually produced and performed at my university. Then I took a novel-writing class. I began my first novel in my final semester of senior year, and completed it in 1999 while sitting at a fold-out table in a cramped apartment dining room. Then I wrote a second novel. And a third. Soon, my new husband and I moved to a bigger apartment where I had my own office.

Around the same time, the pain started.

I have always been somewhat athletic, meaning that I work out five days a week, can touch my toes, do a backbend, run around the block a few times without blacking out…

I remember the exact moment the pain began. It was early in the morning and the sun was just coming up. My husband lay sleeping soundly beside me. My hips shouted me awake. They hurt deeply, like I’d tried a new workout (which I had not) or I’d been doing hours of gardening (which I had not).

I spent the next few weeks downing aspirin and hoping the pain would subside. When I found no relief after a few months, I went to a chiropractor, who locked me into twenty visits, even though he did absolutely nothing to alleviate the pain. I went to a second chiropractor. Then an acupuncturist. All to no avail. Then I went to my general practitioner, who decided that checking my stomach, having an MRI on my back, and offering Lupus, MS, fibromyalgia, and Lyme’s Disease screenings were needed to rule out possibilities. All came up negative, thankfully.

But you know what? Not once did any health care provider ask me what I did all day. If they had, I would have said, “I sit on my ass, writing for countless hours at a time, in a chair that sinks in the middle, with my back hunched like a ninety-year-old.”

The pain continued.

Over the course of the next ten years, I’d written seven novels. I was proud of myself, privately tutoring in the evenings to support my writing habit, spitting out thousands of words four days a week, loving every aspect of my little writing career. My husband and I had moved to North Carolina, living the Southern life in a lovely Victorian home. I’d landed an amazing agent, and my work was consistently being submitted to top New York editors. I was totally happy, totally in my element. I couldn’t have asked for anything else.

Except for the pain, which had decided to travel up my spine to my shoulders, and then to my neck. To put it bluntly, I ached all over, from my ears to my ass. And still no one asked what I did all day.

I visited another chiropractor. I bought a butt pillow. A new chair. A new laptop. An exercise ball. I paid out of pocket for back massages. Sat in the hot tub. Used heat compresses. Cut my writing hours from four to three. Added more stretching to my gym routine. I visited a quack who tried to put me on depression medication after speaking with me for one whole minute and failed to give me a physical exam. “Cymbalta (an anti-depressant) will get rid of your physical pain,” he said. I tore up the prescription and told him, “I’m sad because of the pain. Not the other way around.” Idiot.

Then a miracle happened.

I was tutoring one of my students who one evening decided to work at the kitchen counter instead of the dining room table. Most of my students tend to work at either their dining room or kitchen tables, as it makes it easy to spread out their homework. But this time was different. For over an hour, my student sat on a high stool. Because the stools were clunky and we had a difficult time sitting side by side, I stood.

Let me repeat that last simple sentence: I stood.

For the next few weeks, each time I worked with this student, I stood next to him. I noticed that the pain after working with him did not seem to be as severe as when I sat with other students. While I could not ask all of my students to work at their kitchen counters, there was one place I could stand for hours every day without it affecting anyone but me: my writing office.

Excited, I went online and found dozens of standing desks. Some were on wheels, others came with different shelves, or knobs for raising and lowering the height, or computer chargers built in. Most were in the hundreds of dollars. A few were nearly a grand. But not all.

I found a standing desk, a dummied down version of the high-tech kind. It is metal and stands on two funny-looking legs, and has built-in knobs for changing the height. It is not a desk in the traditional sense–it is actually a riser to place on a desk, to be used with a laptop. This one even has holes in it, so the laptop can stay cool. I ordered it right away. I got it in the mail within a week. I set it up the moment it arrived. I bought a separate Bluetooth keyboard and mouse so I could alternate between having my hands at chest height and hip height.

And my life dramatically changed.

Six years and five additional novels later, I am relatively pain-free. I say relatively because even standing has its draw-backs, like sore hips from leaning (do the cannon-ball stretch every 30 minutes) and varicose veins (wear support hose if you are prone). Even with a standing desk, you need to MOVE. A lot.

In fall of 2018, it was discovered that my spine at C3 and C4 are fused. When I asked the orthopedic surgeon if this is because I sat all those years, hardly moving my head for hours at a time, he told me no, that it is a genetic condition. But there is a part of me that believes if I had bought the standing desk sooner, allowing me to move more while I write, the fusing may not have happened. As an aside, a few weeks of physical therapy showed me how to help the situation, and I am pretty good about doing my neck stretches a few times a day.

No one gets out of here alive. But who wants to live with pain? If you are a writer, get a standing desk. I don’t care if you are twenty or one hundred. You need to move. You cannot sit and sit and sit and hope there will be no ramifications. Your spine needs to move. Your legs need to have proper circulation. Your neck needs to turn.

Stretch high, bend low, shake your booty. Do a dance every five-hundred words. Or jumping jacks. Take a walk around the block.

You want to be a writer? Then tend to your own needs before you tend to your characters.

Your real-life body will thank you.

Hello writers, readers, and bloggers!

While most of you know what the term "beta read" means, or at least have heard the phrase, let me break it down in simple terms and then share why I am proud to be one.

A beta reader is someone who reads a piece of writing before its debut. The work could be by a newbie or an established author, and may be everything from a work of fiction or non-fiction, to a comic book, to a poem. I am a novel beta reader, partly because that is what I write, and partly because I love to read fiction.

So, what does a beta reader do besides read? Firstly, beta readers read for free. We are (commonly) asked to read for fun, but if any typos jump out, we are to let the publisher or author know right away. While this may sound like an author is simply looking for free editing, this is absolutely not the case. Before a reader is asked to look at a piece of work, the work will already have been proof-read and hopefully close to perfection. Often times the publisher is trying to establish one or more of the following: a target audience prior to publication; early reviewers; reader blurbs to place on the book cover or to use in publicity; last-minute typos; timeline or other continuity discrepancies; or opinions on the best book cover.

So, you may ask, if a reader reads a book for free in order to help out a writer, what's in it for the reader?

Lots. An author should offer you the following: your name in the acknowledgements; the opportunity to see your blurb on a book cover; a signed copy of the work when available; book marks; other swag when applicable. Additionally, if you are an author trying to build an audience, blurbing other authors' works can work in your favor if the book ends up with good reviews. Not a bad thing to have your name and blurb at the top of Rainbow Rowell's latest book! And what's cool is the name of your own novel will follow your blurb. Example: "Rowell's latest book is a true masterpiece!" ~Leslie Tall Manning, author of the award-winning Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town.

How should an author request a beta read? This can happen in different ways, depending on if the author has a publisher or publicity person working on her behalf, or if the author is independently publishing, it still usually it works like this: A writer or publisher has heard about a particular reader (perhaps they have a blog or a review site), or they have found another author who writes in the same genre (like sci-fi or steampunk). They trust that this reader will A) actually read the book; B) be able to do it within the allotted time frame; C) enjoy the genre; D) be honest about their review; and E) write a review that is positive enough to pull a blurb to use on the cover.

Out the gate, the reader needs to be up front about whether or not the book is up their alley (ie: if you detest rom-com, do not offer to read rom-com). Writers, just like readers, do not like to waste their time.

What happens if a reader does not like the book? This is a common question that first-time beta readers ask. I have my own rule of thumb, and that is if the book does not grab me by the first 40 pages, I am done. I will politely tell the author or publisher that the book is not up my alley, then I will thank them for trusting my consideration.

Case in point: I was recently asked to read a Young Adult romantic novel, with a family saga as a secondary plot. The publisher is a big one, and the book sounded like something I would enjoy, even though I'd never read this author's work before. The novel is third or fourth in a series, but I was told this did not detract from the book being read as a stand-alone. I am not sure how the publisher found me, perhaps through my agent, or by scouting award-winning YA authors. In any case, they approached me via my website. All they were looking for were blurbs from established authors, not any kind of editing whatsoever. Being an incredibly busy person (I write twenty hours a week, work as a private tutor fifteen hours a week, and market most of the remaining hours) at first I hesitated. But I am a relatively fast reader when it comes to YA, and all I had to do was read it for entertainment, so I thought why not? The payoff would be that my blurb could make it onto the front or back cover of a well-known YA author's book.

So I began reading. Within the first ten pages, I had already circled (this is the cursed editor in me) about 20 times that the main character either rolled her eyes or shrugged her shoulders. And then it got worse. I started noticing that there was a lot of chuckling going on. Like over and over again, the characters were chuckling. Look, I am NOT a literary snob. I love to be entertained by all kinds of writing. But I honestly could not get past the rolling eyes and the shrugging shoulders and the constant chuckling. It was driving me so batty, I wasn't even sure what the story was about! And while there is a chance that those issues would later be rectified, it was shocking to me that it was sent out for blurbs. I actually found myself feeling sorry for the author that they didn't recognize their own overuse of words and gesticulation, and that their editor didn't either. And this pity stopped me from reading past page 40.

What did I do? I went the honesty route. Could I have lied in favor of the author? Sure. But that is not how I roll. I find it to be a disservice to a writer to pretend I like something when I do not. It would be no different than a bad or average singer going on American Idol and having the judges tell her she is wonderful. That does nothing for anyone. I am old school. I do not give out trophies just for showing up to a game. You win or you lose. And if you lose, you can either work on getting better, or you can walk away. Life is all about choices. That said, if a writer is in the early stages of a book that they ask me to take a look at, that is a different story. I expect typos and global weaknesses in first drafts. But not in a final copy. What did I tell the publisher? I was tactful, of course. I wrote her an email that said the book didn't hook me, and that I didn't want to pretend to love it and leave a fake review. The publisher wrote back, and thanked me for my honesty, and that was that. I'm sure she had sent the book out to dozens of people, so my rejection probably didn't change much for the writer. And I will say it was an interesting feeling as an author to give an editor a rejection for a change!

So then, do some reviewers fake it? You betcha. I see blurbs all the time that wax poetic about one book or another, and the book is total trash and subsequently receives scathing reviews. It could even be that some of these readers don't really read the whole book. I am asked all the time to read only the "first few chapters" of a book before reviewing. WHAT? Are you SERIOUS? I don't care if you are Stephen King or John Green. I am not going to read three chapters and then send them my review. If I do not get past page 40, I do not review. Ever. Period. How can you review a book if you didn't read the ending? This makes no sense to me. What a waste of time for everyone. And what is really hurtful is this: Some of these books, with proper editing, could be better. Maybe editors are sending the books out too quickly. Maybe there needs to be more care given, both by the writer, and also by the editor. I'm not saying that every book needs to take years to write like White Oleander or To Kill a Mockingbird, but books should be cared for and loved like children. They are pieces of art. They are going to be out there forever, for the public to read, over and over again.

I used to know a guy in the 90's who wrote a book about golf. He got a famous golfer that he used to meet on the greens to blurb the book in order to help it sell. You could tell the guy never read it because the book was awful. I mean, typos everywhere after publication, and no continuity whatsoever. It shocked me, even back then, that this was something that was happening in publishing.

So why am I a beta reader if I have little time and some of the books that come my way aren't ready for reviewers' eyes? Three reasons: I get a kick out of reading something before the masses, I become a better writer with every book I read, and Karma. There is something sort of sneaky about reading a book before anyone else, and being trusted to do so. Also, the more I read others' works with a discerning eye, the less mistakes I make within my own work. I run control-finds on things like eye rolling and shoulder shrugging. I go over every single sentence before I ever send to an editor at a publishing house. I do my work, because in the end, I want a symbiotic and long-lasting relationship with the editor. Finally, Karma is important to writers. Every time you help another author, you have a better shot having them return the favor. 

It is solely up to you whether or not you want to be a beta reader, or ask others to be one, but in the end, it is a great way to help a book reach potential readers, as well as marketing the most beautiful piece of work possible.

That's it for now. I am beta reading this weekend for a friend in the UK, and I have to get on it.

And by the way, the book is wonderful! I am past page 40, and so far, no one has gone off in a fit of chuckling. Thank goodness!

: )

What are you afraid of? Have you ever had an experience that made you feel like this was the end of life as you know it? That there was no way out?

Ten years ago, I believed I was going to die when my husband and I took a trip to Greece. We traveled there by plane and had a sailboat awaiting our arrival for a ten-day rental,  exploring the lower Ionian Sea. Although it was just my husband and myself on the 29-foot sailboat, we traversed the ocean and island hopped with five other sailboats, most of them manned by couples like us, either from Western Europe, Canada, or the United States. Each morning before heading out to sea, all five couples met with the lead boat captain and crew to go over maps, charts, and equipment. A daily sail between islands could take anywhere from two to seven hours.

Did I mention that I am not a sailor? My husband is the experienced salty dog, and although I understand wind direction, how to read gauges, and how to maneuver sails to a degree, I am not a true sailor by any stretch of the imagination. I am the girl who doesn't get sea sick, banished to the world below-deck for sandwich making, water bottle runs, or jacket retrieval. I am the girl who loves sitting in the boat on a dock at sunset, drinking Cabernet while listening to old-school jazz.

One particular day during our trip to Greece, we met with our sailing cohorts after breakfast. It was a sunny day, and a perfect Grecian breeze was blowing. After checking off the list of to-dos before we set sail, the lead boat headed away from the docks, each of us following behind like little ducklings. The next island was nearly an entire day's sail away. At the other end, we would be free to roam around the tiny port town, sampling food and enjoying local entertainment.

The day started out uneventful. Around noon, the wind picked up, making my husband happy. We listened on the radio for any weather changes. There were none. A few times we heard from our lead boat as they checked in with each of us. Jay, my husband, manned the wheel, and I did what he asked, either bringing in or letting out the sails, gathering things from below, or hanging out by his side, awaiting the next order.

Side note: As my captain, oh captain says, "What happens on the boat stays on the boat." In other words, any expletives spoken and orders barked with abandon at the first mate (in this case, moi) are to be listened to, obeyed, and immediately discarded.

Around 2, the wind got stronger, and the waves grew. Our boat was tossed a bit. I would often ask my husband, "Are we okay?" Each time, he'd smile and respond with a simple, "We are fine." His calmness during any sailing excursion is always passed along to me, which makes me a more focused first mate.

At around 3, the four-foot waves which had been rolling gracefully into the shallow troughs between, started coming faster, growing higher, and crashing more violently.

"Are we okay?"

"We are fine."

Soon, the mini troughs were deep and angry. The nose of our boat rose up one wave, and fell hard into the dip on the other side. The waves were now between five and six feet high. I was ordered to grab the radio. Nothing new in the way of weather. Calm, the report kept saying. We saw no other boats. Sailing in a "flotilla" is a relative term. One boat hardly ever gets close to another, as some sailors like being closer to land, and others farther out at sea. We were alone.

The sea grew angrier.

My husband remained calm. I did not. Inside, I started wondering what the f*** I was doing, standing here on the deck of this boat, not even a novice when it came to sailing. Barely a weekend sailor.

Then something happened. A large black mass of clouds came up from behind. I stared at it in disbelief.

"Jay!" I shouted, pointing. My husband took a glance, then ordered, "Pull in the sails!" He started barking orders, and I did everything he asked because doing nothing could mean death, and there was no way I was going to die without trying to evade it. Better to keep moving instead of having time to think about the "what ifs." After the sails were furled and tied, he told me to go downstairs and grab our storm gear. Soon, we were dressed like a pair of Gordon fishermen, in rain jackets and hats. The rain came down in wide stripes. We could barely see one another.

"Are we okay?" I shouted.

This time he answered, "I don't know."

He ordered me to tie off the Bimini (a collapsible open-front canvas top to keep the captain from frying in the sun), but I could not do it. The boat was rocking forward and back like a giant rocking horse. I would have toppled overboard.

Overboard. There's a word you don't want to think about while at sea. It occurred to me in that moment that if my husband went over, he would drown. And then, shortly after, I would drown.

I could do nothing but stand by my husband's side as the wind exploded. Poseidon was pissed about something and was taking it out on Jay and me.

For forty minutes I hid my tears as we sailed through the squall. Awful scenes played through my head of crashing into the rocks along the shore, our body parts spread out for the seagulls. I thought of my sisters, crying at my funeral, no body to bury, just some pieces of a torn yellow jacket. My husband's daughter came to me, and I cried harder. What if he drowned, and I survived? How would I tell her that her father had been an amazing captain, he had only died because his first mate was incompetent?

Forty minutes feels like hours when the rain blocks your view of the land only a few miles away and the wind tosses your boat around like a beach ball. Forty minutes feels like eternity when you truly believe you are going to die.

Then, just as quickly as the squall slammed into us, it leaped away, disappearing into the western sky like it had been playing a practical joke, taking the gray stripes of rain with it. The sun was fierce. The sky was blue.

"Look!" I pointed to the island on our right. We could see it now, clearly, the rocks we thought were miles away but in reality were only a half mile. One half mile from crashing the sailboat and our bones to smithereens.

I heard an engine. Another sailboat, with its pristine sails neatly furled, moved past. The couple on board, clad in expensive sailing shirts and pants, stared as they went by, eyebrows raised as if to say, "What the hell happened to you?" But they said nothing, only continued forward, leaving us to wobble in their wake.

"We lost our Bimini," my husband said.

"Yeah," I said, crying openly now, this time with relief that the Bimini was all that had been lost in the squall.

We didn't say much more until we arrived at the island dock. Our lead boat crew had never seen the squall. Nor had most of the boats. But we had proof: Some of the sailboat's cleats had been pried loose, and the Bimini was torn to shreds. One other couple had weathered the same storm as well and in response planned to fly home first thing in the morning. We decided to stay. What were the odds we'd hit another squall in the Ionian Sea? Plus, there was ouzo in abundance, and we were dying to take a cab ride to the top of the mountain where the view of the sea was supposed to be breathtaking. A view from faraway for the next two days sounded perfect.

Even as I write this story I can feel my blood pressure rise, my heart rate increase. I can see the rocks, feel the rain, hear the wind. I can remember what it felt like to be there. To be on that boat during a squall, feeling helpless, terrified, tiny.

As a writer, I can use (and have used) that story to help me write scenes of angst, of fear, of feeling out of control. I close my eyes and taste the thick salt on my lips and feel the sting of the storm pelting my body. I picture the rocks, the troughs, the look of my husband's steady and determined face. But most importantly, I remember what it felt like to believe, if only for a fleeting second, that I was going to die.

To this day, I have never been that afraid or felt that abandoned.

How about you? Have you ever had a moment (or moments) of fear? Anger? Futility? If so, would you be willing you tap into this part of yourself when writing?

Perhaps you already have...

Without trying to make us sound like martyrs, writers, like many artists, live with angst. There is angst in working daily to artistically express one’s inner thoughts, feelings and conflicts, share them with others, and then be judged after the work is complete. It is this same angst that can often drag us down the rabbit hole into a sadness that only artists can understand.

Maybe reviewers are particularly cruel today. Maybe your agent has exhausted all of his connections for your latest work. Or your editor has decided that the requested changes you’ve made over the course of months aren’t working. It could even be that you are just tired of the grind; tired of trying to please others with the work you create; tired of spending time and energy writing, marketing, falling down, getting back up.

Hey. You are not alone. We have all been there. Some of us are there right now.

It can be especially difficult for a writer, since writing is mostly a solitary act. We are alone a LOT. Abnormally so. We sit in front of our laptop or notebook and we create by ourselves, hoping that our words will somehow string together in a way that pleases us, and ultimately, others.

But the most prolific writers have a drive deep within to keep going, even if the hill is always up, the self-doubt is always looming, and the crash is often paralyzing.

So what can a writer do to avoid that crash and burn? Here are a few things that may help you on the days when you are so close to quitting, you can smell it, feel it, taste it, and smother your skin with it:

1. Give yourself a mantra, write it out, and hang it up in your writing space. I have two:
This book ain’t gonna write itself and Butt in chair. The first mantra I use after my husband and I have our coffee clutch Monday through Thursday. We chat about what we are going to do with our day (he is a designer) and then I say, “Okay, babe. This book ain’t gonna write itself.” We kiss one another and head off to our creative spaces (his is a shop, mine is an office). Once in my writing space, I put my “butt in chair” and get writing. Period. No excuses. Even if the writing sucks. Even if my characters are acting particularly stubborn.

2. Speaking of excuses…procrastination is not just a time waster and a companion to our fears, but it can also lead to crippling sadness. The second you get to your writing space, you have made a commitment to yourself, your characters, and your story, so TURN OFF EVERYTHING EXCEPT YOUR WORK. This includes, but is not limited to Facebook, Twitter, cell phone, Amazon, Goodreads, Instagram, newsfeeds, and anything else that distracts you from YOUR WORK. Sometimes writers tell me they feel angst at not having written enough words or pages in a sitting. Upon further probing, I find out that they have been spending most of their time on the Internet. And if you tell me that you have to do marketing, well, that is not writing. And while we all need to do marketing, do it at a different time than your actual writing. Don’t complain you didn’t have time to write when you stared at fifteen Youtube videos of cute kittens and Crock pot recipes. You are only hurting your writing, and therefore yourself. Make a solid schedule and stick to it religiously. What could make a person sadder than knowing they had a golden opportunity to create, and they threw it away in favor of mindless drivel?

3. This may sound counter-productive, but hear me out: Go ahead. Be sad. Wallow in self-pity. I’m serious about this. Allow yourself a certain amount of time to dwell on the negative. Say, five minutes, or twenty. Set your alarm if you have to. Pretend it is part of your creative process. Then get off your ass and move forward. Cry into your pillow but then get out of bed. You do not have the right to do nothing all day. That is where the downward spiral begins. Nip it quickly. Negativity wants you to be sad. Let it visit for a moment, and then tell it to eff-off.

4. Need others to feel your pain? Since misery really does enjoy company, find writers’ groups, either online or locally, that you can share these feelings with. Find a creative friend/entrepreneur and meet for coffee once a week. Listen to him vent, and then vent as well. Sometimes knowing you are not alone can make all the difference. And sharing angst can lead to sharing ideas, which can sometimes lead to real breakthroughs.

5. Remind yourself, even if you have to write it down, the blessings you have compared to other folks in the world. If you are reading this blog, then you are probably in the top .05 percent of the world in healthcare, education, safety, housing, financial means, food, transportation and so on. You probably have freedoms unheard of in many countries today. Chances are you are living in a world that has possibilities; a world where you get to choose what your life will be like tomorrow. So as cliché as it is, count your blessings. Thank the universe for all that you have. And mean it.

6. I did not make up this saying, and although it sounds corny, here it is: “When it gets too quiet, make some noise.” In other words, when you haven’t heard from your agent in months, or it seems as though your editor has taken your book on an extended holiday, or reviews have seemed to hit a brick wall, make something happen. Locate new reviewers and send them emails. Send a friendly email to your agent. Respond to your editor’s posts on Twitter. In my opinion, proactivity is the antitheses of reactivity. Because energy begets energy (just ask any physicist) you need to stir the pot to get things going. It may take some time, but believe in the magic of it. DO SOMETHING and THINGS WILL HAPPEN. I promise. I cannot tell you the timeframe, and I cannot tell you how. Just trust that it will.

7. “The best way to get even with others is to succeed.” Some may disagree on this point, but I don’t care as it works for me. I have had friends, acquaintances, family members, and even strangers try to knock what I do. Luckily for me, this is a rare occurrence. But some writers care so deeply about what their social connections have to say about their writing that they allow the words to dictate what happens next. Look, some people are jealous that you have a talent they may not have. Others say things without thinking. Still others are just jerks. So, aside from getting rid of the jerks in your life, take every negative comment and turn it around. If someone says, “It must be nice to write all day,” tell them, “Yes. It is. Thank you for acknowledging that I’m a serious writer.” If someone says, “I don’t like the kinds of books you write,” just tell them, “Oh, that’s okay. I write for a specific audience and the reviews are stellar.” And if someone says, “You probably don’t sell too many books because there is so much competition, huh?” To which you can reply, “Actually, it’s just the opposite! I’m thrilled that my books are selling really well. I guess I’ve found my niche!” Remember to smile, make your eyes sparkle, and say it like you mean it. If you start telling others how well you are doing, they will pass it along, and you will feel empowered. It’s a win-win!

8. Read your positive reviews, complimentary rejection letters, or any correspondence that lifts you up. Cut out the best parts. Hang them up. Make a collage. I have had over 100 rejections over the course of 20 years and 13 novels. But there are only certain words I take to heart: “Elegant writing.” “Incredible characterization.” “Unique plot line.” “Beautiful metaphors.” “Send me more of her work.” And you know how those blurbs on the backs of books all sound so amazing? Well, go online and read the entire review. Most pro reviewers offer both positive and negative remarks. But does the writer put the whole review on the book or in their social media? Of course not. “The book, although a bit sappy in places, will appeal to women across the globe.” Here’s what you will find on the book: “Will appeal to women across the globe.” You see? So re-read all your positive remarks or display them in your writing space. It is one of the nicest things a writer can do for him/herself.

9. And finally, do something from time to time that makes you happy aside from writing. I am burned out right now. I have been working on requested changes on a YA for my agent. It has taken me a year. Yes, a whole year. On top of that, I am marketing my new Adult book that just came out, including intense book touring, getting ready to re-work another YA, and getting ready to prep another Adult for self-publication in late 2018. If I make it. And did I mention I have a job? I tutor four nights a week. So. I try to do things from time to time that completely take me away from anything that has to do with reading or writing. I go antiquing. Work on my 1910 house. Take walks around the river. See a play. Take a short road trip with the hubby. Enjoy a Yoga class. Getting away from your writing is just as important as writing, because we all need to recharge. And you will find that after a bit of relaxation, when you get back to your story (don’t worry, your characters will still be there!) you may even see your writing with a fresh eye and a happier attitude.

So, that is my take on things.

What do you do to stop the crash and burn? What are some tricks that help you continue, even when you aren’t sure what tomorrow will bring? If you have advice for other writers, I’d appreciate the share. After all, we are all in this together.

Peace.

“The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul…” ~ Carl Jung

When I first set out to write the novel Maggie’s Dream, my plan was to create a story that solely regarded Post WWII feminism, and the independence women craved but could not acquire.

You see, when America’s soldiers (the ones who survived and were capable of working) came storming home after the war, women, who had worked hard in the factories and other necessary jobs for months, even years, were suddenly thrust back into their pre-WWII roles. Women who had made their marks as riveters, mechanics, managers, engineers, ambulance drivers, etc, many of whom were thrilled to be an integral part of the workforce, were ordered to go back to their ovens, vacuums, and furniture polish. They were jolted out of their happily discovered livelihoods with expediency to get henna rinses and hairdos, polished nails, real stockings, high heels, all while suppressing the angst that the independence they suddenly found a penchant for was no longer to be theirs; was no longer a right. The boys were coming home. They would need to get back to their old jobs. They would expect women to prepare home and hearth for the grand homecoming. It was time to dust off the cook books and revamp sex drives. Time for wives to greet hubbies at the door with curly hair, rosy cheeks, and a martini in hand. Time for singles to doll up and inspect the surge of incoming men for a husband.

While it is true that many women were relieved to give up their posts at the daily grind, their metal lunch boxes filled with SPAM sandwiches and their underappreciated paychecks, others were not. As a matter of fact, most women enjoyed working in jobs different from the usual female professions as secretaries, nurses, or teachers. Not that those jobs didn’t offer a place for women, but for those who were single, childless, unhappily married, or for those who wanted more than what had been offered to them for so long, working for a cause greater than themselves offered a glimpse of what could be. Many were thrilled to don overalls and hardhats, work victory gardens, head up can drives. Women were relied on, looked up to, and utilized in a way that their sex had never seen before.

I pored over countless letters and diaries from the Rosies who had collectively kept the United States from collapsing under its own weight during WWII. The pride in their words, in their hearts, transcended the pages upon which they wrote. I could feel what they were feeling, to finally be a part of a “man’s world.”

But when the war ended, and the confetti from the victory parades was swept away, so too was the feeling of female independence.

Women not only suffered a strange and incurable feeling of displacement, but many married gals fell into the throes of depression. And most of these women suffered in silence. After all, what woman would complain about being taken care of by her husband? How could a woman who had a new dishwasher, the latest pumps, and a shiny Dodge in the driveway possibly complain?

Short answer: She could not.

Thus started the influx of psychoanalysis. Women needed a place to vent their suppressed feelings, and psychiatrists/psychoanalysts were quick to prescribe a cure, often in the form of tranquilizers.

Maggie’s Dream took on a life of its own shortly after I began writing it, which is somewhat common when working on a novel. The research took me to places I had no idea existed in the human condition of the era. I worked hard to make Maggie’s desire to be independent remain the crux of the story, while allowing the fantastical elements to seep through organically.

The outcome is an adult fairy tale combining post-WWII feminism, psychotherapy, the world of dreams, and Carl Jung’s theory of collective consciousness. Don’t worry! Though sitting on the line between commercial and literary, the novel is not high-brow.

I hope you enjoy the book. Let me know what you think, and tell me your own Rosie stories if you have any. Ask an older female relative what she went through during WWII and the years following. Perhaps she will offer a story that will make you see the struggle for independence from a new perspective!

I did not plan on writing this blog today, but, sadly, I have no choice but to stop in the middle of my busy day and share this with all of my writer/artist friends.

I often do a Google search on my name: Leslie Tall Manning. I do it for kicks, to see how many pages on which my name lands, and sometimes I do it on days when I feel down about my writing career and need an egotistical boost. So there I was, happy to see I’d made the first seven pages of Google’s search, when something caught my eye. “Free GAGA PDF Download.” I did a double take just before my stomach fell to the floor. Someone was giving away one of my novels for free? Then I found one for my second book: “Free Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town PDF.” I don’t have to tell you, my dear writer friend, why I was torn between punching a wall and sobbing like a baby.

No one works harder or more diligently than some writers. I am one of them. For seventeen years I have attacked the computer keys four days a week, four hours a day. For years my agent has been pounding the pavement to get my books (13 count) into the hands of top publishers. For three years of self-publishing I have worn the hundred or so hats that self-pubbers wear, from the editing bonnet to the marketing cap. To suddenly see my books, in PDF no less, being offered illegally for free is something I hope you never have to go through.

So. I went to the site in question. Not really a site exactly, it is owned by Google, and is called a Fusion Table. This is sort of like Google Docs, where people can share information. “Share.” The word of the decade.

I found a copyright infringement form through Google and filled it out (my name, URL in question, etc) only to receive a one-sentence explanation that the URL had either been taken down or was no longer in use. I found this strange, since there it still sat in Google’s search queue.

Still not feeling convinced that the site was defunct, I dug deeper. This digging took place on my tablet instead of my laptop, since tablets cannot support viruses, and I wasn’t sure where the link-clicking would lead me. These days, you never know.

One click led me to a page that offered three buttons: “Sign up Now,” “Download” and “Free Trial.” Or something like that. I clicked on the download button, since I wanted to see if my book came up. That click led me to another page that told me if I filled in the blanks, I could receive a free shopping trip at JC Penney. The ads along the right side of the site were Russian. Hmmmmm…. At the bottom, there was a JC Penney disclaimer that said Penney was not affiliated with the site. I filled in the first blank, asking for my name. This led me to another page, where the blank asked my age. I lied and clicked. The next page asked me how many times I shopped per week. I laughed out loud while clicking on “10 plus times per week.” This led me to another page asking for my email address. I put in an old one that I hardly ever use, and the site told me that was incorrect and would not let me move forward. Well, that’s where I planned to stop anyway. I am pretty sure the following pages would ask about my credit card number, my bank account, my social security number…

Look. I am pretty sure this is not a place that actually gives away free PDF’s of my books. I am pretty sure it is a phishing scam where the final page suddenly informs you your computer has been compromised, or simply takes your personal information for their email lists, or credit cards, or whatever.

Do they actually have PDF files of my books? I cannot answer that question. On the first page they show that GAGA was given over 4,000 5-star reviews. Wow. Really? Well, if that were true, I guess I’d be thrilled that so many people love the book, even if they had received it for free.

If the site is real, and if I’d gone further and discovered that the book was being given away for free, what would I do?

Honestly, I have no idea. The Internet is an entity in and of itself. It is like a machine. It does not have a moral compass.

What did I learn? I have become much more diligent as the gatekeeper of my work. And you should, too. I now get Google alerts every time my name, or my books, or the word Free attached to my books enters the Google stream. These alerts come into my Gmail box, so I will receive them as soon as they occur. IF they occur. And hopefully they won’t.

Before I sign off, I must add this tidbit, not to upset you or make you paranoid, but to remind you that knowledge is power: Recently, I have stumbled across a few articles about authors whose works were not only taken, but were re-titled, re-authored, and uploaded to Amazon. Very very scary. To work so freaking hard, and then have someone steal and reap the benefits of our hard work. It is shameful and disgusting. Don’t even get me started on what I would do to the person who has the gall to absorb another’s work as their own.

Let’s keep an eye on one another. We writers need to stick together. If you see something fishy (or, phishy) tell the author. If you feel your work has been plagiarized or stolen outright, do something about it. Tell Google. Tell Youtube. Tell Amazon. Tell all of your Facebook and Twitter friends. Tell the whole freaking world. Book aggregates can only do so much to protect your work. It is up to you to be the overlord because no one will ever love your work the way you do.

I’d love comments on this one if you have the time…

GAGA

Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

I’d like to say thank you to the Story Circle women who have honored me with the Sarton Women’s Literary Award for my YA novel, Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town. I look forward to being a member of this prestigious group and speaking at their 2018 conference in Texas. : )
http://www.storycircle.org/SartonLite...