The Origins of The Dragon's Daughter

My book, The Dragon’s Daughter, has an unusual hook: the Ku Klux Klan. Are you wondering where I got the idea? I’ll tell you a little bit about the origin of the story.

A long time ago, let’s say 1996, I was taking a speech class to complete my bachelor’s degree. Speech 101. Very basic. One of the speeches I had to give was an informative one. At that time, the Skinhead movement was in the news a lot. Their numbers seemed to be growing and a Skinhead had just punched Geraldo Rivera and broken his nose. I got curious about these Neo-Nazis and decided to focus my speech on them.

During my research, I discovered that the kid who punched Geraldo was the son of the then-leader of the White Aryan Resistance. Further research provided me the man’s phone number in California, so I called him. It was a very disturbing conversation. Why? Not just because of his obvious racism, but also because he sounded so normal as he talked about it.

We talked about the beliefs that the WAR was founded on, most of which he tied to the Bible—in a very disingenuous, convoluted way. We talked about a recent murder of a homeless black man (in Seattle, I think) at the hands of two Skinheads, and he told me the only thing he regretted about that was that two white boys were sitting in jail for that crime. Reprehensible. Almost unbelievable.

And yet through that whole conversation, no matter how much my skin crawled, I couldn’t get over how normal he sounded. He didn’t talk like Darth Vader. He didn’t yell or swear at me. He just very calmly and matter-of-factly spewed his prejudice down the telephone line.

That’s what makes these people so dangerous. They don’t look like monsters. And they ground so much of what they believe in (again, their twisted take on) the Bible. For people who are searching for a group to belong to, for people who don’t question what they’re being told, the KKK and other white-supremacist groups can quickly feel like family. Their message is God, Family, Country. Oh … and with a healthy dose of racism.

This phone call in 1996(-ish) wasn’t my only encounter with people like this. Through my work as a reporter (way back in the late 1990s), I came into contact with members of the KKK. In those encounters, I was struck again by how very normal they look and seem. I wondered how these people with families—babies, toddlers, teenagers—could live such normal lives on one hand while they propagated intolerance and racism and prejudice on the other?

This is where and how The Dragon’s Daughter was born. I couldn’t stop thinking about the families of these men. I couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to be a child in a home like that—and what would happen if that child hated everything her father stood for? If she didn’t buy into it? If all she wanted was out and away?

That is what you get in Mariah. You get a 16-year-old girl who has known the Klan her whole life, who has been brought up in its realm, but who lives an otherwise very normal life. She has a brother who antagonizes her, a best friend she can’t live without, and a love of photography and volleyball. She just happens to be the dragons’ daughter.

And she wants out.

The Dragon's Daughter: Chapter 1

My book is available on Amazon, and I want to let you read the first chapter. I hope you'll be enticed by it. If you click on the cover, it will take you to Amazon. Thanks for giving it a look!

Chapter One

 “Mom! I can’t breathe!”

“Mariah! You only have to wear the hood for a few minutes—ten at the most,” Mom had said. “You’ll be fine.” Putting a robe and a masked hood on a seven-year-old and a torch in her hand was not my idea of “fine,” but then nobody ever really asked for my opinion. If they had, I’d have told them, I won’t be fine, but I’m going to live through it. Truly, I think that’s what Mom meant too.

In the nine years since, I’d learned to cope with feeling suffocated behind the mask, but I could do nothing about the heat. Sweat trickled down my scalp and into my eyes, and it burned. I blinked rapidly, which didn’t help, so I scrunched my eyes shut, which actually made it worse. With my torch in my left hand, I reached up under my mask with my right and swiped at my eyes, trying to relieve some of the stinging. It didn’t help. I sighed. I hated these damn rallies. Where the hell was Dad and what was he waiting for? I wished he’d just light the cross and be done with it. I wanted to swim.

All at once, the others standing with me around the cross began to chant. Dad must be making his appearance. My peripheral vision was next to nothing, thanks to the hood, and I stood opposite the cross, so he approached from behind me and to the right. I couldn’t see him until he’d already passed me, but I’d begun chanting with the others. Looking like evil ghosts in our pointed hoods and long white robes, torches blazing in our hands stretched out in front of us, we threw our voices into the night, spears of intolerance.

“White power! White power!”

One year, when I was fourteen, I didn’t yell. I’d stood there, torch held high, and watched Dad in his robe—his special robe trimmed in green braid—light the cross on fire. He never wore a mask and the fire danced and glinted in his eyes. He’d thrust his torch high, grimacing as he yelled, and I’d stood silent and wondered, Who is he? How can he be my dad? How can Mom be married to him? Why on God’s earth does he believe all this bullshit? Why can’t we just be a normal family?

Gideon stood beside me that night. He gave me the creeps, even then. He made me wish for a turtle’s shell that I could shrink myself into whenever he was around. He was the one who told Dad I hadn’t yelled, and Dad beat me for it that night, in our tent within earshot of everybody else. I cried and I know I whimpered some, but I took it as silently as I could. I’d disgraced the grand dragon and I had to be punished. I knew the drill and so did Gideon. Dad drew Gideon closer to him after that night. I think that’s why he made me date him. Gideon was the picture-perfect Klan boy—surely he’d bring me to heel. We’d been together for almost two years, and he still made my skin crawl.

So tonight, and at every rally since the one two years ago, I yelled with the rest. Dad touched his torch to the gasoline-soaked, sheet-wrapped cross and the flames swooshed up the spire. With his torch burning in his outstretched hand, I saw a demon in Dad’s robe when he spun around to face us. I shivered. I yelled. I extinguished my torch. The August night had already been thick and humid before the cross burned, and all I really cared about was stripping off the robe and running for the pond. I couldn’t tell where Chloe, my best friend, had gone, but I knew she was here somewhere and probably just as eager to swim. If I could find her quickly, she’d be the buffer between me and Gideon. She’d gotten good at it.

There was a slight breeze tonight, and it brushed lightly against my skin once I stripped off the hood and robe. It felt so good that I just stood there for a minute in my shorts and halter, my eyes closed, my feet apart, my arms stretched wide, drinking in the cool air, the Klan paraphernalia on the ground at my side.

“God, babe, you look amazing.”

Gideon. Shit. My quiet little moment to myself was gone.

I opened my eyes and there he stood, his blond hair sweat-soaked and sticking up in odd tufts all over his head. His blue eyes—so like my own—drilled into me then raked my body with his gaze. He licked his lips and inwardly I cringed.

Remember, Dad likes him. That means you like him—for another two years and two months until college—you like him.

“Thanks,” I said, swiping my robe and hood off the ground as I turned away from him. “I’m taking this stuff to camp and then I’m going swimming. Chloe’s meeting me,” I added, hoping he’d get the hint that I didn’t want to be alone with him. He’d been pressuring me a lot lately to let him go further when we made out. It was hard enough just kissing Gideon. The idea of letting him … of his hands … of his … anything else anywhere else on my body made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t know how I was going to keep him off me for two more years. I shivered as I made my way across the field to my family’s camp because I knew I might not be able to stop him.

“I’ll meet you over there,” Gideon called after me. “I need to talk to your dad.” I shivered again and kept walking.

When I got to the campsite, Mom was there with Sandy Thompson. I heard them laughing before I actually saw them, and I smiled when I heard them. Mom didn’t laugh much at home. Sometimes, if we watched something really funny on TV, she’d smile, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her really laugh like she was doing now with Sandy.

As my relationship with Gideon dragged on, I’d been thinking more and more about Mom’s relationship with Dad. Gideon idolized my dad—he mimicked Dad’s walk, he repeated things he’d heard Dad say, and he’d started treating me the way he saw Dad treat Mom. One night, about a week ago, he’d been over to our house and all of us were watching a movie in the living room. It was the middle of an important scene, and Dad told Mom, “Leah, go get me another beer.” He never looked away from the TV. He never said “please” or “thank you.” He’d just noticed he was out of beer and wanted another one.

Without a word or a sigh, without even rolling her eyes, Mom got up, went to the kitchen, and got Dad his beer. Although I’d seen Dad tell Mom thousands of time, “Get me a beer,” and I’d seen Mom do it thousands of times, I really noticed it that night because Gideon noticed it too.

Once Mom came back in the room with Dad’s fresh beer and sat down again to try and pick the movie back up, Gideon tried Dad’s trick out on me.

 “Mariah,” he said, “go get me another Coke.” He’d tried to do it just like Dad, without looking at me, without breaking his concentration on the movie. But he couldn’t. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I’d actually leave my place beside him and run and fetch his Coke. I was dumbfounded.

I just stared at him for a minute as my cheeks grew hot. I looked across the room at Mom. At first, she only stared at the glass of iced tea she held in her hands. But she did eventually raise her eyes to mine, and in her eyes I saw only pity and regret. She shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

I looked at Dad, who seemed oblivious to everything and completely engrossed in the movie. I looked back at Gideon, who had also returned his attention to the TV, though I knew he felt me staring at him.

 “Mariah, you heard your man. Go get him a Coke.” Dad hadn’t shifted his gaze, but I knew better than to argue. I left my seat, grabbed Gideon’s empty can from the coffee table in front of us, and marched from the room. The recycling bin was on our back porch outside the kitchen, so I slammed the kitchen door as I went outside. And then I slammed the empty can against the wall, splattering myself with the last few drops of Gideon’s soda, and threw the can as hard as I could into the yard.

I stood there shaking for a few minutes. I think I was hoping that Mom would come out and tell me … something. Something that would give me some hope. Maybe she spits in Dad’s dinner before she serves him, I thought. I just wanted her to come out and tell me something that would make me believe that being a Klan woman wasn’t as horrible as it seemed. I think I stood on our porch for at least five minutes, and maybe even ten, but no one else came out that door. Neither Dad nor Gideon came out to yell at me for taking so long. And Mom didn’t come and offer me any hope. It was then that I began to realize, there wasn’t any hope to offer women like us.

I was thinking about that night when I got close enough to camp to make out Mom and Sandy in the dark. They sat close together in lawn chairs behind a small fire they’d started, and with their heads bent together and their laughter on the breeze, they looked like Chloe and me. Mom really confused me at times like this. She could be happy—I was seeing it right in front of my eyes. She could laugh. She could relax. Why did she stay with Dad? Why didn’t she take me and Jeremy and leave?

I knew the Klan’s beliefs weren’t her own. A year ago, I’d been rooting around in her closet for something to wear to the movies. I’d finally hit the stage—at five feet eight and 125 pounds—where I could wear Mom’s clothes. Her closet was a treasure trove of “new” stuff, even if it was old to her. I just called it “vintage” and put it on.

As I swiped hangers along the rod in the closet, looking for a blue shirt I’d had my eye on for a while, I came cross Mom’s Klan robe. I realized I’d never seen her in it.

“Mom?” I called to her, my face still buried in the closet. I pulled the rest of the clothes farther away from the robe and looked at it closer.

“Mom!” I called again, a little louder this time, still not bothering to take my face from the closet. Her robe looked almost as new as mine. I’d gotten a new one that year because I’d grown and the old one didn’t fit anymore. After wearing it twice, it was already stained in a couple places—grass stains on the back where I’d stepped on it accidentally (because I liked to throw it on the ground when I took it off) and iced tea on the front (because I was also so damn hot and thirsty when I took it off). Mom’s, I saw, was pretty much spotless.

“Mom!” I hollered, turning around out of the closet to go find her and jumping back into the closet when my nose bumped hers at the door.

“Geez!” I said, laughing. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“What are you doing in my closet?” Mom wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. I sobered up.

“Looking for that blue shirt,” I began. “I want to wear it tonight to the movies with Chloe.”

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me.

“Um … I mean, can I wear your blue shirt to the movies tonight?”

“Yes,” she sighed a little. “But you’re supposed to ask me before you go digging around in my closet.”

“I am?”

“Yes, Mariah! Yes, you are.” She sighed louder and shook her head. “I deserve that much respect from my daughter at least, don’t you think?” I blushed and nodded.

“Sorry, Mom.” I stepped away from the closet. “I don’t have to wear it tonight. It’s okay.” I started to leave her bedroom.

“Mariah?” I turned around and looked at her. “It’s right here, right in front of your face. You couldn’t find it?” She offered me a small smile, so I smiled back.

“Oh, I guess I didn’t see it.” I walked over to her and took the shirt from her outstretched hand. “Thanks, Mom. You sure you don’t care?”

“No, I don’t care. Don’t spill anything on it and wash it for me tomorrow.”

“I will,” I said. “Thanks again.” I turned around to leave and she called me back again.

“Is that why you were yelling for me? You’re hopeless, Mariah.”

“Oh!” I remembered the robe. “No, Mom. That’s not why I was calling you.” As I turned to face Mom again, I looked at the lines around her eyes and her mouth. I took in the perpetual gray shadows that surrounded her eyes. I thought about not asking. I thought about leaving it alone.

“I found your robe.” I’d never been very good at leaving things alone.

“Yes.” She straightened her back and crossed her arms across her chest. I fidgeted with the shirt in my hands for a minute, dropping my gaze to the crystals that lined the V-neck.

“Well,” I said, still not looking at her, “it’s just that I’ve never seen you in it. I didn’t even know you had one.” I looked up at her and asked, “Why don’t you wear it? Why don’t you stand with us for the cross lightings?” What I really wanted to know was why Dad let her get away with it and how could I do the same.

“Your dad and I have an agreement about it, Mariah. That’s all you need to know.”

Shit. That’s not helpful, I thought. But I didn’t push. I decided I could leave some things alone.

“Thanks again for letting me wear the shirt, Mom. I’ll wash it tomorrow.” I left the room and we never spoke again about her robe.

Sandy saw me approaching first and broke away from the conversation she and Mom had been having. “Hey Mariah,” she said.

“Hey Sandy.” Mom turned to look at me. She glanced at the robe slung across my arm and the hood dangling from my hand.

“Any stains tonight?” she asked. I shook my head.

“Shouldn’t be. I was careful.”

“Good,” Mom said. “Put it in the tent.” I walked across the campsite to where our family tent sat in the shadows of their small fire.

“I’m going to the pond. That okay?” I folded the robe and hood and tossed them into the plastic tote we kept them all in—mine, Jeremy’s and Dad’s, anyway—at the rallies. “I’m so stinkin’ hot,” I added as I zipped the tent flap back into place.

“That’s fine,” Mom said. “Jeremy’s there already, I think.”

“Cool. I’ll avoid him.” I bent down and kissed Mom’s forehead. “See ya later. Bye Sandy,” I added.

“See ya,” Sandy responded.

“Not too late, Mariah,” Mom told me.

I waved in affirmation, watching the two of them bend their heads back together to continue their conversation.

I’d hoped to run into Chloe at the campsite so that we could cross the field to the pond together. It was pretty dark and I didn’t know where Gideon was.

“Wait up, babe!” And there he was, somewhere behind me. I didn’t stop. I didn’t turn around. I increased my speed as much as I could without turning my walk into a jog—which would only piss him off—and he caught up to me easily anyway. At six feet tall, Gideon was Jeremy’s size and almost exactly the same age—eighteen. And they were both excellent young Klansmen.

Chloe, where are you? I thought as Gideon loped up beside me and draped an arm across my shoulders.

“Gideon! It’s too hot!” I shrugged off his arm and tried to walk a little faster. It was useless. His legs were longer than mine. And I thought he was enjoying the chase just a little too much, so I stopped and glared at him. There was just enough moonlight that I could see the hunger in his eyes.

“It could be hotter,” he said. He closed the space between us and clamped his hands on my sides just below my ribs. He squeezed and it hurt.

“God, don’t you ever think about anything but sex?” I squirmed, trying to get loose from his hands, but it was no use. He was bigger and stronger. And he knew it.

“Not when I’m with you, I don’t.” He moved his hands around my back and pulled me into him. “Come on, baby, don’t tell me you don’t think about it.” I could feel him, hard against me through his jeans and the thin fabric of my cotton shorts. He wanted me to feel him, I knew. I hated him so much at that moment, and I couldn’t deny it—I feared him too. I knew I could yell if it got too ugly, but I didn’t know for sure who would hear. And what was worse, there were few who would intervene on my behalf.

“Gideon, let—me—go!” I struggled against him and I saw it in his face—the excitement. He’s getting off on my fear, I realized and immediately stood as still and confident as I could.

“Please, Mariah,” he whispered, his lips brushing against mine, “please, I’ve waited so long. You know I love you.” He slipped his tongue between my lips and snaked it between my teeth. Before I even knew what I was doing, I bit down hard on it and immediately tasted blood.

“Shit!” he screeched, jumping away from me as I spit into the grass, trying to get the taste of his blood out of my mouth. “You bitch!” He came at me fast and slapped me across the face. I fell to my hands and knees, spitting blood again—this time my own. I hung my head and tried to think.

“You are just like my dad,” I murmured.

“You’re damn right I am, you bitch.”

I looked up in time to see him draw back his foot, and I knew he intended to kick me in the gut. I dropped to the ground, drew my knees up to my chest, and wrapped my arms around my legs, turning myself into the smallest human ball I could as I waited for the blow. It never came. Instead, I heard the sound of a solid punch, of flesh and bone meeting flesh and bone. I heard a crack and a grunt and a body hit the ground. When I looked up, I saw a shadow that looked and sounded a whole lot like Jeremy, but he’d never come to my rescue once. Not ever. What the hell was going on?

 “Don’t you ever even think about touching my sister again! Hear me asshole? Not ever! Do you hear me?” I’d never heard Jeremy that angry, and I’d never been so grateful for his presence.

Gideon didn’t respond, and I saw Jeremy bend low over him. I thought I saw his hands go around Gideon’s throat.

“Answer me, boy!”

I heard muffled, frantic attempts for breath and then I heard Gideon’s voice, raspy like sandpaper. “Sucker punched me, dickhead.”

At that, Jeremy must have tightened his hold on Gideon’s neck because I heard Gideon cough and sputter. I stood and shuffled away from them.

Jeremy landed a couple more solid punches and Gideon stopped struggling and lay still in the grass. I couldn’t see them well from where I stood, so I didn’t know if Gideon was still conscious. I hoped not.

 “Mariah?” Jeremy called to me quietly.

 “What?”

 “Come here. Gideon has something to say to you.”

I crept through the tall grass to where Jeremy towered over both me and Gideon, who remained prone on the ground. Gideon’s eyes were open and he was breathing, though it sounded like every breath hurt him. I was glad of that.

When Gideon saw me standing over him, he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, then grimaced again in pain.

 “Say it, asshole,” Jeremy demanded, prodding Gideon in the ribs with his foot. Gideon winced, sucking in air.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “What else?” Jeremy punctuated his agitated question with another kick to Gideon’s ribs, eliciting another grunt of pain from the boy on the ground. Gideon swore and coughed for a minute until he was able to catch his breath.

 “I’ll never hit you again, Mariah,” Gideon whispered. As Jeremy’s foot rose slowly one more time, he added, “And I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to.” Jeremy lowered his foot and stood solidly beside me. I looked up at him, and for the first time, I looked up to him as well.

Regardless of how good it felt to have Jeremy’s protection, I had no words for either of them. I didn’t believe Gideon was sorry. I knew the only thing he regretted was the beating he’d just taken at Jeremy’s hands, and I was afraid I’d pay the price for that. If only Dad would let me break up with Gideon, I thought as I stood there staring at his miserable face. I didn’t see that happening, though, even after this fight. I knew I’d have to make peace with my situation and soon—at least for the next couple of years—until I could escape to college and more freedom than I dared dream about at home.

The Dragon's Daughter: Introducing Mariah

My novel, The Dragon's Daughter, is available and I want to introduce you to Mariah, my main character. So, here she is, in her own words. 

Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone? It’s a big deal, so, if I tell you, you have to swear to keep it to yourself. I could be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out. So, yeah, you say you’re cool? You’ll take it to the grave? Okay then, here it is: I hate the Ku Klux Klan.

Oh, so you wanna know why that’s a big deal? Why I can’t tell anyone else? Because I’m the daughter of the grand dragon, that’s why.

According to my dad, the Baxters have been in the Klan for, like, a hundred and fifty years—basically since the end of the Civil War. He lives and breathes it—and would beat me if he heard me talking like this. He’d tell you the Klan represents his love for his family, his country, and his love of God and all things holy.

I’ll tell you that’s a crock.

But I nod like a good little girl in my cloak and hood whenever I’m around him, or his friends, or my mom, or my brother. I have to pretend to believe. My life pretty much depends on it.

So why am I telling you? Honestly, I’ve got no clue. It’s dangerous to say these things out loud. But I’m sixteen years old and Dad’s already started to point me toward marriage—to another Klan member, of course—and I think I finally got more scared of living the rest of my life like this than I am of my dad. And that’s saying something.

Craig Baxter is one mean SOB.

I guess I’m hoping that if I’m honest with someone about what my life is like and what I want my life to be like, that maybe I’ll stand the smallest of chances of getting out of this circle of hell I was born into. So I’m gonna trust you with two important jobs:

(1) Keep your mouth shut about what I tell you.

(2) Remind me why I told you in the first place: I. Want. Out.

If you can do your part, I might be able to do mine.

Welcome to my world.

Writers -- There's support on Twitter!

I often feel isolated as a writer. I’m not one of those people who can write with a lot of noise going on around them. I don’t need—or want—music playing in the background. When I sit down to write, I usually seek out a quiet corner of the house and immerse myself in my story, with my characters as my only company. It works well for me.

I live in a VERY small town and there are no writers’ groups near me. I’ve been part of one writers’ group, a long time ago, and I enjoyed it and believe my writing benefited from it. But I don’t have that option anymore where I live. I’ve considered joining an online writers’ group, but there’s something about the idea of sharing my WIP with people I’ve never met that gives me the shivers. I’ve never done it; I don’t know if I ever will. (I would welcome input from anyone reading this on that subject!)

When I finish a section of my book, I have a few family members that I share it with, and I value their input. They’ve offered insight and opinions that have helped my stories evolve, and I appreciate that so much. They will continue to be my first beta readers. But they’re not writers. We’re not sharing each other’s pieces as you do in a writers’ group.

For all these reasons, I feel rather isolated. And sometimes, I’d like a compatriot.

What I’ve discovered is … you’re out there. Writing compatriots exist and share and vent and enthuse and support online, and I’m finding more and more of you on Twitter. I’ve found so many people on Twitter who seem to be so much like me. You’re pouring your hearts into your writing, you’re working it as well as you know how, and then you’re taking deep breaths and you’re offering your books to the world. Just like me.

Some of you are so generous with your insights and your knowledge and your experience that you share in blog posts and then post to Twitter. I’ve been learning through those posts, and I appreciate your willingness to share these tidbits with the rest of us. I’m truly hoping that, even though I don’t get many comments at all on my blog, people are finding my posts and getting something out of them.

It is with this hope, and in the spirit of reciprocity, that I continue to blog about my writing and my experience in self-publishing. I like to share, and I like to learn. I’m grateful for what I’ve been learning through others’ blogs, and I hope to be helping others.

If you’re a writer and you haven’t been paying much attention to other writers’ posts on Twitter, I encourage you to do so. As writers, we try to evolve with each piece. Sharing and learning from others—as well as from our own experiences—are ways to encourage that growth process.

Keep writing. Keep sharing. Keep learning and growing. That’s my plan. 

Ask your editor: EVERYTHING! I mean it, ask your editor everything.

I have a new, young client who has hired me to edit her dystopian YA novel. This young woman impressed me from the get-go when she explained that she wrote her first book to help engage her history students more with the material she was introducing to them in the classroom. Her level of commitment and her enthusiasm for learning in general really reeled me in. I wanted to work with her!

She sent me a sample of her book—a few pages from the beginning—to give me a feel for the story and her writing style and abilities. (I always appreciate this.) In turn, I edited the sample and returned it to her so that she could see how I would work with her book. (There are many editors who believe you should never provide a free sample. I am not one of them. If I feel a writer is generally interested in working with me and not out to scam some free services, then I totally understand their desire to see what I would do with their “baby.” They need to feel they can trust me and that I’m not going to butcher the book—unless it needs it!—and that I’m out to help them make their book the best it can be. How are they going to really know that if they don’t get a taste of what I’ll do with it? But I digress ….)

After she reviewed the sample, she let me know she was really happy with what I had done and she had some questions for me based on my edits. Most of her questions where technical—why a comma here and not there, etc. I answered them and encouraged her to send me more when she had them. At this point, she hadn’t technically hired me; we hadn’t signed the contract yet. But she was eager and wanted to learn, and I trusted we would end up working together.

She took my advice and used the feedback I had offered her on the sample and revised the WHOLE manuscript before she actually hired me and sent it to me. She benefitted from that advice, I benefited from that advice (as she fixed problems I hadn’t even seen yet), and the book benefited from that advice. She has asked me to leave as many comments as possible as I perform the first round of editing to let her know what I think is working, what isn’t working, what affected me, what didn’t affect me, etc. Essentially, she wants to peer over my shoulder as I work and see my reaction to her words.

I love working with people who want to learn. It’s the teacher in me. I welcome their questions, and I love to see them grow and succeed.

My point to this blog is this: As a writer, never be afraid to ask questions of your editor or your beta readers. Don’t be afraid to hear negative criticism—in that, this isn’t working, that doesn’t sound true to that character, etc. Isn’t it better to have your editor and your beta readers find those problems and help you fix them than your readers pointing them out after you publish your book?

Give your editor and your beta readers encouragement and license to dissect your book. If there’s something you don’t understand, ask for it to be explained. Be open to learning and hearing different points of view. You will grow from it, and your book will be better.

Rush to self-publish? It's hard not to, but I'm waiting.

I’ve noticed that people who self-publish often impose on themselves “launch dates” for their books without allowing (what I would consider) enough time to properly prepare their books. I blogged about this a while ago in more detail, so I’ll try not to repeat myself here.

When we self-publish, we have no one looking over our shoulder to offer advice or pull back on the reins if we’re rushing headlong into launching a book that looks less than professional, whether that’s because it lacks a well-crafted cover, it contains formatting problems, or it reads as though we’ve never been introduced to an editor—let alone spell check. Everything is up to us.

I’m getting ready to self-publish my first book (third novel written, first to throw out there to the world), and it’s incredibly exciting and nerve-wracking. I’m beginning to understand why people rush. I can’t wait to go to Amazon and search for my name and have my book pop up, ready to buy. I can’t wait to read the reviews. I’m chomping at the bit, anticipating how many people will discover my book—people I’ve never met and may never meet.

And no one is telling me, “Sharon, first you need to do this, and then you need to do this, and then you HAVE to do that.” If I wanted to upload my book today, I could do it and the waiting would be over. I would soon know how many people will find it, and how many people will like it.

But my book’s not ready. Not yet.

For one thing, my cover isn’t done. I’m so excited by the concept my brother has shown me, and I’ll likely get a chance to see the first draft of it this week. If I sign off on it, he tells me it won’t take him long to finish it. I could create something else quicker, using CreateSpace’s cover designer, but it wouldn’t be as good, and it wouldn’t have my brother’s input. It’s worth it to wait.

My formatting isn’t quite done either, but it’s close. I basically need to double-check (and I’ll probably triple-check) the guidelines to ensure I haven’t missed anything. I don’t HAVE to do this, but I know it’s wise to take my time. I know (as an editor) how easy it is to miss the little things. Would these little things impact the readability of my book at this point? Probably not. But if I can find them and fix them, why shouldn’t I?

I also want to spend some time here on my blog introducing you to the history behind my novel The Dragon’s Daughter. I have some chapters to share here to give you a little insight into where these people came from and why they are the way they are. I hope by doing this that I’ll be building in you some interest to read the book. I hope these backstories will make you curious about their world and their lives and that you’ll want to pick up The Dragon’s Daughter after reading these little chapters. It’s not quite time to share those, but it’s getting close. And I definitely don’t want to publish my book until I’ve done this.

We live in a world where we want everything now, now, now. And for the most part, we can get just about anything now, now, now (or close to it). I just don’t think that’s always a good thing.

I understand, now better than ever, the desire to rush to publish. But my book will get only one introduction to the world. I want it to the best introduction it can get, and that, to me, is worth the wait.

I don’t have to rush.

So what if agents don't want my book ... I'm self-publishing!

As I mentioned in my previous post, self-publishing makes me nervous. But it also makes me very, very excited.

Have you gone through the querying process with agents? Have you labored and labored over your book, revised your book, sweated your query letter, revamped your query letter, cussed and fumed and cussed some more as you wrote (or tried to write) your synopsis?

Having done all of that, have you then sat on pins and needles (actually, sitting on pins and needles might be more pleasant), waiting to hear back from those agents? Have you jumped as if poked by one of those pins every time a new email comes in, knowing it’s probably not an agent, but if it is an agent … good lord if it IS an agent … Will she hate it? Will he love it? Will she offer any advice at all if she hates it? Will he just send a form rejection that says, “Although we believe your story has merit, we don’t believe it’s a good fit for our list right now. Other agents may feel differently, though, and we wish you the best with your book.” (No, I didn’t copy and paste that. I’ve gotten enough of them, I know how they go.)

Have you gotten that much anticipated, can’t-believe-it’s-in-my-inbox response that says, “I really liked these first three chapters. Could you send the full manuscript?” Have you gotten up and done a little jig after reading that—and after squealing like a tween who just saw her pop-star idol? Have you then waited in breathless anticipation, barely sleeping, barely eating, checking your email every two minutes whether you’ve heard the notification or not, just hoping, barely daring to hope that the agent will get back to you and say, “I’d like to talk to you. When can we speak on the phone?” (I’ve never had that happen, so I don’t know how that goes for sure.)

Have you ever had to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and convince yourself to keep trying because yet another agent said no after reading the full manuscript? Have you wondered, “Why am I still trying to put this book out there? No one wants it. Maybe it really does suck.”

I’ve done all the above with three books, The Dragon’s Daughter being the last one that went through the process. I corresponded with some really amazing agents, some people who were very generous with their time, both in reviewing my book and in offering me advice and insight regarding what I could do with it that (in their opinion) would make it stronger. I appreciated that. I took much of their advice to heart and believe the book is stronger for it. However, at the end of the day, I’m still in possession of a book that no one wants to represent.

Except me.

And this is where self-publishing gave me a whole new perspective. Once I decided I wasn’t going to go the traditional route (or, more accurately, once it became clear I wasn’t going to be able to go the traditional route), but I was going to self-publish, a weight lifted.

All of the sudden, a door opened and I knew that my book was going to make it out into the world. All my books that I have yet to write are going to make it out into the world. I will sweat them. I will revise them. I will seek feedback from others, from beta readers, and I may even decide to query the next one too … just to see. But my words are actually going to have a home and a place in the world. I’m not at the mercy of New York City anymore. I have the power to do this on my own.

If that’s not exciting, I don’t know what is.

Self-publishing gives me butterflies. But most of them are the good kind. I’m looking forward to sharing my book with you.