It's All in the Marketing

My friend and I are doing final edits of our first book, which we hope to get published one way or another.  The process of publishing is like a whirling eddy of scary options ranging from seeking a conventional publisher using an agent (if you can find an agent), self-publishing after shelling out half of one's pension in perpetuity to get it going, publishing it exclusively as an e-book using at least four different services (and I do mean different), or a combination of those.  I don't believe I have the courage, frankly, to go the paper route through a conventional publisher.  And I haven’t yet made an effort to seek out an agent.  I have visions of rejection slip after rejection slip shooting through my mail slot like bullets through a Gatling gun.  

I’ve read authors’ blogs where they say that marketing is the most important part of the process—the activity least likely to be relished by any writer, including me.  It’s the process of writing that appeals to writers—thus the moniker “writer.”  It’s the creation of a paragraph that makes sense, sucks you in, tells a story, explains a premise.  Whatever it is, it flows.  Marketing isn’t writing.  

I’ve explored the marketing short-cuts.  So I’ll change my Facebook page, create a web site, start tweeting (I guess).  I don’t consider myself an old fogy, but I can’t seem to keep up with the technology.  I rely heavily on the expertise of my three sons who seem to be able to operate anything with either a mouse or a keyboard.  Contrast that with my own experience.  I grew up during the Civil Rights movement when Gloria Steinem and Bella Abzug were radical heroines, a woman’s right to choose was affirmed by the Supreme Court, women began keeping their own names after marriage, and the Vietnam War ebbed and flowed into the history books.  I’ve used computers since I was a young woman, but I have not, evidently, kept up with the social media industry--rapidly morphing into something incomprehensible.  

Nonetheless, I will adapt.  One thing I learned from being a minister’s daughter is that adaptation is survival.  We moved several times during my childhood, and I survived without the scars often suffered by children whose lives were uprooted in their tender youth.  I made new friends, started over with a new school and a new church, and found stability in the adventure.  I’ll figure out how to twitter, dammit, and when my book comes out, be generous when you find me outside the local supermarket hawking copies. 

Reveling in Retirement

I am closing in on my seventh month of retirement.  The time has flown by in a whirr of activity.  I feel as accomplished in retirement as when working—but without spending endless energy worrying about whether or not my actions of yesterday will adversely impact thousands of good citizens of California tomorrow simply because I used the word “must” instead of “may” or vice versa.  Rather, I spend endless energy feeding my soul. 

We’re attending dog training with Milo.  While he doesn’t yet respond immediately to “Here, Milo,” he’s moving in that direction.  He will “sit” and “down” and stand on two legs, doing a 360 for a treat.  We’re overly permissive doggie owners, which means that the training is not as life-changing as I had expected.  The end of the lessons nears without quite as much progress as I had expected. 

He’s quite the fetcher, though.  Loves those balls.  And the red Frisbees (We’re on, like, number six.  Fortunately, they only cost 99 cents.) have been chewed into oblivion.  He’s so bad we have to take them away so he doesn’t ingest red plastic pieces in the process.  Phil says that he appears to have gone feral when he has that damned thing in his mouth. 

My friend and I are close to finishing our mystery novel.  And now I am wading through the bog of publishing options.  What to do?  How to do it?  Where to start?  The writing almost seemed easier than figuring where we go with it once it’s done.  Can that be?  I’m reaching out to friends who might help me in my hour of confusion.

Today I received a replacement bowl for my 40-year-old Cuisinart.  For those of you who do not fit into the category of “baby boomer,” a “Cuisinart” used to mean food processor and nothing else.  Now it means all sorts of other products—knives, pots and pans, other kitchen utensils.  For about 20 years, the old bowl has been held together with duct tape.  Always hand washed—always by me, the bowl was used only to make pesto.  Nothing else.  I figured that everything else could be made without the help of a food processor.  But now that I have a new bowl, I have even unearthed the other attachments that can be used for the complement of other “knifely” things.  Covered with dust, they will be given new life—like a Phoenix rising from the earth. 

Cooking from the Garden

When my sister and I were children in upstate New York, we would wander into the kitchen garden in the summer, sit down and eat cucumbers and tomatoes right off the vine.  I don’t know whether it’s a New England thing or a gluttony thing.  Yes, I know Canton isn’t in New England; but I was born in New England, and I spent most of my young life in New England—but for the New York stint.  In northeastern Maine, where we spent a good part of our summers, I picked green beans which Nana cooked into submission in the pressure cooker.  Served with butter, they were mushy and absolutely delicious.  My great aunt Latin teacher and I picked raspberries daily and had as much as we wanted for breakfast since we were the pickers.  Others had to be satisfied with whatever was left.  The pear trees were prolific.  The peas were delicious.  And we gobbled up leaves of butter lettuce sprinkled with sugar.  Oh so good. 

cucumbers

It’s July 11 and the garden is flourishing.  The tomatoes are beginning to ripen.  Yesterday we had the first yellow squash.  The herb barrel is full and available.  I have been using lettuce each evening.  No cucumber or carrots yet, but I can wait.  They’ll be eaten when they’re ready. I even have one eggplant—picked today-- and more on the way. 

The barrel includes some of the more common herbs that I use a lot—basil, cilantro, oregano—and others that I use less often—thyme, mint, chives, flat and curly leaf parsley.  Tonight I used basil and mint in a chicken recipe that was originally written for fish.  Quite simply, I put together in a bowl about a half cup of olive oil, 3 tablespoons of chopped fresh mint, 3 tablespoons of lemon juice, 1 tablespoon of minced basil, and a small minced garlic clove.  I drizzled this over the chicken and seared it on the stove drizzled side down, then drizzled more on the second side before turning.  After it was brown on both sides, I added a generous amount of white wine, covered the pan and let it simmer for 10 to 15 minutes.  It was served with some of the sauce remaining in the pan and more of the fresh basil and mint sauce.  The chicken was great served with orzo prepared much like risotto.  I sautéed diced onions in olive oil, and then the orzo.  I added about a half cup of white wine, stirring until absorbed, then about a cup and a half of chicken broth, stirring often until done. The result was yummy.  I also served lettuce leaves with tomato slices on top and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar, olive oil and some freshly ground black pepper. 

There’s a reason our ancestors grew their own food. 

Travel with Dog

Google advised us that the trip between Sacramento and Ferndale would be 865 miles.  When one gets close to 865 miles, it becomes more and more important that Google be correct.  It wasn’t.  We left home at about 8 a.m. and arrived in Ferndale at around midnight.  It was a long day of driving—made all the longer because of the extra stops we made for Milo.  If only dogs could talk. . .  “I’m thirsty.”  Or “I have to pee.”  It’d make those stops so much easier.  We played this endless guessing game to determine which function of his body needed attention.  Fortunately, we weren’t betting money on our record of accuracy as we would have lost a fortune and Milo would have won.  He won anyway.

Mount Shasta

While some may disagree, the trip between central California and northwestern Washington offers one spectacular view after another.  Up the central valley of California, passing one rice paddy after another—many replete with egrets standing starkly white against the green.  Fields of golden sheaves of some kind of grain, which my husband always claims is rape—no matter what it looks like.  The Sutter Buttes in the distance looking all purpley.  The Cascade mountains all the way up.  As we approached the border with Oregon, Mt. Shasta loomed for miles and miles.  At one vista point, I pulled over to take a picture.  This stop would hold about ten cars bumper to bumper and was separated from the freeway by a chain link fence.  As I got out, I left the door open and Milo jumped out.  Now as it happens we start doggie training next week, and Milo’s recall instinct is not well developed.  So I ran around the place like an ant whose hill has just been disturbed trying to prevent Milo from heading toward the freeway while he—who was moving aimlessly--looked longingly, if frantically, in the direction of those noisy semi trucks zooming along the freeway just ripe for the chasing.  Phil, in the meantime, thoughtfully opened the trunk and shook the bag of treats.  Milo bought the distraction, and we collapsed back in the car unable to speak for a good five minutes.  No photo captured that particular memory. 

View from house in Ferndale

Great blue heron

Kayaking on the bay

At the end of any journey—made by choice, of course—is something good.  And good it was.  In the morning, we awoke to the sea and the birds and the forest and good friends.  So began our week in the northwest.  We ate, we drank, we walked, we kayaked, we worked together, and I was, once again, awestruck by the majesty of it all.  My photos do not do justice to it.  But trust me, it was good.

Somehow the 865 plus miles home were somewhat easier.  We left at 5 a.m. instead of 8 and arrived home by about 10.  Manageable and memorable. 

Hiatus

My blog has languished too long.  I’ve spent my energies on another writing project that is lengthy and complex and very different from the thoughts I share here.  In retirement, I find that I have easily stacked up distractions from the writing I want to accomplish—the garden, my French reading group, a visit to my brother in Los Angeles, a friend’s wedding, family meals, Mahjong (of all things!!!), weekends with my 92-year-old father, ad infinitum.  These things all take time and psychic energy—some more than others—and I find myself distracted from the satisfying results of my creative exploits. 

By now, central California is already sunny and hot, perfect weather for growing tomatoes and peppers.  Alas, here we are into June and the rainfall continues.  I shouldn’t be so quick to wish for hot weather as hot weather here can sometimes mean 110 degrees.  And I hesitate to say that it usually gets that hot only once or twice a summer since there is nothing “usual” about the meteorological state of affairs across the U.S.—never mind California's Central Valley.  Despite the cool weather, the garden has cooperated some, producing radishes in abundance, herbs galore, and promise of lettuce and carrots.  There are some tomatoes on the vines, but they haven’t shown the slightest hint of color—except the green hue.  We do have peas as well—enough to eat while picking but not enough to share.  The vines are pretty puny and haven’t crawled up the trellis in a way I had expected.  It seems silly to even comment about the squash since nothing can stop it from flourishing.  Fortunately, I only planted two at the corner of the garden against the fence where they can crawl and climb with impunity.

In addition to all the other distractions mentioned above, I gave in and purchased a Kindle, which has made it oh so easy to download, sit and read.  And downloading, sitting and reading I’ve done.  As the evening wanes and the morning waxes, I find myself glancing at the little bar that tells me how much of the book I’ve read and I push to read a little more until the percent kicks up another number.  And another.  And another.  I really need to be more disciplined.    

Ah, retirement.  New beginnings, new distractions, new disciplines.  All good.

Living Things

My garden is making progress toward filling our plates and bowls with the bounty of produce.  I admit to some trepidation at having announced to the world that I am attempting a garden.  I could fail utterly, though I am feeling more and more confident that we will actually be able to consume what’s growing there—maybe even share! 

My eggplant is doing well.  It had been chewed on by some creature, but seems to have thrived despite that.  A few of the eggplant seedlings have survived, but remain in their humble egg carton.  My one disappointment is that one of my sweet one hundreds is looking quite “peak-ed,” and we’ll have to replace it with a more hearty plant.  And the sweet one hundreds are my favorite!   

 

I provided something on which the peas and cucumbers can climb, so they’re happy campers.  (They're hiding behind the bichon frise marker that Sam's girlfriend gave me for Mother's Day.)  In addition to the red bell pepper, I planted a miniature sweet pepper.  At the end of the garden, I planted some too-mature basil, which isn’t really doing all that well.  And, in fact, I think I’m due for a pesto, so will just harvest those leaves and plant something else in their place. 

The most exciting thing in the garden, however, is the seedlings, which have sprouted.  The radishes came up with lightening speed.  I’ve already thinned them once and should do it again, though I probably won't.  The lettuce is doing very nicely.  The carrots—for which I had lost all hope, thinking I had washed the seeds away when watering—have finally peeked out of the ground.  And the herb barrel looks wonderful and has been picked at many times.  That includes oregano, basil, chive, two kinds of parsley, cilantro, mint and thyme. 

Milo has not handled the concept of “fence” well.  He comes to the fence when I’m inside the garden area and puts his paw through a hole in an effort, I think, to squeeze his body through.  He will adjust.  Or not.  But either way, I’ve learned my fence lesson.

  

When son Sam was here one day, he found a “peeper” in the yard, which is, no doubt, happy to stay around—though so small we’ll probably never see it again.  And while he was here, a cedar wax-wing flew into a mirror that lives outside to capture the occasional practice golf swing. (It has since been turned around to prevent a repeat.)  He rescued the poor thing, put him up off the ground (and away from curious felines) and gave him some water.  And after 10 or 15 minutes, he very suddenly flew away.  I was thrilled as I had pictured him rudely thrown into the garbage can when he didn’t survive. 

The back yard and garden are full of living things—plants, animals, insects that eat the eggplant, and insects that aid the eggplant.  What a wondrous thing it is.