INSTA-GAIN & INSTA-SHAME

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As a writer still clinging to big dreams, I am aware that the writing itself is not always enough. I must somehow stand out from all the other writers who dream big. 

 

I can bemoan a lot of things that make making it seem unfair. How much of Madonna’s picture book did she actually write? Why doesn’t a New York editor stumble on this blog and declare, “We must publish this! All of it! And more!”? Why can’t I be seated next to an agent on a flight, have her volunteer this fact and then say, “We’ve got three hours. Tell me all about your manuscripts”? 

 

I’m flying again next week. When I check in, I’ll ask to trade my window seat for one beside a literary agent. “Pardon me, sir?” Worth a try.

 

At writers’ conferences and in articles in writing magazines, both of which thrive based on us (desperate) dreamers, it’s often said writers need a platform. We need to be known. Five appearances on CNN panels last month, a cute shout-out to the number 5 on Sesame Street (with Grover, pretty please!) and a Live chat with Kelly Ripa that goes viral for all the right reasons. 

 

If not all that, well, maybe a lot of followers on social media. That’s something, isn’t it?

 

The hope is that, if an agent and publisher take a chance on me, I’ll earn them money, not just from positive word of mouth and a Pulitzer Prize, but from me tweeting to my 7,000 followers on Twitter: “Hey! Me again. Buy my book. Pulitzer stickers on the cover mean something. It makes a great Christmas present too…for EVERYONE on your list! Even a great read-aloud for your toddler!” My 7,000 tweeps love me. Only three of them may like my latest selfie but they’ll surely pounce on my buy-my-book pleas. (Please!)

 

The trouble is I can’t make sense of Twitter anymore. I scroll, I try to connect, I feel I’m in a black hole. I didn’t even bother tweeting a pic of my latest haircut. 

 

But there’s still that big dream about being a famous, acclaimed, published author. I’ve taken to Instagram. I don’t know what the magic number is for an agent or editor to glance at my account and think, “There it is. Platform. Ka-ching!” I’m pretty sure 281 million would do it (Easy to forget about the haters, Taylor) or even 4.1M (Anderson Cooper!) or 3.4M (Kelly Ripa). I’m hoping 10,000 makes an impression, too.

 

Not that I’m there. I started posting on Instagram 318 days ago, sticking to the respectful one post per day, and I’ve gained 2,000 followers. A good start. 

 

Perusing other Insta accounts, I see many with thousands of followers despite only a handful of posts. Bots, I suspect. Plus, every day Instagram reminds me I can boost my account for a fee. I suppose I too can have a bevy of fake followers. I don’t want to go there. I’m saving my money for my next trip, my next writing conference and the next issue of a writing magazine with LANDING YOUR BOOK DEAL IN 2024 emblazoned on the cover. I’m a sucker but a selective one.

 

Every single person I follow on Twitter or Instagram has an account I’ve spent a few moments scrutinizing. Is it active? Are there signs the person is real and not just a re-poster on Twitter or someone who copies Google Images onto Insta? On the latter site, I refrain from following people whose entire account consists of selfies. (How about just one where the Taj Mahal or Van Gogh’s “Irises” isn’t relegated to background fodder?) I skip the ones where there’s always a woman with long hair and a big hat, her back always turned to the camera, no face reveal. These, I suspect are AI-generated. I also pass when one or more of the three latest photos includes dead game, a closeup of lip fillers or a man who misplaced his shirt. Sorry, but these are previews of what will fill my feed and I choose not to volunteer to be traumatized on a daily basis. (We all have different triggers.)

 

I do follow normal people, even interesting ones. My Instagram account may have a goal of building a platform to shuck my book—er, books—but, unlike Twitter, I’m also genuinely enjoying the site. I have a new appreciation for productive knitters. There’s a guy in Miami whose macramé reminds me of origami. (I mean that in a good way.) There’s a woman in Vancouver who posts pics of graffiti and I feel an odd (misplaced?) sense of triumph each time I can say, “Been there!” 

 

Since my Instagram is specifically connected to an in-progress collection of essays about mental health, I have a big following of people who, like me, have been diagnosed as bipolar. Their posts sometimes strive to uplift, other times address challenges and often avoid mental health altogether. (A bowl of blackberries with a mint leaf gets a “like” from me.) 

 

I tell myself Instagram will make me better at snapping pictures with my phone. I follow many photographers and, maybe by osmosis, I’m learning how to better frame a shot and how to make the mundane photo-worthy. One day, I too will get more than a thousand likes for a hiking shot or an artful image of a half-eaten piece of dry toast. 

 

There is one aspect of my search for followers that troubles me. I hesitate every single time I come across a man’s account. My little bio blurb includes a rainbow flag. I’m gay or perhaps something more vaguely queer. (The menu has so much more to choose from these days.) 

 

Despite all the hype about Pride, I’m still on shaky ground. I’m happy to be who I am, but I continue to feel there are many people who feel otherwise. I have always been guarded around straight men. There is a level of Trumped-up testosterone that I imagine to be present. With that, intolerance. 

 

I can hear queer advocates labeling me as having internalized homophobia, shaming me in the process. I’m not Proud enough. 

 

True. I have an aversion to having my identity dismissed, mocked or packaged into an overblown cry of intolerance.

 

If this were 2015, when Obama was president and the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed the right to equal marriage, I’d be less wary. I’d presume instead that a man I followed on social media who did not identify as gay or queer would be open and accepting. He’d follow me because of my photos or my writing blurbs or just as a polite formality. (Maybe he’s building a platform, too.)    

 

I know there’s more acceptance now, but I also know there is a hate that’s more entrenched—bolder and emboldened by politicians who emphasize differences and feed off fear, scoring political points and accruing larger financial donations by eschewing tough issues like climate change, healthcare and the economy for cheap shots at minorities who don’t align with their party in the first place. 

 

There is no Hippocratic oath for politicians. While I believe there are some who enter politics with good intentions, trying to navigate the gamesmanship while maintaining integrity, I also know there are many who are Machiavellian. Do harm if it means gain. 

 

I hate my hesitation in deciding whether to follow a man on Instagram. I scan the photos and the teeny bio to see if there’s anything that hints at intolerance. Despite great content, I have talked myself out of following a guy from Montana, someone with a bushy beard and a dude with a propensity for baseball caps. I’m making assumptions. 

 

I’ve never had someone on Instagram spew hate as a comment to my photo of a mountain or even my pic of rainbow-painted stairs, but I brace for that day. I’ve been blindsided by hateful rhetoric in real life many times. I know the most likely response for a person uncomfortable about any aspect of my Instagram account is to not follow me back, his reasoning never known.

 

My Insta hesitance is a reminder I am not as settled in my skin as I wish I could be. I am still more vulnerable than I should be. I may never shake self-hate and presumed hate. So often, I decide not to follow that man and the man after that. I feel shame, but I also feel safe.

 

Getting to 10,000 followers will take longer. In the meantime, I have manuscripts to finish, revisions to make and agents to accost in airports. 

 

Another shameless plug…

My Instagram account:

rxtraveler

 

 

 

  

WRITER BLOCKED

I have a dream. As I slog away with various in-progress manuscripts, I am discovered the easy way. Query-free! A reader retweets or shares a link to one of my blog posts and this gets passed on to a friend who has a cousin with a neighbor whose uncle’s new boyfriend is an agent or editor or publisher who is looking for just the kind of writer that writes my kind of blog.

No, not my kind of blog. MY blog.

Yes, through blogging and social media, I become recognized as a veritable writer. Three-book deal for starters. The advance is enough to let me take a sabbatical to write full-time. Movie rights are still being negotiated. These things get tricky. It’s hard to align Clooney’s and Spielberg’s schedules. If not Clooney, Affleck wants in. (I’d be happy to share a screenwriting credit with Ben as long as we share some time in the writers’ room. I promise not to sing this song about us.) Affleck is pushing to star and direct. And, let’s face it, I’ve always been Team Ben, even during that JLo/”Gigli” period. So sorry, Steven. There will be more movies based on my writing. They’re talking about adapting some scribble of mine on a napkin from a Lebanese restaurant, summer 2014. Apparently it’s sounding more promising than studio reboots of “The Shaggy D.A.” and “BJ and the Bear”. Hurrah!

My dreams always get a bit weird. Let’s strip it down. Call it a prayer or a dream, it goes like this: Let my blog lead to an agent, an online paid position, a book. Let this passion for writing be worth something. Even without Ben Affleck, it’s an amazing dream.

There you have it. Let me be a full-fledged, full-time writer. So you can imagine my alarm when I discovered this week that an LGBTQ publisher, Dreamspinner Press, blocked me on Twitter. Me? Blocked?!

Has the dream been dashed by Dreamspinner? Maybe I can spin this Dreamspinner slight another way. Is this simply an inevitable narrowing of the field? Every publisher has its regrets. Friday afternoons when the shredder went into overdrive to clear the slush pile. The next J.K. Rowling or David Sedaris. Me!

But, while I’ve got Dreamspinner on my list of LGBTQ publishers, I don’t think I’ve submitted anything to them. I’m terrible about submitting. (Hence, this dream about being discovered through the blog.)

Did my blog offend? (Maybe it was this post or this one.)

Did I tweet something horrendous?

Maybe it was this photo:

 

Or this:

 

Blocked. Ack!

Did someone hijack my account and then tweet my followers with one of those Spammy, virus-laden “Someone is saying nasty things about you” messages? Trust me, tweeps, I don’t spread hate. I’m too busy snapping pics of colon-friendly cookies.

Whatever I’ve done, dear Dreamspinner, I’m sorry. I’m a nice guy. And maybe, just maybe, I can write.

I shall shake off this publishing setback. Blog on! Schlep through the momentarily meandering middle section of my latest manuscript. Revise away on that young adult project I set aside two years ago. And, yes, I may have to carve out some time to punch up my query letter and research agents and editors and other publishers. That last category is suddenly minus one.

But I shall dream on as well. Maybe one of my blog readers—a particularly charming, intelligent and benevolent reader, of course—will begin that hypothetically fortuitous chain of retweets and shares of this blog, catching the attention of an eager and amazed (and astute?) editor/agent/publisher who decides I am the Must Client. Maybe my perceptive reader’s initial share will lead to one of those publishing wars that jacks six-figure deals up to seven. Maybe Affleck really wants to meet in person to discuss co-writing the screenplay adaptation. (He and Matt Damon had a tiff over, I don’t know, the other’s failure to take a stand against some egregious comment from Ricky Gervais or Judd Apatow or Donald Trump that tangentially related to one of them. They’ll eventually make amends, of course, but this is my window of opportunity.) Affleck and me. Together. For the sake of a golden writing opportunity. At least, that’s how it starts.

Hey, it’s possible. This is my dream, after all.

RIGHT TIME, WRITE PLACE

I am halfway through a week’s staycation. (It tickles me that someone coined a term to compensate for the fact I don’t have the cash to fly to Hawaii. Or drive to Seattle. Or fill my tank of gas. Yep, I’m sticking close to home just because I love it. Disregard the fact that I’m desperately hoping to sell it.)

Instead of lounging by the ocean at a tropical resort, I decided to focus on writing. While I am proud of the fact that I continue to write at least an hour and a half a day five days a week, this week allows extended creative sessions and the chance to get one, perhaps two, projects shipshape for submission.

But three days before the start of my personalized writing retreat, my spark disappeared. I could blame it on the time change or the left-field dramatics at work or a preoccupation with the welfare of Bobbi Kristina Houston Brown, spurred on by top-notch reporting from “Entertainment Tonight”. Whatever the cause, I felt panic which gave way to despair.

I am a fraud.

Not even up to “hack” standards.

Consider the publication of my first novel a fluke.

“As good as it gets” passed four years ago.

The revised staycation itinerary involved wrestling invasive blackberry bushes, finding a remedy for my dog’s bad breath (“Parsley, poochie?”) and renting free DVDs from the town library (Why is “Dumb and Dumber” in the Classics section?!).

Just in time, my luck changed. Maybe it was the fortune cookie forecast that fell from my wallet while I fueled up on another venti at Starbucks: THERE IS NEW HOPE FOR PROJECTS YOU HAD ALMOST GIVEN UP ON. Funny, but I don’t recall receiving that prophecy. I don’t even remember the last time I ate Chinese food.

After my two and a half hour commute home from work including a soggy uphill walk from the ferry, I checked my emails and read a vaguely familiar subject header, preceded by “RE.” After a few seconds, I realized it was a response to an article I’d submitted to Writer’s Digest last summer [July 27, 2011, to be exact.].

I tried to temper excitement with caution while opening the message. Seems my emailed submission got “a bit lost”, only to be recently rediscovered. (Fitting, really. That quote could be my motto!) The more important remarks: “We love it, and would like to run it in our next issue”. The payment? A pittance, but enough to cover a month of lattés.

The 300-word back page article isn’t likely to have New York editors suddenly following me on Twitter, but the email came at the right time, an affirmation that my original staycation agenda is worth pursuing. It’s great when I can work through my own self-doubt, but I can put that pep talk on hold. And the blackberry bushes can continue to overtake my backyard. I’ve got a query letter to write.

FRIGHT & FLIGHT

As a middle-aged single, gay wannabe writer, there are so many opportunities for self-doubt. (Why is it that my parents feel they need to nurture that?)

Life would be far easier if I stayed on the ground. After all, being “grounded” is deemed an admirable quality. Unfortunately, I’ve got this urge to walk the tightrope. I’m a wee bit afraid of height so I’ll set it three feet above ground, but still there’s a huge risk of an ankle sprain. I’d be quite the wuss on crutches.

I have a solid job, one that I feel more satisfied doing than I ever have. I go about the days calmer, with a clearer understanding of what I can impact and what is too burdened by personalities and other issues. And yet I’m walking away from the job and the career in nine months. (Yes, I’m counting.) Perhaps seeing the finish line is what makes the work easier. Maybe it strengthens me. It excites me to think I’ll leave on a high note. If only all life changes could begin that way.

When I move, take a peon job (“Welcome to the Gap!”; “Have you tried our newest McFlurry?”) and put all my energy into writing, it will feel in some ways as if I’ve sunk below ground, but really I’ll be flapping, hopefully soaring, above. The pension fund will sit stagnant, enough to buy kibble for the dog in what has the potential to be a frugal Meals-on-Wheels-seniors’-bus-pass-thrift-shop-scrounging future retirement. I turn forty-seven this week. That leaves me with plenty of years to keep hoping my lottery numbers will come up if my writing dreams prove as silly as my childhood aspiration to work as an elf at the North Pole.

A nagging message in my head (presented in my mother’s cautionary voice) says, “Why would you quit your job? Why not write on the side?” Ah, yes, so practical. A sage suggestion for the grounded folks. I’m not wired that way. I require risk and discomfort to push me into action. When there is nothing to fall back on, I waste no time fretting and doubting. I write.

To my parents’ dismay, I’ve done this all before. I went through law school, passed the California Bar, clerked for judges and then worked as an attorney in a boutique firm with an office view of the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Monica Pier, only to decide as I hit thirty that I needed to start over. To do so, I had to leave California so there would be no way I could fall back on my license to practice law. I moved to Vancouver where I had but one acquaintance and no job prospects. I took a Christmas retail job on Robson where my manager was twenty-three and my coworkers lived for Saturday nights at The Roxy. I didn’t get as psyched about selling leather jackets as my colleagues and rarely made my daily sales target. Management chose to end my seasonal employment after Boxing Day.

I could have taken going from successful lawyer to unemployed sales clerk as a humiliating game-over fumble, but I needed that awkward time to stop speculating about my future and to DO SOMETHING! I’m pleased that I found a path to follow for seventeen years. To continue to amble along and extend the trek to thirty-two years is not an option. It’s safe, but it would foster feelings of regret. It should come as no surprise that my favorite poem has always been Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken”.

I can feel the excitement, but the pressure mounts as well. As Martha would say, it’s a good thing. I have a manuscript that will be ready to submit by the end of October and a screenplay that will be fully polished by the end of November. Maybe there will be bites, maybe there won’t. It is the beginning of a new phase in life. The journey on the tightrope is frighteningly narrow, with nerve-fraying wobbles. I don’t care how I look—I’ll wear a helmet and my old kneepads from volleyball—but I can’t wait to remove the safety net and give it a go. If, along the way, I have to mop up on Aisle 6 or cohabitate a moldy basement suite with a rat I’ll name Ben, so be it. I’ll twist a retro expression and say, “Write on!”