Why I Stopped Checking My Book Numbers Every Ten Minutes, er, Seconds

My deepest author confession? I haven't checked my book sales numbers in ten days. 

Or explained in a way everyone can understand:  I haven't checked Facebook for likes. 

Since a week ago Tuesday.

Ah, now I got your attention.

Hey, listen, as a fellow member of Social Media Beast Nation. I understand the compulsion of checking. And checking. And checking. 'Cause it feels good to ride high on that virtual wave of likes. And follows.

And book sales.

Only problem? We always want more.

So instead of patting ourselves on the back and saying, fantastic job! Or damn girl, good for you patiently building this up slow and steady like, our brains are on the hunt for additional instant gratification. And when that doesn't come soon enough, like twelve seconds ago, we start focusing on all the things we don't have:  Like why nobody liked that photo. Or why only ten retweets. Or why hasn't anyone bought my book. 

In the last 8 hours?

I know you feel me.

And I'm not even saying that the numbers aren't valuable. Clearly, they work as a hard indicator of sales. They show you've got a good product on your hands, and indirectly, because people continue to purchase said product, that you're a relatively good writer. All true. But don't you think you should know this already anyway, especially if you've gotten this far in the process?

Trust. I'm not anti-sales. Indeed, I'd love to sell so many books I could purchase the New York Times Best Seller List. But if I haven't sold a bazillion books in the last ten minutes, will that alter my original marketing plan? Will I stop working any harder to get there? Does it mean that I'm lazy? Someone who hasn't accomplished anything?

Like, ever in life?

Hell no. So why even give yourself the opportunity to go there?

Honestly, I didn't become a writer for the money. I became one because it made me happy. Because I can't imagine doing anything else. Because I want to affect change with my words. To encourage people. To make them think. To make them understand that they are not alone. 

And truth is, I'm already doing that. 

You're here right now, aren't you?

So kiss off metrics. From here on out, we're gonna be monthly friends. Henceforth (best writer word ever), I'm committed to measuring my worth, in the kind of life that I lead every day. How I treat people. And the amount of books sold between 10am and 3pm on a Wednesday don't fit anywhere in that equation.

Permission to Read, Granted.

Oh, hey, old friend. 

Where have I been?

Well, writing a book for starters. Maybe you've heard about it? Settling Down A Novel. It's good stuff. In fact please read the following review. That I may (or may not) have just made up.

"It's really funny,"  André M. Brown, professional husband, NFL watcher and reader of exactly one book for women. (Disclaimer:  He read it at least 5 times. Maybe 10. He is an expert.)

Actually just writing doesn't even begin to encompass the massive amount of work I've been in the midst of. Yup, I dreamed up the story in my head, then sat on my ass for the better part of several years to write the words. But in addition, and more powerfully,  I've been creating a vision for my voice that's way bigger than a book.

A movement if you will. A revolution even.

A call not to settle. 

Not in love. Not in life. Not in happiness.

Not at your job. Or within your family. Not in your health.

Not in your clothes. Where you're supposed to live. How many kids you're supposed to have. The age that you're supposed to be married. Or stop wearing a bikini. Or give yourself a sensible bob haircut.

Do NOT settle. For anything!

Here's the thing in this life. We spend so much time asking for permission. Permission to be ourselves. Permission for our opinions to exist in the world. Permission to be validated. To be seen. To be heard. 

Permission to live.

Why? I dunno. The best I can figure out is we feel less scared when there are rules to follow. Markers to gauge our lives. Things that we're supposed to cross off our cosmic to-do-list in order to feel like we're making progress. Or that we're doing things correctly. 

We just blindly go along with tradition. Because you're supposed to. And that's how it's always been done. And because they say so. 

Whoever the hell 'they' are.

But what if there are no rules. No right way to do things. What if you started asking:  Who makes you the expert of everything, especially me?

I think you'd find the answers change. And if you're brave enough to shake things up, you will be better than okay. You'll learn that you can survive, and hell yeah, thrive,  just being true to you.

So welcome. Or welcome back.

Let's do this. How 'bout we #DontSettle together.

All Good Things Must Come To An End

In July, 2011, I set out on a personal challenge: Write one blog post per week for a year.

That's fifty-two essays, in case your elementary math really sucks.

And I wasn't just going for a record of what I ate for breakfast. (Oatmeal. Steel cut. With fresh blueberries, raw almonds, a glass of cranberry juice and a Starbucks iced French Roast.) I wanted to create a platform that was thought provoking. Conversation inspiring. To bring voice to issues that mattered. 

Or at least ones that mattered in my world.

Two years, and one hundred and six consecutive posts later (107 if you count this one), clearly, this grand experiment has gone a bit into overtime. (I'll blame my obsessively competitive nature. Even if I'm the only one running in the race.) 

And so, while I'm giving myself a standing O for outstanding achievement in discipline and deadlines, without any enforcer (or money) involved, it's time to pick up this party and move in another direction.

What? And you thought authoring an unpaid blog was my life dream?

Don't worry. I'm not saying good-bye to the blog. (Or, horrors of horrors, writing.) My mouth is far too big to stay silent for long. But what I am saying good-bye to is this rigid schedule of posting every Thursday like clockwork. 

Because that part is feeling increasingly like a job. Instead of what it really is: 

A calling and a passion.

Worst Case Scenario

My greatest fear?

For the longest time it was, drum roll please, being stuck in traffic without a bathroom in sight.

A bit unusual? Probably, since I'm not 92 years old or pregnant. Luckily, there is a logical explanation. Once upon a time, my delicate psyche was traumatized by seeing a horrible car accident that required a highway closing and a Med Flight helicopter landing.

My bladder was ill prepared for this delay.

Just relax, right? Like that scenario's ever going to repeat itself. Until it did. Only this time, Andre and I were the disabled vehicle, a mile away from a planned pit stop. High speed blow out. Route 95. Driver's side. In the rain.

We called AAA, then sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Until an hour passed and Andre decided he couldn't wait anymore. So over the guardrail he went, down the hill into nature's toilet. A place so clean and serene, he decided that I should pay it a visit as well.

I. AM. NOT. AN. OUTDOORS. GIRL.

But sadly, as this was the only viable option, I followed my husband, back down the grassy knoll, where he was kind enough to shield my bare ass from passing cars with an umbrella, as I desperately tried not to pee on myself.

Too much.

Crisis averted, right? Oh, not quite yet.

Because just, as we, one black man and one white woman, emerged from the thistles, while adjusting our clothing, the Connecticut State police K-9 unit arrived on the scene, along with some deeply ingrained racial stereotypes. That dog in the back seat? He wasn't barking the loudest.

"What were you doing down there?!" the trooper asked Andre.

"Ah, um."

"What were you doing down there?!!!" he asked again.

"Um--"

Oh, that Andre. I knew he was in protection mode, trying to prevent either of us from being arrested for public urination. But truth was unless I took one for the team, Officer Friendly probably wouldn't have stopped his general line of questioning. In fact, I wasn't even quite sure if he knew I was there--that darn 'black man coming out of the woods tunnel vision' and all.

"I had to pee," I blurted, effectively putting an end to his theory that he had thwarted a rape in progress.

Like I hadn't been humiliated enough today.

AAA finally showed up, and we were back on our way, for what will live in infamy as our fifteen hour epic journey to Maryland. Lessons learned? Oh so many.

Always have a rough idea of your location, you know, in case you need to call for help. Be aware of the directional incline of hills while squatting. And the reality of that worse case scenario? It might just play out a bit differently than what you imagined.

But the truth is, no matter how bad things get, you can and will survive.

And once you do, there's not a whole lot to be afraid of anymore.

Top Five Things I've Learned As A Freelance Writer

I recently had dinner with a new writer pal, who is fearlessly gearing up to make that uncertain leap from a traditional 9-5 to self-employment. As I recounted my story, now thirteen years in the making, it occurred to me that perhaps I did indeed have a couple of lessons under my belt. Or, probably more accurately, that glass o' riesling was making me believe. Regardless, behold:

The Top Five Things I've Learned as a Freelance Writer:

5.  You know that beloved thing called pay day? That slice of financial heaven, that makes all of your hard work worth the effort? In the freelance world, some days, weeks or even months will pass before it appears. The reasons for this are unpredictable and varied, ranging from professional drought to working for organizations who clearly think you must be independently wealthy. Regardless, freelancing is sort of like putting your money in the stock market. You've gotta be in for the long haul for it to, literally, pay off.

4.  Eventually, the money will come. And then it will go. And come. And go. Sense a pattern? I've learned that ebb and flow is all part of the game. And you've got to be comfortable with that. Mostly. But even when the funds have temporarily halted, the fun must go on. Sure, there will be times that you're feeling far less baller than you were, say two weeks ago. That's when its back to basics: free events, half-price appetizers, clearance racks, coupons and on-line sales. The trade-off? An incredible quality of life--which truly can't be bought. And no office politics. Horray!

3.  In the end, it's still all just business. Sometimes freelance writing feels sorta like a major league baseball team. Your pitching? No doubt top-notch. You're reliable. Consistent. You've stepped up for the team in clutch situations. But if the management changes, your role is not guaranteed. In the blink of an eye, your veteran fast ball has been replaced by a rookie knuckleballer, called up from the minors. Same game. Different styles. Nothing personal.

2.  Know that while you're busting your hump every single day, there will be peeps who think that freelance is code for serial loafer. Ditch 'em. Embrace the people who support you. There's no need to explain yourself. Ever.

1.  Never give up. Be the little engine that could--with a pen. It's not called the creative PROCESS for nothin'. Stick with it. Learn from your journey. Uncover your professional strengths. Hone your voice, then make it stronger. And above everything else, write on!