This Is Not That Age

Dear Loyal Type M Reader. Shelley Burbank here on this lovely Friday afternoon, writing from Guam. 

I hope your January has gone okay. I know that doesn't sound very optimistic/enthusiastic, but the way things are going lately, it feels like the best we can hope for is "I'm okay. Are you okay? Do you need any support? Hugs? A giant glass of Chardonnay?" 

I'm okay. 

I was able to successfully upload my novella files to Amazon KDP. I've been wishy-washy about the idea of self-publishing, but I figured this 100-page mystery would be a good test of my ability to assimilate to the publishing landscape circa 2026. Dear Reader, I managed, and I'm happy to report that Strawberry Moon Mystery is officially visible on Amazon, available to pre-order, and the publication date is set for January 28! 

This is a mock-up of a Facebook ad that may end up as a post because . . . Facebook.

This entire Strawberry Moon operation is an experiment in self-publishing AND seeing if offering a shorter story at a lower price will tempt new readers to give Olivia Lively a chance to delight them. I'll keep you all posted on how it plays out for me as I do some but not a ton of marketing. My Facebook ad account is a whole 'nother topic. I made the graphic above using Canva. Facebook is giving me a bit of trouble because of my living in Guam. I just can't go into it right now. I don't have the fortitude. I'm tired of talking [whining] about Big Tech.

But I Have Something Good to Share Here

Sometimes I feel as if I'm being a "Debbie Downer" about the writing life, even though my motivation is to offer clarity, honesty, and realism about the state of publishing right now. I realize that my writer friends out there are all-too aware of the literary landscape, so I'm realizing maybe no one needs to hear me yammer on about it. 

Happily, there's something good that I'd like to share. With all this craziness going on in the industry right now and with me wondering, like SO MANY writers, if there is even a point of pursuing publication, I came to a realization: Even if nothing big ever comes of my writing and publishing life, I am GLAD, at nearly 60 years old, that I spent my life writing. It has been my passion for as long as I can remember. It's given me a focus to my life and so many hours of pleasurable work/practice that I can't be sorry I spent all the hours I did. I've also enjoyed meeting other writers, being part of the community. We learn with and from each other, and I'd like to take that to the next level in my remaining years. 

The biggest takeaway from all this is that I have no intention of stopping, even if there's nothing more in it for me than putting my work up on Amazon and ordering some Print On Demand copies for my own bookshelves. 

In other words, I'm once again approaching writing as an art and a craft, not a paying career. I'm giving up that dream. Artists create, even if no one "buys" it or admires it. Artisans create and strive for perfection, even if there's no real market for the pieces offered. 

For a long, long time I thought this was a cop-out attitude. "It's okay to write for pleasure" seemed like a phrase someone who wasn't serious about the writing craft or didn't have enough talent to succeed would throw out there. Now, I'm embracing this idea again, the writing for pleasure idea, only with one  important (I believe) caveat--storytellers need listeners, and listeners deserve the respect of our best efforts. 

It's not enough to write simply for our own pleasure. We should write with the reader in mind, even if that means one reader. Or two. Or a few hundred. In other words, we should still take our work seriously, the way any serious artist approaches their work, the blank paper, the mound of unformed clay, the musical notes dotting the staff lines, the wool in its raw and unspun state. 

Understanding I am part of a story-telling tradition stretching back thousands of years gives me pride and meaning and hope. It also adds a bit of pressure. Knowing I'm not working to SELL but rather to CREATE, I want to bring beautiful, meaningful books and stories into the world. Not just another throwaway, skim it and toss it, same old-same old book. Not some AI slop. I'm not saying my two novels are throwaways. These books did challenge me in the writing, they do have some thematic elements of which I'm happy, and they are written in a style that doesn't embarrass me. They are solid, decent genre fare. 

But is that the best I can do?

I don't think so. I think the books and the novella are the best I could do at the time, but now I'm excited to stretch even further, and with my new resolve, I can move forward now without having to worry about "writing to market" and current trends and all that jazz we are forced to consider when we actually think we can make money on this gig. 

In other words, I'm free. 

I've given up the stupid capitalist dream of making money from my writing. Yes, I said it. I've always believed in capitalism, but I'm beginning to feel the love of money IS the root of all evil. Some people DO succeed in having a paying career, but it's getting so much harder that honestly? I'd rather go back to worrying about craft and art and a solid style and having something to say...instead of marketing and PR and everything that goes along with trying to exchange story for dollar bills. 

Is This Failure Talking?

Have I simply failed? Maybe. Maybe I should care what everyone else (including you) thinks, but sorry. I don't. 

What I've learned--and what so many publishing insiders and professionals are talking about lately--is that I grew up smack at the apex of the "Golden Age of Publishing," a time when publishing houses gave out decent advances, nourished their authors' careers, and readers gobbled up books like candy. 

This is not that age.

The world has moved on, as Stephen King says in his Dark Tower series. The publishing world has moved on, the wheel has turned, and that is okay. 

I hope that by sharing my new resolve and outlook, others who may be feeling the same about the writing life and their chances of "making it" in this industry will be heartened or even inspired to continue the pursuit of the craft of creative writing, not for money or fame, but for joy of the craft and respect of the reader. Let's focus on crafting the most excellent books and stories and forget about sales and popularity.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Today I've been thinking about Christmases from my childhood and some of my most bittersweet experiences.

One Christmas eve my family (my parents and my younger sister, Phyllis) had gone to Garnett to visit my Aunt Aura Lee and Uncle Nappy. They had one child--our beloved Cousin Rosemary. She was the youngest of us three.

Roads were miserable in those days and as luck would have it we got snowed in. What normally would have been a treat--spending all night with the Galloways--was a miserable experience for me. I didn't sleep well.

For of course Santa Claus would by-pass us. When he found we were not at home sleeping in our beds, a whole year of being good would go to waste. Phiz and I had redoubled our efforts when it came close to Christmas.

Finally Christmas morning came and when we awoke Santa had showered gifts on Cousin Rosemary. She was an only child and Phiz and I thought such largess was really uncalled for. She was not that good! Honestly, the things we could tell Santa. If we were inclined to snitch, which we were not.

The snow was over and we were able to drive home. My heart pounded the closer we came to our farm. We dashed into the house and crest-fallen realized that the worst had happened. Santa had indeed by-passed us.

Then my father found a note. We gathered around while he read it. Santa explained that he was worried about the safety of our presents since the house was cold and dark. He wished us a merry Christmas and urged us to check the woodshed because he certainly hadn't forgotten us. Daddy immediately led us out to the woodshed and much to our joy there were two identical precious dolls, each in their own high chairs.

Our joy was unbounded. Especially since our good behavior had not gone unnoticed. My faith in Santa and the goodness of the Universe was restored.

Until it wasn't.

Lone Elm was a very small community. Grades 1-3 were in the same room. As Christmas approached the next year there was a vicious rumor afloat that there was no Santa Claus. It was really just our parents. I think it was started by the truly offensive big kids in the third grade.

It finally made sense to me. I simply could not understand why Santa treated one miserably poor family so cruelly when they were good as gold. They got gifts like tooth paste and a pair of socks. The despicable daughters in another family who were not good were lavished with all kinds of treats. It was nearly intolerable when school resumed after Christmas to hear them tell of all they had found under their tree.

But seared on my memory was the shocked sobbing of one of the daughters in the poor family when she realized if Santa was truly her own parents there was no hope. They were already doing the best they good.

For me, understanding the tragedy of loss of hope, and my initiation into complexity was one of the most important lessons of childhood.

I think of that, the weeks when our church helps host homeless families. I was shocked when one of the fathers had three jobs, but housing was still beyond his reach.

Churches redouble their efforts during the Christmas season to let families know that someone cares. May Christmas always be a time of generosity when communities give food and special presents to struggling families.

And give the gift of hope to those who need it most!

Merry Christmas from Charlotte Hinger.

Generating Hope

Usually I'm a January Junkie. I love the beginning of a new year and fresh starts. My pervasive post-election depression is fading although there is no good reason to be optimistic about our political climate.

However, each day is one day closer to spring and I'm reminded that one of the most essential components for a writer is hope. The whole industry depends on little worker bees who are willing to spend a couple of years working faithfully on a product that might not make it to the marketplace.

Until we have iron-clad contracts or are a mega-star we have no guarantee that a publisher will produce our book, that the bookstore will stock it, or that the public will purchase it. Certainly we don't have a clue as to whether our books will get reviews, win awards, or that we will make some money.

Other than military expeditions, I don't think there is any occupation where there is a greater investment of blood, sweat, and tears where the odds are stacked against success.

The only rationale for writing books is love of the process, joy in creation, and because we can't help ourselves.

I've started my fifth mystery for Poisoned Pen Press. I'm thrilled with the two good reviews I've gotten from Kirkus Reviews and Publisher's Weekly for Fractured Families, my fourth mystery, which will be released in March. The book is a bit odd so I'm also surprised by the glowing critical reception.

But most of all I am genuinely relieved and surprised that after a difficult harrowing year my enchantment with research and my love of making plots work has magically emerged again. I honestly believe a book will simply come together if I faithfully plug away day after day.

Most of all I'm always surprised by the "gift" character that appears fairly early. This character knows what the book is about even if I don't. In Fractured Families it was a tragic little handicapped unloved child who kept a Commonplace book.

And so my beloved fellow Type M'ers and all of our fans and readers to begin this new year have hope for your writing, your friends and families, and our countries.