fiction – Britt Skrabanek

How in the Hell Can We Writers Stand Out?

On a cold fall day in Portland recently, my two lazy ass cats were cuddled down in the laundry on the bed. It was fresh out of the dryer…can you blame them?

I was rehearsing the ole “I’m failing as a writer” dramatic play in my head. It’s not my favorite. I’d rather be in a cheeky musical.

Anyway, as usual the cats seemed to be onto something—looking cute, while I was pacing and questioning my creative existence. They’re smarter than us silly humans, they get life.

Being the silly human that I am, I was pondering something that’s been assaulting my writerly mind…everybody’s putting out content.

THESE DAYS…EVERYBODY HAS AN ONLINE PRESENCE

Just this past week I saw two people I know come out with blogs—people I never would have thought of as “writers.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. It’s awesome that they’re taking this leap, expressing their thoughts through writing.

However, this also demonstrates my point. Everyone’s blogging now.

It’s true. I know this from my almost four years of blogging, and my career as a Content Manager at a B2B marketing agency.

We’re experiencing the same conundrum, because every business has a blog. So we have to work diligently within our niche, we have to provide unbeatable value to our audience, and we have to be consistent and tactical.

These are the must-haves of producing content to bring awareness to your brand. I’m only talking about awareness, which is at the very tip-top of the buying cycle. Those people still have a long way to go before they make a decision to buy.

Are you still with me, or did I lose my writer friends with the B2B talk?

The thing is we’re trying to do the exact same thing. We’re trying to build awareness for our author brand. Because like it or not—and believe me, I know how hard it is to self-promote—if we’re trying to sell something (like our books)…we’re running a business.

You know, sometimes you think a blog post is going to rock and it bombs. Other times a post takes off and you’re staring at your ridiculously high stats, wondering if WordPress is malfunctioning.

I had this happen with my post, 10 Years of Marriage…We Never Saw it Coming.

It was my best post ever, with over 500 views in one day. Somehow it was a massive hit on Facebook.

Hey, for my little blog, that was a big deal. Did the extra attention on my blog achieve any book sales? A few people checked me out—my About page and my book links. I got one new follower on my blog, and nobody bought a single book.

Will someone buy a book after finding you from one blog post? Probably not.

Writers, dry your eyes.

I once used to think that a viral blog post would help launch my writing career too. At the very least, I figured I would see an increase in blog subscribers—a little bump in my social media followers perhaps?

Nope. People just swooped in and swooped out.

So, back to our business talk for a moment.

All of these blogging and social media tactics serve as touch points. That wildly successful blog post was just one touch—to my existing readers and new readers. But one touch point with a customer or buyer rarely leads to a sale, if ever.

Think about the research you habitually do before you buy something. Unless you’re an impulse shopper, you think about a product before you make a decision. Depending on the cost and need, that might be a few days, weeks, months—maybe years.

You can say what you want about social media, but it’s a golden opportunity to make connections with people. Every conversation is a touch point.

Just this morning I found out on Twitter that my good friend, Carrie Rubin, ended up on BuzzFeed. This is ridiculously awesome exposure, because as we all know, their audience is well up in the millions. That’s right…millions.

How did she get through the almighty BuzzFeed door? A single tweet.

Sure, it was BuzzFeed’s usual click-bait genius in a piece called 23 Secrets Barnes and Noble Employees Will Never Tell You.

But my girl Carrie got a nice little spot on the page, with an amazing opportunity to grow her Twitter audience through that cute little follow button in the embedded Tweet.

This is great exposure for Carrie, especially because her latest book, Eating Bull, is releasing soon. So rather than just checking out the BuzzFeed piece, head on over to Amazon to preorder Carrie’s magnificent new release.

Because we all know that running a creative business is that much harder. And for us hard-working authors, the brutal truth is…nobody needs more books.

THESE DAYS…EVERYBODY HAS A BOOK

Three years ago was a different story for indie authors too. Because another thing everyone’s doing? They’re self-publishing.

It was bizarre to see the book release performances for my first book, Beneath the Satin Gloves, and my third book.

Way back then I had just started my blog and had a small but lovely handful of followers. My social media channels mainly consisted of family, friends, and pornographic spammers. Last year when Nola Fran Evie came out, I had a much bigger following.

Guess what, kiddos? My first book release somehow did better than my third book. Yep, back when I had just started my online presence…back when I was a nobody.

I came up with the following theories:

More of my family and friends purchased my first book. By the time my third came out, the excitement and curiosity about me coming out as a writer had fizzled out.
Subject matter. Beneath the Satin Gloves was a WWII spy novel with a time travel element, while Nola Fran Evie (though a more solid work, in my opinion) was about social issues in the 1950s and the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League—a feel-good book where nobody was killed.

What I really think happened? More noise. More competition. Everyone’s moms, dads, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and dogs are coming out with books.

Again, I love seeing people expressing themselves artistically—taking a risk, sharing their story.

But, where does that leave us? The writers trying to make it out there. The indie/small-time authors throwing every ounce of creativity into their books, while holding down blogs and social channels to feed the marketing cog.

I’ve been a fan of Kristen Lamb’s blog for some time. A post from a couple of months back stayed with me, Why Our Author Brand is More Important Than Ever, in which Kristen said this about author branding:

In a marketplace with fewer and fewer points of sale with more competition than ever in human history, how do we sell books?

We have to create a brand.

We live in a time where we have more choices than ever. I don’t know about you guys, but I have a Love-Hate relationship with Central Market. Granted, it is AWESOME. Central Market is such a cool grocery store that tourists actually visit. Every aisle is a foodie’s dream. They don’t just have “olive oil”, they have 700 varieties of an olive oil “experience”.

So, how in the hell can we writers stand out?

I wish I knew the answer, but I don’t.

Like many of you, I work hard. As a one-woman show, I do my best to create quality content. Does everyone like my shit? Of course not. Does everyone understand my shit? Probably not.

As trivial as it sounds, all we can do is keep going. I’ve said this many times, but I’ll keep saying it because it’s so important. Do it for the love.

When you write a blog post, don’t worry about its success—number of shares, views, likes. Write what you want to write from a beautiful place inside, then release it into the world.

When you write a novel, don’t worry about its success—number of units, sales, dollars. Write what you want to write, not what you think others want to read.

Remember when the vampire and zombie thing was super popular? Somebody, who shall remain nameless, said I should write a book about these creepy things. I explained to them that I had no desire to hang out with blood-sucking, boil-faced creatures in my mind.

Because when you write a novel, it’s a commitment like nothing else. The amount of time you spend in this fictitious world can take a toll on your sanity. You live in that world, become the characters and wear their clothes. You can taste, smell, and touch the words on the pages.

Maybe I’d be a full-time author had I took that person’s advice, but I guarantee I would have ended up in a loony bin. So, I continue doing it for the love. I write what I want to write.

That’s the best intention to hold close to your heart in this noisy world where everybody’s churning out content.

I’m Having an Affair with My Library

It all started back when I got my library card, right before summer. I felt sad and confused, having said goodbye to my Milwaukee County library card long ago.

I never recovered from that loss. It took time to heal, to open up to the notion of loving again.

Strange, because I love books so much. I continued to read, mainly on my Kindle or the occasional used book from Powell’s. I wasn’t reading as much though, not as much as when I had my last love—my library card.

Stranger still, my neighborhood library is two blocks away. I would pass it often, lusting over the dusty shelves from the sidewalk, pining over the stories I longed to hold.

One day, fed up with loneliness, I was ready to love again and I got my Multnomah County library card. And so began my library love affair.

As with any new relationship, there were uncertain and embarrassing moments. It had been so long since I had been inside a library, that I forgot to use my “library voice.” When it came time for me to use the self-checkout, and I struggled with the machine, I begged for help in my outside voice. (For those who have never heard me speak, my voice carries far.)

The library stopped—the symphony of whispers, the rhythmic flick of the pages. I blushed and the nice librarian man came to my rescue.

The library resumed its mellow song.

I scurried out of the musty building, a far cry from the way I sauntered in. I looked down at my book on the gum-stained sidewalk and smiled with love.

For the first time in life, I discovered reading outside on a summer night. It was magnificent.

Another first for me…reading at the bar. People read at bars in Portland, so it’s not frowned upon.

Without planning it, my beer and book ended up with matching outfits. Darling, aren’t they?

After a long run with ebooks—unable to grasp the length of the story—I gasped when I picked this one up and understood the life commitment I had made.

Then there was the one that changed me, long after I returned it…”How Yoga Works.”

Instead of getting angry over this cigarette burn, I marveled at its progression through the pages.

For any book that is well-loved will carry the stained memories of those who loved it.

Traditionally I have been a devout protector of books—never one to write in the margins, highlight a sentence, or burn or rip it for whatever reason. Except for the occasional chocolate smudge that just won’t rub off, I don’t spill on books either.

Why? Because books have always been living beings to me, and I never want to harm them.

As I explored many books this summer, I was simultaneously horrified and fascinated by the dog-eared pages. When I found one, I would narrow my eyes at the page, silently shaming the person who dared to molest that crisp corner. But then I scanned the page, curious to read which sentence or paragraph compelled them to crease it forever.

And because that part touched someone else so deeply, it had the same effect on me. So I decided to fold the corner of a page this time—to leave my mark, to affect someone else through the majesty of words.

“People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.” – Mr. Ernest Hemingway, from “A Moveable Feast”

** This post is dedicated to the lovely Letizia at Reading Interrupted, who lost her dear furry friend, Baffi.

You have reminded so many of us about the magical importance of loving books and libraries. Thank you, Letizia.

I’ll Be Happy When…

Happiness. We put so much pressure on that single word, don’t we?

It’s all too easy to get stuck in this mental cycle of thinking happiness will magically arrive once we get something we thought we wanted more than anything else—when we accomplish something we worked our asses off to get.

I’ll be happy when I get that promotion.

I’ll be happy when I buy that house.

I’ll be happy when I write that book.

Do we feel happy after obtaining or accomplishing any of these things? Not for very long. Like coming down from a high, we crash and we wonder where it all went wrong.

Hey, what happened to my happiness I deserve? I worked so hard for it, and now it’s gone.

The build-up we attach to thinking happiness comes after a certain thing causes this self-destructive roller coaster of emotions.

As a writer, I know this feeling well. And I see it all the time in other writers.

__________________________________________________________

Okay, that’s the teaser for the guest blog post I wrote over at Chris Stocking’s place.

To celebrate the relaunch of his website, my good friend asked me and a couple of writers to kick off christopherstocking.com with some good old fashioned writing about writing.

Head on over, read the rest of the piece, and check out his new pad. (And, make sure to bring Chris some good beer, since I know he worked hard on everything.)

Cheers, Chris!

The Rerelease of My First Book

Nothing compares to the sweet love we writers have for the very first story we write.

Ah, man. The vast unknown we explore, the sincere concentration it takes, and the melancholy that blankets us when the story is finished…well, it’s unmatched.

I’ll share a little secret with you guys.

I didn’t grow up wanting to become a writer. Archaeologist, dancer, veterinarian, and fairy were all in there. But never writer.

I never dreamed of writing a novel. Hell, I certainly never thought I would write three.

Why?

Because I never thought I could do it.

I’d always loved reading and writing, but I never saw myself on the other side. As an architect of stories, building something that never existed before, something that would actually speak to people.

I was in my mid-twenties, lost and confused, working a high-end retail job that was the opposite of me, and partying any chance I got.

There were so many blurry years from working and playing way too hard that I realized something.

I had no purpose. My life was sailing by without me, while I was drowning in a meaningless sea.

Then one day, my husband Mr. H dared me to write a novel. I had a dream that inspired me, then I took out my little journal, and started writing gibberish on my lunch breaks.

It took me three years to write my first book. I didn’t know what I was doing. But, I created something and set it free.

And still to this day, I don’t really consider anything I put out there “a novel”. I also struggle with calling myself “a writer”.

Some of you may remember my crazy ass going back to my second book, Everything’s Not Bigger, and reworking the entire damn thing.

You probably thought I would move on from my past works at this point, right?

Well, I didn’t.

I went back to my first book, Beneath the Satin Gloves, and for the past three months, I have reedited the work with tireless energy during my bit of free time I cherish for these creative obsessions of mine.

I must admit, I really enjoyed reconnecting with Alina, my lounge singing spy—and WWII Berlin, an era and city I have forever been captivated by.

Anyone new around these parts should know that this book isn’t just another WWII thriller. There’s a time travel thing going on, since the main character is actually a woman from modern-day who wakes up in the past.

I shouldn’t play favorites, I know, but I do adore this story. It’s my firstborn, and there is no way to change that kind of undying love.

So even though the new version is already on Amazon, obviously I’m going to put this out there free of charge.

Beneath the Satin Gloves will be absolutely FREE next week 2/25-3/1 on Amazon and Amazon UK. So, stay tuned!

Until the rerelease, I’ll leave you all with a scene I like…

Haunting whistles blew in the train station. The mechanical scents brought her back to reality after being in deep thought for many hours. Steam eclipsed the scene while the crowd hurried to board for unknown destinations across Europe, with frayed clothing and worried hearts.

Alina’s short time in the United States must have been an eternity for the people here. Everything had aged and there was an undeniable heaviness in each footstep. Laughter and gaiety had been decimated by an unfathomable fear of what was to come. Even the departing hugs were different, exuding a phantom touch instead of a comforting embrace.

Everything was dark and unsettling. The fearful train station validated her decision to throw herself into unforeseen danger.

She had strict instructions to board the train without a word to Emil. But she had one last thing she had to say to him, and the risk was worth taking.

Perched on a bench, one leg crossed over the other, he flipped through a newspaper in his simple suit, trench coat, and black hat. He was supposed to blend in, and Emil was an expert at being inconspicuous. Yet his striking looks worked against him, making him stand out in the drab crowd.

Emil sensed she was moving toward him. He walked away, expecting her to give up on the futile chase and board the train.

Maybe she was flirting with disaster as she seemed destined to do, but Alina yearned to see his face once more. What if it was the last time?

The distance grew between them. A heartbreaking emptiness washed over her, and she felt like she was drowning. Alina took bigger strides to catch up with him.

He stopped to look at the schedule on the board.

She pointed at a time, standing close to him, feeling his welcoming heat between their thick coats.

His gloved finger pointed next to hers, sneaking one last touch. “Entschuldigung, Fraulein.”

“I want you to know I’m not afraid.”

Emil snickered. “You’re fearless, but I’m battling my own demons over here.”

“That’s why I came over.”

“Needless to say, but you shouldn’t have. You were distinctly ordered not to.”

“I really don’t care what your orders were.” Alina smiled, glancing at her watch.

He looked around, pretending to search for the appropriate departure track.

“Do you believe in past lives, Emil?” She scanned the schedule, drawing her finger down the time options.

“You disobeyed my orders to have a damn philosophy discussion?”

“Answer the question.”

Emil bent down to adjust his shoe laces, which were already tied. “I’d rather have this debate with a glass of brandy, lying naked with you, anywhere but here.”

“Would it surprise you if I said being a spy is the easiest thing I’ve ever done? Almost like I’ve done it before.”

He sighed and stood up, squinting at the schedule. “Are you just saying this gibberish to make me feel better? Because it isn’t working. The longer we stand here, the greater chance we have of getting killed.”

“I also wanted to say I love you, if that’s alright.”

He swallowed, then his eye twitched.

She realized he didn’t know how to deal with the sentiment. A man as attractive as Emil had been loved plenty of times before. But, had he ever loved anyone in return?

“I want to spend my life with you after this is over.”

Alina snuck a peek at his face to try to search his eyes for an emotional reveal. But, there wasn’t time.

Emil did the unthinkable—he walked off.

She watched him for a second, then turned her attention to the train. Crushed, Alina fought back tears as she meandered up the narrow steps of the entrance.

What was she expecting? He couldn’t exactly sweep her into his arms.

She supposed it didn’t matter in the end. She wanted to confess her feelings in case it was her only chance. And confess she did, humiliating as it was.

Alina sank into the musty train chair, trying to shake off her feminine emotions. This wasn’t the time for an outburst. She needed to focus on the dangerous road ahead.

Shutting her eyes, she detained her tears behind their eyelid barriers. Her finger ran across a torn patch on the bottom of the chair.

To calm herself, she imagined sitting on a mountain overlooking a vast valley. She almost had the serene image set in her mind when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Her heart beat faster as she opened her eyes. She almost released a loud sigh of relief when she saw it wasn’t the Gestapo but a helpful train attendant.

“Entschuldigung, Fraulein. You dropped this?”

Declining with a smile and a shake of her head, she changed her mind after recognizing the same newspaper Emil had been reading.

“Danke.”

He nodded, then continued down the aisle.

As if it was a bouquet of roses, she inhaled the newspaper, a peculiar act which roused the curiosity of the two old ladies sitting across from her.

Alina grinned. “Don’t you just love the smell of newspapers?”

One woman tipped her bright blue hat at a chic angle, leaned in and lowered her voice. “Not with the filth in them these days, my dear. But I used to.” She began gossiping with her friend, pretending like the daring comment had never been spoken.

The train whistled to signal their departure—away from neutral Switzerland, into Nazi Germany.

Alina turned each page, longing to find something inside. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but somehow the man who delivered the newspaper seemed out of place. Almost like he didn’t work on the train at all.

On the last page, she saw Emil’s handwriting…

I do believe.

I do love you.

And I will wait as many lives as it takes.

My Thoughts in the Wind

I had a romantic notion about Twitter the other day.

Come on now, hear me out.

I was watching one of my favorite movies that I hadn’t seen in ages. Stealing Beauty.

This is my coming-of-age movie I’ve seen about a billion times. Bernardo Bertolucci directed it, and though it’s in English, it has all of the things that I love about foreign films.

Nakedness is celebrated, not shunned or exploited. It’s slow-paced, not action-packed. It’s peaceful, not violent. It’s artistic, not shallow.

The soundtrack is awesome—Billie Holiday, Portishead, Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, and Hole somehow work seamlessly together.

The main character, a young American woman named Lucy, is on a journey of self-discovery. Liv Tyler plays the part masterfully, with depth and a quiet beauty.

She travels to Italy in the summer to stay in the countryside with some family friends, to wander around and have her portrait painted.

All of it’s gorgeous—the scenery, the people, the food and wine. There’s also some regular napping and weed smoking.

Sounds rough, I know.

Her deceased mother was a poet and Lucy is a writer as well. Being that I idolized this character a bit, I wonder if it influenced me to become a writer in some way. Perhaps.

She keeps a journal with her at all times, scribbling her youthful angst and woes. I even copied her journal, with an envelope glued inside of the cover to harbor pictures.

But Lucy doesn’t keep what she writes.

She tears the piece of paper out of her journal and either burns her thoughts over a candle or releases them into the wind.

It’s a lot of what I do now in this online writing world I live in, especially on Twitter. I write my thoughts and set them free, often forgetting they ever happened.

Sometimes my thoughts are caught by another and read. I am reminded of that thought, whether it was meaningful or not.

But I smile, because someone connected with a little piece of me.

Then, they let my thoughts go in the wind. They travel on to others, caught and read once more, or they disappear, never to be seen again.

I don’t know why I thought this, but I’m kind of in love with the idea.