Are you where you're supposed to be right now?

The first thing I said when my gentleman friend proposed in September was "yes."

OK, technically it was "hell, yes," followed by a combination of shrieking, sobbing, and laughing that sounded like the bellow of a water buffalo dragged behind a tractor.

In any case, the second thing I said was, "I'm not wearing shoes for this wedding."

Beyond expressing my fondness for naked feet, it was my way of conveying my desire for a simple, no-frills ceremony. Lucky for me, he shared my vision, if not my abhorrence for footwear.

My engagement ring, one of many not-so-traditional
aspects of our upcoming wedding. 

A few weeks later, I made the mistake of venturing into a bridal shop. Despite my explanation that I sought a simple, short, non-froofy, non-traditional dress, the attendant proceeded to thrust a mountain of tulle and lace at me until I fled the shop in terror. "Wait!" she called, clinging to my leg and scrambling to drag me back inside. "At least take this free wedding planning guide so you know how to get ready for your big day."

I brought it home and tossed it on the counter, not giving it much thought until I found my gentleman friend skimming it a few days later.

"Did you see this suggested timeline for wedding tasks?" he asked.

"Not unless it's on a page with pictures of food or naked people."

He grinned. "With only eleven months to go, we should have already booked a caterer, hired a florist, gotten your hair and nails done, and packed for our honeymoon."

He might have been exaggerating, but not by much. Since this will be a tuxedo-free, florist-free, caterer-free affair with attendants who still have a bedtime, we weren't terribly alarmed by the industry-prescribed schedule. As the date of our September nuptials has drawn nearer, we've taken to reminding each other of pressing tasks.

"Nine months to go," I declared in December. "Shouldn't we go pick up my bridal bouquet?"

"Eight months left," he announced in January. "We should probably be on our way to the airport for the honeymoon."

"Seven months left," I said in February. "Where's that top tier of the wedding cake we're supposed to pull from the freezer on our first anniversary?"

While the humor of it amuses me, it also reminds me of a slightly less amusing aspect of the publishing world. In the ten or so years since I first tried my hand at writing fiction, not a month has gone buy that I haven't heard the niggling little voice in the back of my head. The writers among you will know that voice, though yours may be somewhat less prone to dirty talk than mine.

"You've been writing a long time," the voice will his in my ear. "You should have landed a book deal by now." 

"Three months until your novel comes out and you still don't have a marketing plan?"

"You've published half-a-dozen books. Shouldn't you have hit the New York Times bestseller list by now?"

The voice has dogged me for decades, and not just when it comes to my writing career. In nearly every aspect of my life, stress can send me stumbling down the coulda-shoulda-woulda path of self-doubt and unhealthy comparison.

"You should have a much bigger retirement account by now."

"You've been doing yoga six years and still can't do side-crow without toppling onto your neighbor's mat?"

"By this point in your career, shouldn't you have a team of nude cabana boys to refill your wine and massage your feet while you write?"

Fortunately, I've gotten better at locating the source of the voice and giving her a good, solid bitch-slap.

"I'm making my own path," I tell her. "I have my own rules, my own timelines, my own damn route to success and happiness."

It's a reminder I imagine most of us need from time to time when we find ourselves fretting about what should have happened in our lives by now. When the imaginary clock ticks frantically for whatever milestone we believe we've failed to achieve.

It's a constant struggle to silence the voice, whether I'm plotting a book or plotting my life.

Maybe not when planning a wedding, though.

"I'm glad we don't have to wear shoes for the wedding," announced my eight-year-old maid of honor and soon-to-be-step-daughter. "Are we going to wear underwear?"

"That depends," I said. "Are we going to be doing cartwheels?"

"Of course we are," she told me. "It's a wedding. Aren't you supposed to do cartwheels at weddings?"

Exactly.

Comparison is the thief of joy

Every now and then, someone will ask how long it takes me to write a book. It's one of the few questions I hate answering, ranking right up there with, "does this skirt make my butt look big?" and "did you drink all that wine?"

(For the record, I do not bristle at the question that annoys the crap out of most romance authors, which is, "how do you research your sex scenes?")


One reason I'm not a reason I'm not a fan of inquiries about the speed of my writing is that it can vary wildly. Once upon a time, I could write a full-length, 85,000-word novel in about three months with a couple extra weeks tacked on for critique partner feedback and revisions. That was before the pressure of promotional responsibilities, conflicting editorial demands, and life-changes like divorce and young kids in the house. Those things slowed my pace considerably, turning novel-writing into something chopped up into random spurts over a 12 or 16-month period. Sometimes longer.

I'd reached a point where I assumed that slower pace of fits and starts was the new normal for me, so when my agent landed me a new contract in March and asked how long I needed to write a shorter 55,000-word novel, I asked for roughly five months. I'd just gotten started when she came back and said, "could you do it in six weeks?"

Like an idiot, I replied, "Um, sure?"

This coincided with my longtime critique partner accepting a similarly insane deadline, so we agreed to help one another with moral support, speedy feedback, and the occasional encouraging butt-pat.

The biggest challenge was not that butt-patting is difficult when you live 2,638 miles apart. It's that it took me awhile to recall how differently we approach writing. She writes best in quick bursts of 1,000 words on her lunch hour or 2,500 words after her daughter has gone to bed, then sends me scenes to critique.

For the first week or so, I'd grimace when I saw a text message from her declaring she'd written another 1,300 words while waiting for a doctor's appointment. You suck, I'd tell myself. The only words you wrote were Facebook posts about about your boobs falling out of your dress and how much you admire your gentleman friend's butt.

For the record, he does have a great butt.

I'd head home from the day job pledging to write 2,000 words after dinner, only to find myself cleaning the keyboard with a Q-tip while my computer screen remained blank. Some author you are, I'd mutter to myself.

It took me a good week to pull my head out of my butt and remember how I write best. Long, productive stretches of 5,000 to 10,000 words in a day, followed by three or four days of doing nothing   drinking wine   groping my gentleman friend   serious contemplation regarding the direction of the story. That is a more natural pace for me, and it's served me well in the past.

As it turns out, it works fine for a crazy deadline, too. I'm on track to finish the whole book in roughly five weeks, thanks mostly to excellent wine   the ease of writing blowjob scenes  several good days of super-productive writing.

After one such day, I made the mistake of posting my daily word count on Facebook and Twitter. I was pleased with my spurt of 9,000 words in 8 hours, and felt like sharing.

I regretted it almost instantly when I saw other writers lamenting their own daily production. I couldn't do that many words in a week, someone shared. I only wrote 500 words today, someone tweeted with a frowny-face.

By sheer coincidence, a non-author friend posted the following quote in her Facebook feed that same day:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

It's attributed to Theodore Roosevelt, and the instant I saw it, I wished Facebook had a stronger option than, "like" (which is not to be confused with my usual wish that Facebook offered a "lust" option. See aforementioned comment about my gentleman friend's butt).

It is a great reminder to all of us, whether you're a writer or a teacher or a firefighter or a nipple-clamp tester. Your skills, your talents, your accomplishments, are your own. Someone else's skills, talents, and accomplishments do not diminish or detract from yours. Keep your eyes on your own test paper and your head in your own game.

Is this something that comes naturally for you, or do you find yourself playing comparison roulette pretty regularly? How do you feel about that? Please share!

Oh, and to answer those earlier questions, of course not, yes, and very, very thoroughly. You're welcome.

On success, disappointment, and star-nosed moles

Many moons ago when I was a young and innocent pup, I thought a book deal would mean the end of writing-related disappointments.

My fantasy may have also included confetti and foot rubs from George Clooney, and it’s possible I cleared storage space in my garage for fan mail.

Fast forward a decade or so, I’ve learned some lessons along the way (not the least of which is that you should buy D-batteries in bulk before hosting a Pure Romance party, but I digress).

My road to publication was a bumpy one, and I’d be lying if I claimed everything’s been smooth sailing since then. Some setbacks I can’t really discuss publicly, but others I can share (albeit, with a touch of shame – an unfamiliar emotion for me, but I digress again).

The RITA awards are the Romance Writers of America equivalent of the Oscars. My publisher sent Making Waves for consideration, and though I tried not to think about it, I wanted urgently, desperately to be a finalist. I mentioned it to almost no one, and avoided watching the calendar for the date they pledged to notify contestants.

The date was Monday. Sadly, my name didn’t appear on the list of finalists.

It didn’t crush me. It didn’t ruin my day. It didn’t send me weeping into my closet where I huddled in the dark eating Girl Scout cookies and rocking back and forth humming “I’m a Little Teapot.”

Still, I’ll confess I felt stung for an instant.

Then I got mad at myself for feeling stung, because AREYOUKIDDINGMEBITCH?

Once I stopped slamming my head on my desk, I tallied my good fortune. I have my health. I have amazing friends and family, and the best agent on the planet. I have an incredible gentleman friend who makes me smile for reasons that don’t all involve being naked. I’ve published three books to embarrassingly positive reviews, including a nomination for “Contemporary Romance of the Year” from the RT Book Reviews 2011 Reviewers Choice Awards.

I’m damn lucky, and I know it.

But does that mean I’m not allowed to feel tinges of disappointment over setbacks? I’m not sure.

A critique partner once gave me a terrific piece of advice:

Someone else’s success does not detract from yours.

That’s absolutely correct, and something I remind myself whenever the green-eyed monster appears.

And yet…and yet…sometimes, that’s not entirely true.

There can only be a limited number of RITA finalists, and if every single contender in my category was eaten by a star-nosed mole, I would be the winner. The fact that my competitors all survived mole attacks means they emerged victorious and I….well, I didn’t get eaten by a mole. That’s something.

Hello, I'm a star-nosed mole.

Here’s something else: I told you Monday about the friendly Twitter competition my publisher arranged using the #ebookbracket hashtag and a plea for readers to vote which book will be sale-priced for 99-cents in early April.

For the first round, eight of us were paired off by genre. My competitor in the Contemporary category was an amazing author with USA Today bestseller status, two million books in print in more than 20 countries, three Maggie Award of Excellence finals, a Bookseller’s Best win, and five RITA nominations – one of which she nabbed Monday morning.

In other words, she rocks (and I can attest to that personally since I've read and loved her books).

The #ebookbracket challenge from Sourcebooks.
Please keep voting for Making Waves!

But through some bizarre stroke of good fortune, I managed to land more Twitter votes in our publisher’s #ebookbracket challenge. That sent me through to the final four (which ends March 28 at 4 p.m. CST, and you can vote as many times as you want, so please, pretty please, tweet a vote for Making Waves using the hashtag #ebookbracket and my Twitter handle, @tawnafenske…er, I digress again).

While I doubt my competitor would trade my victory for hers, there’s really no point in comparing. I had a flutter of success, and I’m happy about it. Period.

That stands by itself no matter what other successes or failures might come to any of us. For me, it’s important to celebrate my own victories, while graciously tipping my hat to the ones that go to other people.

Do you pay much attention to the successes and failures of others? How does that impact your overall attitude about yourself? Do you think someone is more or less entitled to feel disappointed, depending on the successes he/she has? Please share!

And please, pretty please, tweet your little hearts out in the #ebookbracket challenge (a link to complete rules can be found here). Thanks a ton for your support so far!

Laughing my way through life

When I was in college, my advisor sat me down for a chat. Most of it was about coursework and career planning, stuff that slid in one ear and out the other like a well-lubed green bean.

But one thing he said stuck with me.

“You have this nervous laugh you do all the time,” he said. “You really need to break that habit.”

I can’t remember my exact response, but I’m certain I laughed.

Then I went home and thought about it. A lot. And over the next few years, I became self conscious about laughing. Was I doing it too much? Was I really nervous?

Looking back with the hindsight of someone who’s lived 36 years and learned a bit about herself in that time, I can tell you the answer is no. I’m not nervous. Not usually, anyway.

I just like to laugh. I like it a lot.

Probably a good thing, considering I write romantic comedy. It might not work as well if I wrote about cancer or the holocaust.

I wish I could go back and grab my 19-year-old self by the ear and whisper, “don’t listen to him. Just be yourself. Keep laughing, it’s what will carry you through life.”

But I figured it out along the way. That was apparent a few days ago when I was boogie boarding in Kauai, and unbeknownst to me, my father shot video of it.

When we played it back later, we both started laughing about…well, my laughing. Maniacal, if you want to get technical, but obviously an indication I was having a pretty good time.

“Anyone who watches that won’t realize I was standing about 70 feet away,” my dad said. “That’s how loudly you were laughing.”

I’m OK with that. Whether nervous or maniacal, I’m proud to be laughing my way through life.

Have you ever gotten advice you later realized wasn’t quite right? Something that steered you wrong early in life, perhaps? Please share!

And please feel free to laugh with me. Or at me, whatever rolls your socks up.

Getting glammed up for my romance career

I had a crappy morning last Sunday. Nothing soul-crushing or anything like that. Just one of those PMS-induced crying jags that left me looking like a severely beaten crack addict.

Always an excellent time to go out in public.

I wanted to cheer myself with some fancy moisturizer, so I wandered by the Clinique counter at Macy’s. The friendly clerk pounced at once.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering why someone who works at a cosmetic counter has to wear a lab coat. “Is this your only face cream with SPF in it?”

She cheerfully answered my questions while studying my puffy eyes and blotchy skin and probably wondering when I last washed my hair (something I’d admittedly been wondering myself).

“Tell me,” she said. “Have you ever tried wearing foundation?”

The implication was subtle, but it was there – darling, you look like hell.

At this point, I probably could have assured her that under normal circumstances, I look pretty presentable. Assuming I haven’t been doing the sobby PMS thing, I don’t ordinarily sport a shiny red nose and mascara rings under my eyes. While I don’t usually wear much makeup – a little mascara and some lipstick – it’s enough to keep me from frightening small children.

But saying all that would have led to a doubly awkward moment in which in which she felt compelled to console me for my sorrow while assuring me she wasn’t suggesting I looked like a homeless senior citizen.

It was easiest just to let her drag me to the makeup counter, seat me on a plush stool, and begin smearing my face with mineral powder. I was starting to enjoy myself when she asked what I do for a living.

“I’m a romance author,” I admitted, braced for one of the typical reactions I get from strangers – disdain, fascination, or the faint suspicion I’m a sexual deviant.

This woman was delighted. She had some very definite ideas about what my romance author career must be like. She whipped out a staggering array of cosmetic products, explaining to me what would look best on camera for my televised book tours and speaking engagements.

“When you meet Danielle Steele, you might want to consider doing something like this with eyeliner,” she said.

“OK,” I agreed, lacking the heart to tell her the odds of me meeting Danielle Steele are about the same as the odds I’ll ever be able to apply eyeliner without stabbing myself.

She covered me in eyeshadow and blush, eyeliner and lipgloss, even special concealer for my undereye circles. My face began to feel so weighted down I considered resting my head on the counter.

“I know it might seem like a lot if you’re not used to it,” she told me. “But it will look perfect on camera.”

She was absolutely right if I were auditioning for a role as a hooker in a TV drama.

I have to admit though, I like her glamorous notions of what a romance author’s life is like. Who am I to ruin the fantasy by telling her that instead of dashing between appearances on Oprah and Letterman, I spend most days sitting at my computer with unwashed hair and yoga pants? And who am I to admit that when I do sally forth from my writer cave, I generally look OK even without forty pounds of mascara?

But I didn’t say any of this. She was tremendously sweet and gave me tons of free samples and some pretty good makeup tips. I even bought an overpriced lipstick.

I also gave her my business card so she’d have all the details about my book releases. She studied the card for a long time, then looked at me.

“This is a really good picture of you.”

She sounded surprised about that.

It’s the same image I use everywhere, and while I’m wearing only a little mascara and lipstick, I don’t look half bad. Certainly better than I did when I’d walked up to her counter, and certainly no worse than I did wearing eight shades of eyeshadow.

But I thanked her politely and handed over my Visa.

By the time I walked out of the store, I was smiling again. Maybe it was the new lipstick or the pleasure of having someone fuss over me for an hour.

Or maybe it was the thought that while I’ll never be particularly glamorous, I’m pretty lucky to be happy with myself just the way I am.

Well, minus the wrinkles. But I hear Clinque has a really good cream for that.

Mail that makes my day

As a romantic comedy author, I don't entertain many fantasies about readers crafting heartfelt letters to tell me how my books changed their lives.

Maybe someday I'll get a note saying I gave someone a chuckle or some frisky inspiration in the bedroom, but for the most part, I'm writing to entertain – not to educate or inspire.

Maybe that's why the email I got yesterday made me smile. I asked the author if I could share it here in case it makes you smile as well:

Sent: Wed, October 13, 2010 1:39:09 PM
Subject: Your blog post, September 21, 2010

Hi, Tawna!

I wanted to thank you for sharing this "show, don't tell" story on your blog. I used it today with my 7th grade students (I'm an English and reading teacher) – it's PERFECT for this age group. My kids are such soft-hearted, animal-loving young people (at least, most of them), so your husband's actions in this story had a big impact on them. I didn't "show" the blog to them (language!) :o) but read them the story, then stopped to ask what they know about your husband from hearing that, before I read the points you intended to make. MOST of them came up with all of the points you mentioned on their own. Very powerful! Of course I showed the picture of Ozzy with a sock on also, to increase the impact (so cute!). Now we'll see if they can transfer this knowledge to their own situations – so far, after discussion with a partner, they've come up with good examples of "showing, not telling" in movies or other books they've read, and in a few cases students made up stories of their own which made good points about characters without using the words they're demonstrating. We're off to a good start!

I felt you should know how you've impacted people as far away as [location withheld] with your writing! Thank you so much!

[name withheld]

P.S. I'm trying to remember how I found your blog - I believe I started with Jenny Crusie's blog, then followed links to Lucy March's blog and followed your link to your own blog from there.

Isn't that nice? And maybe a little unsettling to think I'm warping young minds on the other side of the country.

The funny thing is, I forget people read this blog. I see the comments and track my Google Analytics stats, but deep down I still think it's my mother and my agent clicking over and over and making up different user names so I'll think lots of people are stopping by.

When I was at the Emerald City Writers' Conference a few weeks ago, strangers kept coming up and telling me they read my blog. The first time it happened, I thought it was a joke. When it kept happening, I felt a weird sort of panic. Have I written anything really dumb lately? I hope I didn't offend her with that one post. Or that other one. Or...

I guess I need to get over having a mild freakout when someone reads something I've written. Either that, or come up with a plan to purchase every printed copy of my book next August so no one else can see it.

How do you feel about the idea of people reading something you've written? Does it excite you, or make you want to hide under your bed? Have you ever thought about what sort of fan mail you might someday receive, or are you more inclined to fret about eventual hate mail?

I'm sort of thinking they'll start the same way for me. Dear Pervert...

Are you an ottist?

Back in college, Pythagoras and I held a number of jobs that had little to do with our future professions.

Mine included working in a bakery and washing dogs for a pet groomer (a combination that resulted in a disturbing number of poodles licking donut frosting off my shoes).

Pythagoras worked in a pizza parlor.

One evening, he answered a call from a man with a heavy accent and a very firm idea how he wanted his pizza made. After he barked his elaborate instructions to Pythagoras, he issued this stern warning:

"I am a pizza ottist, so I will know if you do not make it right."

Pythagoras frowned down at his order pad. "Pizza ottist?"

"Pizza ottist!" the man repeated loudly.

Oh artist, Pythagoras realized, but wrote down o-t-t-i-s-t and committed both the word and the concept to memory.

Since then, it's become our catch-all phrase for a skill that is a great source of pride, but might not ordinarily be considered a form of artistry. I am a bargain-hunting ottist, as I can always find the best prices on everything from world travel to used jeans.

Pythagoras slices the potatoes paper-thin.

And Pythagoras is still a pizza ottist. It's the one thing he loves to do in the kitchen (well, I suppose there are other things he might love to do in the kitchen, but the granite counters are kind of cold).

Just last night, some friends and I pleaded with him to make pizzas. I knew he had a million other things on his to-do list (I know this because I attempted to add my own name) but I also saw that flicker of pride that comes from being asked to do something you're really very good at.

He agreed, and we headed off to the grocery store to stock up on pepperoni and onions and big, fat mushrooms. Pythagoras delighted us with his mouth-watering Italian prosciutto, potato, and rosemary pizza, along with some artery-clogging meat monster we affectionately called "boy pizza."

It was delicious. Even better, it was fun to see my husband basking in the glow of doing something he's very good at and enjoys, but isn't required to do in order to keep a roof over our heads.

Assembling the pizzas.

I'm no psychology expert, but I'm pretty sure everyone needs outlets like this – some skill, some ottistry that isn't tied to your profession, but just makes you happy because you're genuinely good at it. Do you agree? If so, what sort of ottist are you? Is there some ottistry you aspire to develop? Please share!

And please let me know if you happen to be a cleaning ottist. My kitchen looks like someone blew up a bag of flour with an M-80.

Totally worth it though.

If only...

On Saturday, Pythagoras competed in his first Olympic-distance triathlon with surprisingly little drama.

There were no Swedish supermodels throwing confetti and bikini tops as he crossed the finish line, but there was also no need for him to crawl weakly to the end while peeing down his leg and insisting his name is Rebecca.

He finished fifth in his age group, which qualifies him for Nationals should we wish to journey to Tuscaloosa, Alabama in September.

But despite his solid finish, Pythagoras was trotting down the if only path mere seconds after he’d crossed the finish line.

If only he hadn’t been sick all week…
If only he’d slept better the previous night…
If only he’d eaten a different breakfast…

I finally had to demand he stop lest he reach the conclusion that he would have won the whole race if only his pre-competition ritual had included a hand job from Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Annoying though his if only game may be, I’ve gotta admit I’ve been doing it too – particularly with this book.

If only I’d started writing in mid-March…
If only I hadn’t given myself so many days off…
If only I’d gotten up earlier this morning…

And I have to stop myself and say then what, idiot?

Sure, I’d be done by now. Usually I take about three months to finish a book, and this one will come in a little over three-and-a-half by the time I type “the end” in the next few days.

Is that really the end of the world?

Probably not. This is the third book in my contract and it isn’t even due on my editor’s desk until February. February, but I’m beating myself up now for dawdling.

In truth, the biggest reason for the delay is that I’ve had the chance to spend some extra quality time with Pythagoras these last six weeks. Unsurprisingly, I’ve grabbed that chance like I'd grab a firm butt cheek.

Do you play the if only game? Do you have an effective way of stopping yourself that doesn’t involve medieval torture devices? Please share, I could use better strategies.

I would like to sneak in just one more if only, if I may.

If only that beyotch beside me hadn’t stuck her hand out, I’d have a lovely photo of Pythagoras crossing the finish line in Saturday’s race.

On talent, success, & bra throwing

Wednesday night, we saw Colin Hay in concert.

You may recall he was the front-man for ‘80s band Men at Work. They won a Grammy in 1983 for best new artist and had a few chart-topping hits including “Down Under.”

Now, Colin Hay plays solo acoustic shows in small towns where many audience members would be hard pressed to name any of his solo tunes.

The second he took the stage, I was dumbstruck. He’s one of the most talented performers I’ve ever seen – and I’m a concert whore, so I don’t say this lightly. His voice was breathtaking, his guitar playing flawless, his showmanship hysterically entertaining. If I hadn’t been reluctant to part with my favorite bra, I might’ve thrown it.

Colin Hay on Wednesday night.

From his jokes, it’s clear he’s aware of the irony in going from sold-out stadium shows to a tiny stage in Central Oregon.

But though his position on the charts has changed, his talent hasn’t. Regardless of how many tickets he sells, he’s an amazing musician.

I can’t help but see a tie to writing. Deep down, don’t we all hope for superstardom? Don’t we all want our books to sell at auction for ridiculous figures, to ascend the bestseller lists and have Oprah and Letterman bitch-slapping each other over the first interview?

But the reality is that it happens for very few artists – musicians or writers. For every performer like Sting or Bono or Steven Tyler whose superstar status spans 30 or 40 years, there are guys like Colin Hay. No less talented, but with careers that have gone a decidedly different direction.

Part of me wants to feel sad about this.

Part of me says Are you kidding? A talented artist making a living doing what he loves? What’s sad about that?

I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind seeing my name on a bestseller list someday. Though I’ll do everything in my power to make it happen, I have very little control. I can work hard and hone my talent, but the odds are slim I’ll ever be driven to book signings in a limousine with throngs of fans beating on the windows and throwing Pop Tarts.

I’m OK with that.

Because talent and success can’t be measured by book sales or the number of concert seats filled. I know that for every blockbuster book atop the lists, there are dozens more that are every bit as good – maybe better – that just don’t have the magic marketing formula to fly off the shelves.

It’s enough for me to know I’m damn lucky. I’m getting to do what I love – to slap words on a page and make a few people smile, to even make a little money doing it.

Though my dreams of grandeur might entertain me, it’s the lure of just doing what I love that keeps me going.

That, and the fantasy of giving Oprah a wedgie if I ever make it on her show.

How about you? If you never write a runaway bestseller, are you OK with that? Is it enough just to know you’re a writer, that you’re talented enough to create a book in the first place?

I’ll leave you with this song from Colin Hay. If you like it, go buy it on iTunes. Do it now.

US vs. THEM: on writer cliques and bra-snapping

I’ve never been one of the cool kids.

Not in middle school where I capped off the eighth grade by throwing up in my underwear, not in high school where I completed my Chemistry exams by writing poems about sodium hydroxide.

I vaguely recall a period in middle school where I cared about scaling the mountain of Guess jeans and hair-sprayed bangs to become one of THEM. The chosen ones. The cool clique.

That got exhausting, and I pretty much stopped caring after that.

The reason I bring this up is that I’ve seen a lot of chatter online about “cliques” in the Twitterverse and the writing community – these published authors who think they’re too sexy for their shirts, and the pre-published authors who secretly want to beat them with a can of Aquanet.

And I’ve gotta say, I don’t get it.

Maybe I’m missing something, and there really are hoards of published authors roaming the halls stuffing the pre-published authors into lockers and snapping their bras.

But more likely, you’ve got a bunch of authors with book deals and deadlines and editors breathing down their necks. Authors who are trying desperately to be accessible to fans and failing. Not failing, exactly, but just not reaching everyone.

I have 15 months to go before my debut novel hits shelves, and I certainly can’t claim to have any fans yet. But I can say that I desperately want to strike up personal relationships with everyone who reads this blog, and it breaks my heart that the best I can do most days is the dialogue in the comments trail and a few random Twitter exchanges.

I’m trying, but I’m failing, and I’m sure I’ll fail harder somewhere down the line.

I do understand the tendency to be star struck by certain authors. I have a special dance-of-joy I perform on the days Jennifer Crusie responds to a comment I’ve made on her blog. (Note to self: consider altering dance-of-joy so neighbor doesn’t think you’re having a seizure).

But on the days Ms. Crusie doesn’t respond, I don’t curse her name and burn her books. And I especially don’t think less of myself as a writer because she didn’t send me a personal note asking if we can get together to have martinis and brush each other’s hair (Note to Jennifer Crusie: I would totally brush your hair).

Our value as writers is not determined by how quickly we get an agent or a book deal, how sizeable our first advance check, or how quickly we climb to the top of the bestseller list.

And though I think it’s crucial to be friendly and accessible to fans and fellow authors, the value of an author can’t be judged by how kindly she treats others or how others view her.

What matters is how you perceive yourself and your writing – apart from all the clutter about cliques and US vs. THEM and thatbitchdidntsmileatmeinthehall.

How you value yourself is the only part you can control.

Whether you’re cool or not is irrelevant. Being cool with yourself – or with your own lack of coolness – that’s the only thing that counts.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a strange urge to tease my hair and rock out to Poison.

Me, myself and I: we aren't all good writers

Several weeks ago I blogged about the importance of not comparing yourself to other writers.

Today I feel compelled to blog about the importance of not comparing yourself to yourself.

It’s something I’ve found myself doing a lot the last few days and I’m driving myself a bit crazy.

(Insert joke here about the short drive)

I’m generally a pretty fast writer. On average, it takes me about three months to write a novel from start to finish.

However, that doesn’t take into account the fact that I’m abysmally slow at writing the first three chapters of any book. I spend those first 50+ pages figuring out who the characters are, where the story is headed, and what might take place between “it was a dark and stormy night” and “the end.”

Half of my brain is occupied by this task, while the other half is occupied by the dual tasks of berating myself for my slowness while distracting myself with more pleasurable tasks like clipping the dog’s toenails.

The conversations in my head go something like this:

Responsible Tawna: Hurry up already! You wrote five pages yesterday and we just deleted four of them because they sucked donkey dongs.

Slacker Tawna: I wonder if I could find that funny online video about cats?

Responsible Tawna: This book is already sold and your editor and agent will both hate you if you don’t finish it.

Slacker Tawna: Yup, found the cat video. Still pretty funny. It’d be even better if I had an ice cream bar.

Responsible Tawna: Don’t you remember that weekend you wrote 75 pages in one sitting? Now you can’t even do five pages in a weekend? You’re blowing it, blowing it!

Slacker Tawna: Heh-heh – you said blowing.

And on and on and on until I’m forced to find a bottle of Tylenol and/or Chianti to make the headache go away.

Though I probably do deserve the occasional scolding from myself, I also need to learn to cut myself a break. The me who can crank out four chapters in a weekend is still the same me who can stare at a blank page all day and accomplish nothing more valuable than cleaning the keyboard with a Q-tip. Both the speedy writing and the ridiculous time wasting are a part of the process, and I have to let that process run its course.

Even if I’m not always running at a very consistent pace.

So I’ll continue to slog through these early chapters until I reach a point where I feel more like the me who writes clever prose at a quick clip instead of the me who just spent an hour deciding what color T-shirt my hero is wearing.

How about you? Which part of a novel do you struggle with the most? Do you compare yourself to yourself? Have you found any effective medications to deal with it? Tell me about it in the comments.

I’ll be over here picking dog fur out of my mouse.

I've always been awesome, how about you?

I haven’t seen the movie Precious. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t pick Academy Award-nominated actress Gabourey Sidibe out of a police lineup.

But I recently read a quote that made me want to grab her by the face and lick her ear (or something equally affectionate):

“They [the press] try to paint the picture that I was this downtrodden, ugly girl who was unpopular in school and in life and then I got this role and now I'm awesome,” she said. “But the truth is that I've been awesome, and then I got this role."

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.

In recent weeks, casual acquaintances who’ve learned of my recent three-book deal with Sourcebooks have asked me how it feels.

What’s it like to know you’re finally good enough to sell a book?

Want to know the answer I can’t give them because I don’t want to sound like an egotistical bitch?

I was always good enough to sell a book. It just took awhile for the right editor to realize it.

Look, I’m not saying I didn’t have a lot to learn, and I’ve certainly written some craptastic stuff over the years. Even the book I originally sold to Harlequin/Silhouette’s Bombshell line back in 2005 is something I’m happy to leave tucked under my bed. I’ve grown a lot as a writer since then, and I’m much happier with the way I write now.

But if I hadn’t believed from the first moment I started writing fiction in 2002 that I was good enough to be published, I doubt I could have held on for the duration of my bumpy ride to publication.*

As an author, you have to believe that. Even on days you don’t believe it, you need to stand there in front of the mirror and say, “Dammit, I rule.”

Or some variation on that.

I’m lucky. My parents bestowed upon me a disturbingly high self-esteem, and my husband & agent believed in me no matter how many rejections rolled in. That’s a big part of how I kept going despite all the setbacks along the way.

That, and a lot of Chianti.

Getting published isn’t about who you know, who you shag, or even how well you write. It’s about believing in yourself enough to keep going no matter how many times someone slaps you on the ass and says, “close, but no cigar.”

So let’s all say it together now, shall we?

I’m awesome. I’ve always been awesome. I’m awesome whether it takes me 12 days or 12 years to get published.

Repeat as often as necessary until you believe it.

*If you’re new to this blog and don’t know what I’m talking about, go here for the full story of my rather lengthy road to publication.

Why I shut my hair in the door (and other deep thoughts)

As I’ve eased into blogging and tweeting these last three weeks, I’ve made some truly interesting friends and had some highly stimulating discussions.

And by “interesting” and “stimulating” I mean “weird.”

Case in point, I’ve tweeted several times recently about getting my hair stuck in the mailbox and on various parts of the car (because obviously these are fascinating topics of conversation). Then I tweeted about losing a piece of candy and finding it an hour later stuck in my hair (yes, I ate it. It was delicious).

Clearly seeing a trend, one of my aforementioned new Twitter friends, @smoulderingsea (aka. Adrien-Luc Sanders) replied:

@tawnafenske What is -with- things in your hair? It's like some kind of creepy tentacle monster that grabs everything.

It was a strange question, particularly coming from someone I’ve never met. The answer is probably more strange:

I forget that I have long hair.

As a kid, I was a serious tomboy. Until I was about 13, my hair was literally buzz-cut short. I began growing it out when I stopped seeing it as a source of pride each time someone thought I was a boy.

My entire adult life, my hair has been well past the middle of my back. I’m 35 now, so I’ve lived with long hair for many years.

On top of that, Pythagoras endearingly describes my physique as “small body, big boobs.”

Even so, at least once a month I will emerge from the closet and ask Pythagoras, “does this outfit make me look like a boy?”

And he will stare at me like I’ve lost my mind before shaking his head and ignoring the question (as he’s learned to do with any question that begins “does this outfit make me look...”)

So what is my problem? Why is my subconscious still telling me I’m at risk of being mistaken for someone with a penis?

I’m no shrink, but I do know it can be tough to shake the early impressions you form about yourself. I’m lucky my parents instilled in me a tremendous self-esteem, which is probably why I’m able to handle writing rejections without serious damage to my psyche. That’s the upside of this strange tendency to cling to youthful impressions of oneself.

The downside? Well, aside from shutting my hair in the car door on a regular basis, I do sometimes have to remind myself that I’m not just writing to amuse myself and my fellow third graders. There’s a real possibility that someone besides friends, family, and my agent will eventually read my books. In some ways, this scares the crap out of me. Every time my agent forwards a comment from an editor, a tiny voice in the back of my head thinks, “wait, you mean this isn’t just for fun? You mean a REAL editor saw it?”

So how about you, dear readers? Are there any ideas you formed about yourself in childhood that you’ve never quite shaken? Do share!

I’ll be over here in the corner picking a gumdrop out of my hair.