Tag Archives: fears

Heart Sisters is an amazing blog

A hand writing. Text: Bookmark Hear Sister for when you need it. A blog for women on heart attacks, etc.SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO PASS ON INFORMATION

I have been reading post after post on Carolyn Thomas’s blog, Heart Sisters, and I want to pass on the information that it is FULL of stories about how heart attacks and other cardiac events are different in women – and how bad we are at paying attention to some of the symptoms, and getting ourselves safely (don’t drive yourself, don’t let someone drive you – call 911) to the ER.

All about women and heart disease from the unique perspective of CAROLYN THOMAS, a Mayo Clinic-trained women’s health advocate, heart attack survivor, blogger, speaker on the west coast of Canada

My suggestion? Go visit – and read a few posts.

Then BOOKMARK the blog for the future, for when you may need the information from a woman’s perspective that will make you do the right thing.

The link above goes to the archives. I wish I’d had this information before today – everything I’ve been reading and writing was in reaction to the distinctly male style of research papers.

Medicine could really use an overhaul of how it presents information to women; meanwhile, we have Carolyn.

Depression: unavoidable consequence of life-altering surgery?

Bird flying into the sunset. Text: How far away are the Grey Havens. Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt

THERE IS SUCH A THING AS TOO MUCH LOSS

I don’t want to have to write this post, but I’m coming to the conclusion that this is the final ‘tail’ I have to deal with.

I don’t want to believe that it may be a consequences of having my life saved that, for a year, the last drug I’m on may dog my steps, make me wish I hadn’t made it, drive me to a different place where it isn’t worth getting up in the morning.

Maybe I’m writing this prematurely, but even if the whole experience disappeared tomorrow into a (tiny) burst of continuing ability to write, it HAS existed. It is REAL. And I’m probably not alone in having it.

Why would a platelet control drug (Effient) cause problems?

Because one of its side effects is ‘low energy.’

I thought getting the drugs with the major side effects out of my system would take me back to where I used to exist, in my low-energy CFS state that allowed a couple of hours a day for writing fiction – my ‘good time’ – if I did everything right: got enough sleep, took my naps, didn’t eat until after writing (to avoid diverting blood to digestion I needed for thinking), didn’t eat carbs, didn’t leave the house much, kept the adrenaline low by suppressing most of the effect of emotions…

What this actually means is that I need to achieve an energy level somewhat above bare-existence levels for part of the day, and don’t have much of a margin of safety. Many days, especially if something else HAD to be done, by ME, I had to use it for something other than writing fiction. But most of the time – maybe 5 or 6 out of 7 days – I could count on that piece of my old mind hanging around for a bit.

And now I’m down to 1 or 2 out of 7 – and it’s simply not enough to keep me from getting depressed – and then having to use some of those days and some of that energy to drag myself out of the pit of despair.

How do you handle depression?

A long time ago, when I first got CFS, there was some evidence that taking small quantities – about 10% of a regular dose – of antidepressants, and my doctor at the time tried four or five of them over a period when I was desperate to get some of myself back.

And the reaction to medication that still is with me – overreacting to small amounts, and usually not being able to take enough to reach a therapeutic dose – happened back then. None of the drugs I tried had any positive effect; all had side effects which made me beg off them; and on none of them did I reach even that 10% dose before this happened.

It seems to be my version (I’m far from alone in this among people with CFS (PWCs)) of this d**ned disease.

But because of this experiment, I won’t try anti-depressant medications again.

Long ago I learned Cognitive Behavior Therapy – from Feeling Good: the new mood therapy, Dr. David Burns. It takes time, involves, for me, a fair amount of writing it all down and dealing with it on paper.

But it has the advantages of:

  • no drugs for my system to deal with
  • no side effects
  • available in the middle of the night – or any other time and place
  • completely under my control
  • always works for me (eventually)
  • doesn’t need a therapist, a doctor, or a pharmacist – or a prescription
  • no cost

I can’t tell you the number of times in almost three decades that I’ve realized I’m getting overwhelmed, started writing about it, figured out what the important threads were, and worked my way out of depression that was making my life uninhabitable.

I don’t push this on other people – many other people can handle a drug just fine, don’t get many side effects, and just need their brain chemistry adjusted; or, if in a major depression, need far more help than they can manage this way. But it’s what I’ve used all these years, and it works for me – if I put the time and effort in. Which I always end up doing because I can, I don’t like inflicting this self on my family, and depression ruins what life I have left – and bring my fiction to a standstill.

Back to the life-altering part

It is characteristic of many events in life that change you from one person into another – love, marriage, a child, getting kicked out of school, divorce, joining the military, losing a parent… – to make you reassess what is important to you, what you are doing with your life.

Having stents installed, and finding out you might have been heading for a heart attack otherwise, changes you. It is a curious ‘surgery’ because there is little in the way of cutting and healing from that (except in my unlucky case, where I blew a gasket in the hole in my femoral artery – I still have the damage from that).

But that almost doesn’t matter, because I KNOW I am now another person/body. For one, I am now a ‘cardiac patient,’ with the implications of doctor supervision, meds, visits to the cardiologist, tests, and whatever changes these things may force on me.

And of course there is the mortality thing – events remind you time is limited.

It helps to focus you.

But I had ONE thing left to me, writing fiction, and I am dealing with not being able to do that ONE thing.

The rest of life doesn’t conveniently take up the slack

In addition to writing book 2 in the Pride’s Children trilogy, I am trying to market book 1. This has slowed to a standstill – I am hand-selling a couple of copies a month at best. It takes me a lot of time and many emails to get someone to accept a free copy for a possible review – which I’m happy to do when I can, but is happening very rarely lately.

I’m running Amazon ads (thanks to Brian Meeks for getting me started where I couldn’t figure out the basics); so far, since Feb. 4, Amazon tells me I’ve spent $30 on ads, and have sold one copy (though I think they may be responsible for a few more, but possibly not directly from someone clicking on my ads, which is what they track). I can leave that running in the background, and hope for a groundswell in the future.

I am also trying to finish putting up a short story prequel, Too Late, so that those who don’t want to read it here on the free fiction tab – or who prefer their own copy managed by Amazon for their Kindle – can have it for 0.99. Or people who get to my Author Page can select a low-cost alternative to the outrageous-for-an-indie price of $8.99 for an ebook (compare to big publisher prices which are higher) to read to see if I can write. Or even so I can make it available for download to anyone joining my newsletter or following my blog.

And of course there is cardiac rehab – and its attendant paperwork. I don’t even want to tell you how much time I’ve wasted on that, and I haven’t even started yet. When it happens, in a few weeks, it will also sap my energy by making me leave the house two more times per week, and expend energy I don’t have. The hope is that it might also eventually help. Not in the conventional way: I can’t do aerobic exercise, so there is no ability to increase aerobic capacity; the best I can hope for is a tiny increase in ‘fitness’ over time that might offset the decline I’ve been in.

If nothing else, it will shut the cardiologist up that I’ve tried it.

I’m not blogging as much – have nothing interesting to say other than to relate my experiences with the medical system as I’m doing – another indication of low energy.

And I’ve started going for the heart-rate limited slow walks which I’ve been trying to get to for ages (and may have been made more difficult by that blockage) – the only way I know for a PWC to increase fitness on her own. That is, I got ONE walk in – to the middle of the next block and back – when it was 66 degrees the other day. We’re back in the 30s, so I can’t do that for a while again, but will try to find the energy in the hopes that there might be eventual improvement in something, anything.

I still have to finish things such as my mom and dad’s tax returns (he died in Aug. 2014, I got the paperwork to do the next year, and the IRS has stymied my every effort so far to get the right information by… well, you don’t need the horrible details; sufficient to say it’s not done yet).

We want to get this house on the market – and move so husband doesn’t have to deal with me by himself in the future. And because it is so much work just to maintain a home and yard, and I’m not capable of helping any more.

Moving will be its own can of worms – as will finding the right place.

So, more stuff on the to do list – and less to do it with

I’m not surprised to be depressed under these conditions, but I’m not managing to get control of it, because the one reliable thing I had that helped – writing fiction – isn’t coming back fast enough.

I should be happy to be alive. I am grateful, but not happy. All it does right now is remind me how I’ve lost another huge chunk of me, and I can’t figure out how to get that miserable chunk back.

I don’t think most people realize how tiny my life is already. I haven’t had the energy to go to church, or to sing at the Princeton chapel, or to go to the Folk Music Society sings and concerts – the few things that used to get me out of the house.

I have an assistant – so she has been getting some of the backlog things, and the recurring things, done – we need to move to the dejunking, final fixing, getting rid of, downsizing and losing even more things from your life to fit a smaller place. I barely manage to work with her by giving her instructions when she comes. I’m no help any more lately.

There is such a thing as too much loss.

I’m perilously close to that point.

Comments?

Adult drugs mess with your mind

Noisy diagonal stripes with text: Before you say 'Yes to drugs ASK a lot of QUESTIONS, Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt

NAVEL-GAZING CAN SAVE LIFE OR SANITY

****CAUTION: NOT medical advice – I’m not that kind of doctor ****


Written a week ago (Feb. 26, 2017); I didn’t dare post until I knew how this ended

I thought it was just me, by now a neurotic, introverted person overwhelmed by being in a scary situation (chest pain) and a not-safe-feeling place (ambulances, doctor’s offices, hospitals, and ERs, where EVERYONE but you seems to be healthy, loud, bossy, and telling you what to do).

But as I try to recover my sanity and my health from the three stents + angioplasty, and all that implied/implies, I ALSO finally realized that I’m having a major DRUG REACTION to a blood pressure medication called metoprolol (like Toprol), a beta blocker; amlodipine (like Norvasc), a long-acting calcium channel blocker; and/or atorvastatin (like Lipitor).

I never had high BP before (except doctor-induced), and I’ve not been on any BP meds, and as soon as I hit the first ER they start pushing drugs on me. I resisted most of the drugs the first time (and they only had me for an ER day, and then a cath lab in PA day), so it wasn’t until the SECOND ER VISIT, again with chest pains, that they started pushing harder, and I just gave in and let them make me swallow and inject whatever they thought was necessary, whatever was their ‘protocol’ for everyone the same.

The adult drug: metoprolol – an iffy, volatile beta blocker (my opinion)

And that’s when the metoprolol came into my life. For days, I got it twice a day (25 mg. dose). I took it – I wasn’t in a position to argue.

When I left the hospital, they gave me my very own set of everything, which I dutifully took every day – BP med (metoprolol) and emergency BP med (amlodipine – for that BP spike), statin (don’t even get me started about those), and the two drugs I PROMISED, before they gave me the med-imbued stents, to take every day for a year: Effient (a platelet-control thingy like Plavix but better, which is supposed to keep the stents from clogging while they become part of you – epithelialized) plus a baby aspirin (81 mg.). The last two I promised to take; I won’t break that promise if I absolutely can keep it.

Saw the doctor the day after I got out of the hospital, reviewed meds with her (but not problems), reminded her that because of the CFS, and by long experience, I DON’T TOLERATE MOST DRUGS, even in small quantities, and can never take enough to get to an actual therapeutic dose of them. Decades of experience trying to take various things suggested for the CFS had proven I could rarely tolerate something.

For example, it took over three years, and every pain-killing drug in the book (except for the opioids and narcotics, which I wouldn’t take after I found out how much they messed with the little mind I have left – not even for pain). Eventually, we found one that worked most of the time, Celebrex – a cox-2 inhibitor – which is an arthritis drug, and which I’ve been taking, 200mg twice a day, for 15 years. Regular blood tests didn’t show any problems, and I prayed it wouldn’t be removed from the market (like Vioxx – which had problems).

I had explained that I would need to continue this drug for a weird pain which makes all muscle fibers, nerves, and joints burn simultaneously. I KNOW when I’m off it, I KNOW when I’ve gone to bed without a dose. I never need more, can’t manage to reduce what I take to less than 2/day.

She was listening, but I left with no drug changes, and started journaling every single day every single thing that happened to me (the experience kind of focuses your attention on yourself).

And wondered why I was still a zombie

The thing that keeps me sane is writing fiction. I gauge my days by whether I got a bit of the ‘good time’ which allows me to write the insanely complex and layered novel I’m working on.

I journaled every bit of brain activity, food, anything out of the ordinary – and ability to write fiction.

It took me four days to figure it out: late two nights ago, with the worm of certainty gnawing at my gut (along with whatever was making my gut do that wave thing continuously), I looked up the side effects of metroprolol, and some of the inevitable internet comments of those who have gone before (which one has to be very careful with, for obvious reasons).

And convinced myself (I’m not going to bias you by listing them) that the powerful drugs they had me on, the metoprolol plus the statin plus calcium channel blocker, was the cause of me being a zombie AND having the gut symptoms and all the rest.

My solution: don’t take that crap

All I wanted to do, which I could NOT do – I completely lost the ability I’ve had for YEARS to meditate, rest, nap, and calm my heat beat – was get back to the place where I was in charge of my blood pressure and heart rate again.

The first, necessary part had been accomplished: get the hell out of the hospital. I’m trying to NOT be ungrateful for them saving my life and avoiding a heart attack sometime in the future, and chest pains now. Understand that. But getting out of the hospital, and back to a quiet, self-controlled place was not doing what I had expected it to do.

With the new stents, I figured I’d be in the best possible condition for someone like me – able to slowly start my little bits of bed exercise again, lose weight, and start the walking with a heart monitor which I had been unable to build up (probably because of the restricted blood flow making my heart rate go up above the aerobic limit too quickly, even before the chest pain – but I’ll never know that for sure).

So I was optimistic – and I was making NO progress in spite of that.

You might say – and I did – that I was being premature, that I should rest more, that I shouldn’t expect to write fiction for at least a couple of weeks.

Which would have been fine, except that the symptoms I’d been trying to ignore were getting worse, not going away. Sigh.

From my journal:

I made the decision around 4AM that I’m not taking anything but the Effient and the baby aspirin, because I literally promised I would take those for a year.

My gut hurts. Waves of intestinal rolling literally make me feel sick.
My left hip hurts.
I’m queasy – and have been for weeks now.

The beta blocker and statin are NOT required.
I never agreed to a blood pressure medication, because we ALL agreed I don’t have high blood pressure.

I understand keeping my BP down (illegitimi non carborundum) – but I can’t even calm myself down with my breathing right now. If it rises, we’ll talk about that then.

I understand they are more comfortable with a certain LDL target – I am committed to losing some of this weight, but have the feeling I should not be having this much trouble.

My HEAD is soggy and useless, and I can’t live that way. I can’t write that way.

And right now the pain in my universal joint is pretty bad – and I don’t dare take the appropriate painkillers.

Even [hubby] takes ibuprofen when he needs it! But he’s not on Celebrex.

Can’t do this. Won’t do this to myself.
I tried.

The actual decision was to not take the daily dose of metoprolol+statin with breakfast.

Talk about trepidation!

And the results were weird. My head cleared for the first time in as long as I can remember.

The gut was still doing the wave – I shrugged: it wasn’t getting worse. And gut muscles and heart muscles are both smooth muscles – the drug affecting both made sense, and might take some time to wear off completely.

I finally got the timeline of events clear in my head. I know I blogged about it already, but there are significant mind warps with what I wrote (though the two segments, ER to PA and catheterizations are correct, there was actually a SIX DAY GAP between them when I was at home, dealing with chest pain I had been told was not cardiac, before I went to my own doctor to get some help with that…and the second ER to PA and catheterizations started).

Huh. I completely lost six days out of my life.

Yeah, stress. But more yeah, drugs cause memory problems – and confusion.

The day went along, the best day in ages

I almost wrote (I had to get back up to speed). I remembered why I loved this particular scene (22.1 if anyone is keeping track – first scene of second chapter in NETHERWORLD).

I got all enthused. I blocked the internet for 5 hours, and didn’t even mind not surfing – I don’t waste my good time on surfing.

I took my naps – and could do my meditation breathing and calming and even sleeping, just as ‘normal’ from before on a good day. It was still there; the drugs had blocked my abilities.

I had obviously made the right decision.

Hey, I’d only been on the stuff for a couple of weeks, it was supposedly a small dose (50 mg), and it shouldn’t be too hard to cut it out completely, and then discuss the thing later with the doctor (it’s a Saturday, and I’m sure I won’t be able to get through to her then).

I don’t want to be diverted – so I don’t even tell my husband (not such a hot idea in retrospect, but, hey, I’m fine, BP (I measure several times) is rock steady – and I’m feeling HUMAN for the first time in so long.

All I needed was to stop taking the drug which was causing the problem! Problem solved.

You see where this is going, right?

Husband has picked up a cold (I’m sure it’s all that stress of holding it together and driving to PA twice a day for me in the hospital), and is miserable, and I don’t want to bother him.

I am having absolutely no problems. He heads to bed at ten, early for us, and I stay up to surf a bit, feed the chinchilla, and put the house to bed for the night. With a still-working brain.

And the blood pressure spike HITS.

The short version (as if anything I ever write is short):

I take the emergency BP med (amlodipine).

Ten minutes later, and having argued with myself the whole time, I cut one of the metoprolol tablets in half (it’s late in the day), tell myself I should have titrated down more slowly anyway; remember someone on the internet saying that you COULD split these, even though the are extended release (tablet, not capsule – makes sense – or maybe I saw that on one of the side effects pages online); and swallow the damned thing.

And spent the next two hours taking my blood pressure every ten-fifteen minutes, journaling all this stuff, and wondering:

  • should I call paramedics and go to the ER again. For a drug adjustment? They don’t do that kind of stuff, and besides, I have neither had chest pain, nor gotten to the place where I even though of trying the nitroglycerin. I wasn’t stupid enough to even consider driving MYSELF to the ER (five minutes away).
  • should I wake the husband who is sick, who I didn’t tell about my little experiment, and who won’t have any particular ideas except to take me to the ER – why would he have any ideas on how to manage this little crisis?
  • should I take a SECOND amlodipine emergency blood pressure tablet? No one ever mentioned what to do if the first didn’t work! I have no data. Even the internet is silent on the topic.
  • was I feeling anything alarming – other than BP and pounding heart rate – and didn’t people live for years not even knowing they HAD elevated blood pressure?
  • would a short period of this damage my kidneys?

I KNEW calling someone (the Aetna 24 hour nurse, or the cardiologist’s on call person if they had one) would put me in the ER overnight for ‘observation.’ I KNEW that, the same way I know my own name (and birthdate, which I’m going to change, since they used it for ID about a million times in the hospital, and I’m tired of it).

So, what did you DO, Alicia Guadalupe?

Nothing.

But watched myself like a hawk, and wrote it all down for posterity. To go with the autopsy.

When the BP spike was more or less over, around midnight, two hours later, I added it to the list of dodged bullets, was mad that I still had metoprolol in my body – had that really been necessary? – and went to bed next to sleeping husband (who had now at least had a couple of hours of sleep and of course woke up).

I told him the whole stupid story.

He said I should have woken him. I told him why I hadn’t.

He was calm, calmer than I would have been.

We chatted for a while, and he reminded me (I had forgotten – it was 18 years ago) that he had had problems with the SAME drug, metoprolol, after HIS quadruple bypass, which had landed him in the hospital within a week of coming home.

We were awake for a while. The gut is still doing the wave – I’m ignoring it. And actually managed, both of us, to get to sleep before 2 AM and make it through to around 8 AM with only minimum breaks in sleep.

What do I do now?

Play by ear again.

Don’t take anything unless I feel I have to, and then try a one-QUARTER dose of the nasty drug later today if something happens again. And the emergency stuff.

I feel fine. I feel normal. I blogged – that’s something.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Call the doctor’s office. I would, if I could figure out how to phrase the statement of what I want:

Could you please tell me how to get off metoprolol properly?

I’ve done the following… – how do I finish the process?

I’ll call during the week, but is there anything I need to do meanwhile?

I’ve done something possibly stupid, but am okay – what should I expect next?

You see my dilemma, right? They HAVE to respond to ANY question like that with either ‘GO TO THE ER’ or ‘TAKE THE FULL DOSE NOW AND WE’LL DISCUSS IT AT THE OFFICE.’

THEY have no choice. THEY have protocols they must follow or be accused of malpractice.

These are, however, the same THEY who took three catheterizations and a lot of luck, for whatever reasons, to find the thing that actually needed stenting, and have put me through hell (and saved my life – I’m grateful).

THEY put ME into the situation by giving me drugs I never agreed to long-term, in the hospital, and then NOT discussing any of them with me in the after-hospital visit.

No warnings. No ‘Call if this happens.’ No ‘You can take X for pain.’ Nothing beyond ‘If you have chest pains, go to the ER.’

But I’M at least half-way off the stuff, half-way to freedom.

It was a reasonable thing to try (I tell myself). And write it all down in case it is ‘for posterity.’

I’m thinking about it.

I took a shower. I hadn’t had one except the crappy one when I left the hospital five days ago. I figured out how to take one sitting – very low stress – and my hair is now clean, my toenails now trimmed, for the first time in WEEKS.

I’m not worried – but then I wasn’t worried yesterday when I had my first good day, either. (Fool’s comfort.)

My MIND IS CLEAR. Do you have any idea how valuable that is and how horrible it’s been without my tiny bit of brain? Day after day after day?

I have and have had NO CHEST PAIN. The gut might even be slowing down.

Husband is home, seemed surprised when I asked him if it was because of me. No, he said – he didn’t take his cold to church to share with the congregation. Love that man.

I also tell myself that anxiety probably pushed a huge load of adrenaline, the adrenaline I don’t allow myself because my body take days to clear it, into my system, so I probably made it worse than it was. Hindsight allows you to do that.

And there you have it.

If you lived through this little misadventure with me, you have now probably decided what you might do in a similar circumstance – and thus may have learned something.

Most of ‘you’ do not have CFS, and cannot imagine the difference between being a zombie 24/7 for WEEKS, and having a few clear hours, that makes my life bearable. You probably think I’m a total idiot. You would have called. Someone. Anyone.

If you HAVE CFS or a similar chronic invisible illness, this may be more your life as usual than you really care to think about. The drug overreactions, the fear, the lack of understanding among ALL medical personnel, even the ones who seem to understand and agree you’re delicate. You might have done the same, or not, but the thought processes might be similar.

Or you might think: What’s the big deal? She had a BP spike. They happen.

Feel free to weigh in. Politely. I’ll listen, even if I don’t change my mind. I can still take that dose of poison: full, half like last night, quarter. It’s noon, and I really should eat something.


The upshot? A week later I am ready to share the adventure (Mar. 6)

I ignored the third spike, smaller, Sunday night (Feb. 26) – and BP came down on its own, no emergency drugs.

Monday morning (Feb. 27) I called the doctor’s office, told them I’m off their drugs and won’t take them. Told them I am trying very hard not to have to get off the one they really want me to take, the Effient to keep the stents open.

I asked if I could switch cardiac rehab somewhere else more convenient (they really want me to try that).

And I asked how long it would take the huge bruise and tissue damage area to resolve.

They tell me I can switch the rehab to a closer location; ask me to consider taking a different drug after these are out of my system (Zetia, a cholesterol lowering drug); and send me for an ultrasound of the damaged area.

The internet supplied the lovely information that it can take six days for a normal person to clear the drugs I’ve been taking and their lovely side effects; I’m giving it far longer, as CFS people don’t clear things as fast as ‘normal’ people.

It’s far better now (Mar. 6) SEVEN days after the last day with a half dose. The symptoms are subsiding. The head is even clear for periods of time – and I wrote yesterday for a while.

The BP runs 120-130/60-80 just fine with no help. The spikes stopped. The gut is calming down. Every symptom is dropping slowly toward what I’m used to. (There were some interesting sensory hallucinations – I won’t miss those.)

I’m ‘authorized’ to use ibuprofen ‘lightly’ – which helps with the new back pain.

And the ultrasound shows damage, but not to the artery – I haven’t been told how long it will take to heal. The bruise is spectacular, belly-button to mid-thigh on the right, and leaking down like a Dalí painting of a clock on a hot day.

Medical research and you – reading the literature

And I have spent a very ‘interesting’ week reading a ton of research papers on all this stuff.

The more I read, the more I am convinced I will probably not take these drugs – and that prudence would have advised not even starting them, or getting off of them the minute I was out of the hospital. I shouldn’t have had to find that out on my own. Even if they do what they say, my body can’t handle them, so it won’t matter if they do what they say.

I won’t summarize what I found out, but it wasn’t pretty. There is a LOT of it. It gave me a lot of ammunition IF I can keep my BP in a good range as I have been doing for years with meditation, de-stressing, and biofeedback of a sort.

The statins will most likely not be something I can tolerate – I’m guessing the liver enzymes would have shown this in six weeks anyway, but I’d rather avoid the damage.

My conclusion: I am now a ‘cardiac patient,’ which I wasn’t a month ago

That does NOT mean I lose all choices.

I am grateful the blockages have been stented, hope they got them all, still wondering what really went on, and why it took over two weeks to find them all. Hope it lasts, and I don’t need more. Hope it was a quirk of anatomy.

Am pretty sure the relative immobility of a chronically-ill person didn’t help any.

I expect to be monitored, and there will probably be more tests.

But the drug-induced hell wasn’t really necessary: I told them about me, they didn’t listen, I paid. And I learned. ASK A LOT OF QUESTIONS, and if you have time, go to the primary sources.

Do right for your heart but be prepared for an awful ride

Sunset at sea. Text: There is only HOPE WHILE there's Life. Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt

I HAVE DODGED A NUMBER OF BULLETS

I will be terrified for a while.

I will have to deal with emotions both new and accumulated, and emotions are very hard to deal with if you have CFS, partly because the adrenaline which is the aftermath of much emotion takes forever to process out of my body, and so makes me ill for far longer than it is usually worth the original emotional outburst.

I have to deal with new medications I didn’t ever want to take, and which fight with CFS (potentially). I may have to deal with both more pain and with the cardiologists being unhappy I’m taking even the amount of pain meds I was taking before.

And I will have to learn to be more grateful for and more gracious about what may be the most important outcome: that, even in a reduced capacity, I’m still alive. Funny that, right?

I process things by writing about them (the brain doesn’t like to do internal processing, even when it can, any more).

The whole subject is incredibly boring.

And I have some obligation, willingly assumed, to share.

As part of a community, I value my online friends

Enormously. Probably more than most people.

I have a loving family – I am immensely grateful for them. And for the space they give me. They’d rather have me live in Mexico City with the rest of my sisters, live that lifestyle with help, and socialize more. I’ve had a limited capacity for that my whole life, but it doesn’t mean I don’t value it and feel wistful about it. I hope this post will clear up some of the details of the past three weeks for them, too.

But I’m trying to make sense of it AND bring my online friends up to date simultaneously, because there is no energy to do this for each of you (I will probably be sparser in replying to comments for quite a while), and the main lesson is easy and the personal details pretty obvious if you understand limited energy.

I don’t like it when my friends disappear from the blogosphere – but if we knew each other better we probably would be communicating by phone or email more. Even very good friends, family, people I’ve known for decades will have to be content with this for a while. I start from no energy when I’m my most ‘normal’ – and this ‘event’ (as the cardiologist calls it) has taken, and will take for a while, everything I have.

I OWE EVERYONE MORE. REALLY.

THE SHORT(EST) version

I had chest pains Superbowl Sunday after the game (no, I don’t care at ALL about sports, didn’t watch any of it). Kick in the chest by a mule.

Because it was Superbowl Sunday, I didn’t immediately go to the ER or call 911. This was my ONLY mistake, and it could have been fatal, but the chest pains subsided, I felt like I had avoided looking like an idiot, and I went to sleep. (Note: I had had a cold protein shake. This is relevant.)

The next morning (Monday) I called the cardiologist’s office, while drinking my (cold again) morning protein shake. They moved my appointment from later in the month forward to Wednesday, two days away. The nurse told me that if I had chest pains, I should call 911. I hung up – and a mule kick hit. Husband prepared to DRIVE me to the ER (we would have gotten there sooner, it turned out, but don’t do that unless you are VERY sure – another kick, and I lay down in the living room and TOLD him to call 911.)

Uneventful ride to local hospital (feeling like idiot already).

Absolutely horrible and boring day in ER being screamed at by an ER nurse who didn’t want me out of bed (long story – ignore – EVERYONE else was wonderful).

They take blood (3 sets of cardiac enzymes which tell them, over a long period, whether you have HAD a heart attack). Cardiologist who visits insists my symptoms go with a 90-95% blockage. Scares the heck out of me. They keep me overnight, send me from this hospital in NJ to PA one by ambulance in the morning, DO a cardiac catheterization – and RELEASE me because there is a ‘lesion’ but it doesn’t meet the guidelines for stenting (70% blockage). Surgeon does a flow test around it – blood flowing. Cardiac enzymes NEGATIVE.

Next day (Wed.), MY cardiologist goes over the results, tells me surgeon has not found anything stentable.

I PREPARE TO FIND A DIFFERENT REASON FOR THE PAIN, SINCE THE CARDIOLOGISTS HAVE ‘CLEARED ME.’ If you’ve seen my recent posts, the best candidate seemed to be an esophageal spasm. My assumption was that the months of coughing which had recently stopped had left things tetchy and easily triggered. The next morning, I dutifully call my primary doctor’s office, feeling like an idiot. They fit me in at 10. I drive myself.

I get there. BEFORE discussing my question with me (how do I figure out what this CERTIFIED NON-CARDIAC PAIN means and how to fix it), she has the nurse do an EKG, CALLS the paramedics immediately because of ‘changes’ happening right then during the EKG, and I end up in the SAME ER, and the whole process – boredom, cardiac bloodwork  – REPEATS. Cardiologist insists, keeps me overnight and does a stress test the next day – and he says he sees ‘something worrisome.’ I DON’T believe him, think he’s making a big deal out of my small reported comment of some chest pain FROM THE NUCLEAR CHEMICALS. Really, it was NOT a big deal. I want out.

Another overnight observation, and trip by ambulance to PA for a catheterization. This time, because there has been another chest pain event, and there are changes in the EKG from the stress test, the surgeon stents that lesion he’d seen before.

They stupidly tell me that IF the catheterization doesn’t stop the pain, they will be SURE it is non-cardiac, and I will be free to leave the hospital and go do what I was pursuing when I landed in the ER the SECOND time: a non-cardiac reason for the chest pain (about half of chest pain IS non-cardiac – I actually had a consult with a GI doctor who agrees an esophageal spasm is a possible explanation – triggered by cold food).

Imagine how pissed I am the NEXT morning when the mule kicks my chest and THEY WON’T LET ME LEAVE. This is Friday. They can’t force me, of course, so they overwhelm me with talk (I’m exhausted from days of this and hospitals and too many people and NO energy to start with – thank God husband was there and more coherent than me). I agree to let them look into it more. The next morning a different surgeon comes in, looks in more detail at the films ALREADY taken at the first two catheterizations and first stent (I’m a conundrum to them and they’re getting VERY concerned), DOESN’T come talk to me in person (it’s a Saturday – and he sends the cardiologist, another of the overwhelming talk-too-much knowitalls), and he somehow persuades husband and me that I need ANOTHER catheterization (third), that they are pretty sure they know what’s going on, that it NEEDS fixing. He also persuade me to wait for Monday staying flat in bed so the procedure won’t be an emergency weekend one.

It was a horrible weekend. For me. I’m pretty sure I was a hyper-controlled super-stressed trying-to-be-polite sure-I-was-right-and-they-were-wrong-again pain. Bedpans and being interrupted every 10 seconds and ‘cardiac’ tasteless diet will do that to an introvert, especially since we’re now at the two-week mark of this nonsense.

Finally, Monday the second surgeon, knowing I was refusing to go in until I had talked to him, stopped by (I haven’t eaten or had water since midnight and it’s past 11 am), came in, gave me a short and DATA-FILLED explanation, SAID personally (I think) he KNEW what the problem was. And I agree, if nothing more than to get out of there!

Why? Because the other alternative is to leave against medical advice – and I CAN’T DO THAT TO MY POOR HUSBAND. No matter HOW pissed I am, they may be right, and husband should not have to pay for my fit of pique, etc., etc.

They finally take me in for the procedure around 5PM. Cruel.

Surgeon talks to husband after procedure – he not only fixed the very complicated bifurcation lesion he had seen on the films, but found and fixed a 95% blockage lower on the same artery which was actually closer to the region the stress test had indicated was a problem, and which is an odd feature of my anatomy variation. This part is a little fuzzy, because husband thought he told me the details – he may have – but I was still under hypnotics and have odd and possibly false memories of some of it.

So I’m alive. The blockage which probably would have caused an actual heart attack at an inconvenient time has been stented. I have three stents, and the bifurcation got a balloon angioplasty in the other branch, because you can’t stent both branches, and I am on all the meds I didn’t want to even consider because of potential side effects for CFS folk.

Some aftermath, still iffy

The next morning, just for the heck of it, I blow the gasket in the groin, go through unbelievable pain (more than the mule kick – and lasts much longer!) while a burly male and female nurse ‘reduce’ it, and I spend ANOTHER lovely day in the hospital repeating the entire hole-closing procedure (a rate complication, they assure me).

We finally go home on Wed. (two days ago), after the most horribly protracted release process I could have imagined, with a bag of the new pills I have agreed to take until I see the cardiologist for the hospital followup visit I’m supposed to make within the week.

You cannot imagine – and I can’t describe – emotions and exhaustion.

That Wed. night, when I can’t get to sleep, I do a lot of thinking, internet research, and processing of implications. Rather incoherently, but I have to make at least a bit of sense of it.

Thursday morning I dutifully call in to make the cardiologist (mine) followup appointment, asking them to call me back in the afternoon and give me one, if possible, for Monday or Tuesday after the weekend (so I have a chance to rest, recover, and possibly become coherent again).

They drag me in that afternoon. Husband graciously cancels his appointment at the exact same time to take me. I really shouldn’t be driving. Damn. I thought I was going to have a break.

The followup cardiologist visit – too soon?

  • This is where we sorted some of the above stuff out. It was probably good that the bits and pieces were still clear, and necessary for husband to be there.
  • The odd sequence of THREE catheterizations, stress test results, EKGs both with and without problems, ending in the hardware I now own for life, is worked out. My cardiologist is amazed I’m coherent and functional (short periods between naps – I can work this), happy to explain ANYTHING I ask, amazed I’m willing to take their meds, agreeing I am special (that was funny) and that I need to be treated as such (here ‘special’ means ‘different from most other people because of ANATOMY and the CFS,’ but I still liked getting her to say it – whadda you want? I’m human).
  • The anatomy is special enough that it literally made it hard to figure out exactly what was going on. I am grateful that my big mouth didn’t cause them to give up on me – I assume I also worried the heck out of them. I am pretty sure, from her demeanor, she was prepared for anything when I came in.
  • Doing the research and thinking I did the night before was CRUCIAL for putting me in the right mental place to deal with her, the whole ‘story,’ anger, etc., etc., etc. I’m still amazed at that one myself. Though, remember, I’m still alive. All bets would have been off otherwise.
  • Because I’m special, the cardiac rehab will be special. And she is fully prepared to have to do a lot of work on meds if necessary. And isn’t demanding I give up my necessary CFS pain meds (which I finally got back to taking, defiantly, the last day in the hospital). There will be work on those – from a cooperative place.

So what next?

Anyone who cares is now up to date.

I’m exhausted, taking my meds, keeping VERY extensive journals of ALL details – there will be many days of this so I neither exaggerate nor minimize problems.

What do I want?

To get back to a place, mentally, where I can write fiction. Today has not been that place, and the aftereffects recorded in the journal are already at 3000 words, just for these three days so far. The crash is already ferocious; I don’t know how long it will last or how bad it will get, but am not sanguine about what this has done to me.

(Buy the first book if you haven’t and the Look Inside satisfies you in any way.)

I want to update anyone who cares – and then do the smallest amount of focusing on illness/disease/being a cardiac patient when I was no such thing less than a month ago – as possible. Consider this it. Be prepared for at least a couple of weeks of rather minimum interaction from me – not personal, as I love you all and wouldn’t have put myself through this post if I didn’t think it was important in some small way to get most of the chronology in writing and a first cut at accuracy.


I WANT ALL OF YOU TO LISTEN TO THE LESSON:

You MUST rule out cardiac causes of heart pain properly, because my cardiologist said I did EVERYTHING right (one of the reasons she agreed I’m special) and most people don’t, and many don’t make it (I didn’t tell her the one little bit of not going to the ER on Superbowl Sunday night, and going to bed – I am acutely conscious that night might have been my last – that 95% blockage bit).

Note the cardiac enzymes – done several times – never showed a heart attack – I never had it.


I’m wiped and going to try Next Nap.

Stay well. Take care of yourselves. Drop a comment. My online community is as real to me as the RL one. I will take up my responsibilities in it as soon as I possibly can.

Chest pain is not always heart-related

chest-pain

BUT CARDIAC CAUSES MUST BE RULED OUT FIRST –  THEY CAN BE FATAL

Your brain, the precious thing that makes you, YOU, cannot function without oxygen for more than a tiny number of minutes. After which, if it doesn’t get that oxygen, you are no longer YOU, even if you survive.

Get that through your head.

Before you read what follows. And remember it.

The Perfect Storm

I’ve hesitated to write this post all week because ‘The Perfect Storm’ is never apparent except in hindsight. And I’ve been feeling like crap.

As a result of the CFS I live with, you can consider me immuno-compromised all the time. Sometimes it helps to have my immune system cranked up all the time – I fight off many things with a shorter period of malaise than many people. But when it gets overwhelmed, it REALLY gets overwhelmed.

I had been coughing, as a result of first one virus, and then, probably another (probably caught from husband who thought he had caught it from me – and didn’t take precautions – and probably gave already-weakened me the horrible virus he picked up somewhere else), since around Nov. 1, 2016. Sometimes very violent coughing. Painful coughing. But not chest pain. Remember that. Not chest pain.

And yes, I had seen at least four doctors (including mine twice), had a chest X-ray, antibiotics, steroids, and an inhaler of albuterol. My lungs had been listened to carefully, and pronounced good, then diagnosed as bronchitis, then diagnosed as ‘tight’ (whatever that means).

I had the feeling that if I could just STOP COUGHING for a while, everything could get better. I really hope so – I’ve now managed to not cough for two days.

More scary symptoms added – caused by cough? Or revealed by cough?

Older white female, heavy, sick a long time, not very mobile, is not a good place to start anything from.

This is where things get a bit fuzzy. I don’t know when the extra shortness of breath started – because I didn’t record it. I just took my time climbing up the 33 steps from the crypt of the Princeton U. Chapel where I sing on Sundays with a tiny Catholic choir. Was it just the CFS lack of energy? Or was it something new? And was it a result of the coughing, or something made worse by the coughing? I honestly don’t know.

But shortness of breath is a symptom that shouldn’t be ignored if it gets worse. Nor should the tightness in the chest that went with it. If you wonder how I managed singing with the cough going on, it wasn’t continuous, I took over-the-counter meds to control it (paying for their help with the extra fuzziness that hits my brain as my body clears out the meds), and I really like to sing, and there was, accidentally, a long hiatus between the last time we sang in December (the 17th) and the first time I made it in February (the 5th). Vacation, the choir director canceling because he thought there wouldn’t be many people there, and a couple times I was too sick to go and didn’t want to cough on my choirmates. So, a big gap – during which I coughed a lot.

So I sang last Sunday. And noticed things were not good in the pain department, so I took the steps extra slowly.

And then, that night, the first trigger?

Triggers for chest pain

Are not always obvious. In retrospect only, the chest pain flare – significant and scary – Sunday evening was set off by me having a chocolate protein shake. Silly, right? I had had eggs for breakfast, so I decided to have my usual shake at night. I make it with lots of ice, and it’s very close to a milkshake (okay, for someone who doesn’t eat carbs if possible), cold and frosty and tasty.

And sometime shortly after I finished it, a wave of chest pain that stopped me short, raised my blood pressure, and scared the heck out of me – but slowly resolved, leaving me shaking and wondering whether I should be doing something. But you know what Sunday night after the Superbowl must be like at the ER, and if you’re not absolutely sure you should be going to the ER – after all, the pain resolved, right? – you pretend it wasn’t so bad and go to bed. Just to be sure, I took my blood pressure, which was high but came down slowly to almost normal.

That’s the place at which many fatalities happen, and yes, I’m perfectly aware of that.

The next morning I called the cardiologist’s office, and moved my appointment from Feb. 23rd to last Wednesday because they had an opening. The cardiologist was my primary’s idea BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT SHE HEARD A MURMUR – almost a year ago – and I had finally gone to see her, had had the recommended echocardiogram and ultrasound of the carotids, and had that appointment on the 23rd to get the results (which turned out not to be significant, or they would have made me come in). I was being reasonable.

The cardiologist’s nurse whom I was talking to – and had told about the spasms which resolved – concluded with, “If you have any significant symptoms, head to the ER.”

I hung up after those words.

On the cusp here.

Except that, while I was talking to her, I was having my morning protein shake – same as usual, full of ice, I was still coughing, and I drank it at normal speed, not really paying attention.

And in all this remember that I’m operating at much reduced brain speed – because of that infernal and exhausting coughing that just won’t go away completely. I haven’t, at this point, written fiction in weeks – because that requires that all the indicators align perfectly, and I haven’t had that in weeks. We CFS types call it brain fog.

And then it happened: decision time

An unbelievable wave of pain hits me in the chest.

Husband frantically puts on clothes, intending to drive me to the local hospital (in retrospect, I should have let him – they did nothing IN the ambulance), but I lie down on the living room floor when faced with the prospect of walking all the way out to the car, and make him call 911.

I’m coherent enough to walk him through FINDING a non-enteric-coated full size aspirin tablet (he had brough me four of the baby coated ones, and I though they might take too long to dissolve), as the dispatcher said to take. The people who make it first are the firemen – I guess they had nothing to do. They can’t do anything, and they don’t transport, but there they were. To be with us (I suppose they have CPR training) until the EMTs get there. To help me down the seven steps to the front hall (at which point they let me walk myself to the downstairs bathroom just fine – should have taken that as a sign).

The EMTs get there, transport to hospital – without doing a thing IN the ambulance except, as we practically pulled up to the hospital, rolling out the oxygen tubing you see on TV going into the nostrils – which was then on my head for less than 3 minutes. Revenue enhancement? The things you think about!

The chest hurts a lot, but it is, like Sunday night, slowly resolving. The BP has been high, but is coming down. I am trying hard to calm my breathing and heart beat.

At this point you are as committed as if you jumped out of a plane

NOBODY in this whole system can send you home now (and you’re still terrified anyway – chest pain really hurts).

Every bit of exertion IN the hospital sets off the waves to some extent. I duly report this.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the day, the admission to the hospital, the doctor from the cardiologist’s other office who tells me my symptoms are indicative of 90-95% blockage somewhere. And scares the hell out of me. And orders drugs which I later, when they are offered in the hospital that night, I decide can’t possibly help in one day, and I refuse to take drugs without discussing them thoroughly with MY cardiologist and bringing up the whole CFS thing (this was the statin; I think I took the aspirin).

By the way, if it had been cardiac, taking the statin right away is important (said MY cardiologist, but I still don’t see how – she said it prevents even more damage to the heart – must look that up).

And the train wreck continues (as well as the pain, enhanced by fear)

You can probably see where this is headed, but, after a totally miserable night on a hospital bed after being in an even worse, if possible, ER bed all day, with all other indignities not being related here, they haul me off by ambulance the next morning to the cath lab at St. Mary’s in another state (PA), and finally, after a circus of paperwork and other activity, actually go in and LOOK at the state of my arteries, etc., with the view to saving my life by stenting those presumed 95% blockages.

Only to find nothing major (though there are the beginnings of plaque they don’t like), and SEND ME HOME. No stents. No hospital stay. NO prescriptions.

With no one caring about the, you know, actual CHEST PAIN.

Which is the same theme when we see the cardiologist the next day, who now wants to treat me as if I’d come in for cardiac reasons (instead of the benign Level 1 heart murmur which tests show is accompanied by minor calcification) – and start me on meds: no, nothing important wrong, but you really should start taking these heavy-duty drugs which are known to cause significant muscle pain, especially in the CFS population, and memory problems in many (c’mon now – I have TWO brain cells left, and can’t afford to lose them).

No, the drugs don’t lower cholesterol.

No, the drugs don’t REVERSE plaque buildup. Nothing, apparently, nothing chemical can do that.

No discussion of alternate methods of lowering cholesterol (like diet, my only real option as exercise isn’t possible – can’t go aerobic because the body can’t produce energy aerobically).

The end? The summary? The conclusions?

  1. If your chest hurts enough, or worries you enough, you HAVE TO GO TO THE ER. Period. You don’t belong at your doctor’s office, or even at urgent care – they don’t have the facilities should it be, you know, a heart attack. Only a hospital does. I did everything right. At the ER they take blood three times, 8 hours apart or so, and they look for certain cardiac enzymes to be present, to indicate you may have had a heart attack. But this takes a while. Meanwhile, they treat you as if. They have to.
  2. It may NOT be cardiac. Some 23% of chest pain is NOT cardiac OR pulmonary. It might be esophageal spasms, or intercostal muscle spasms (the intercostal muscles between your ribs pull air in and push it out, and they were already in revolt from the coughing. Probably). The pulmonary pain can be separated out a bit, but may not keep you from a full cario workup. I don’t know about that one. The pain/spasms could be chronic or acute, or getting there – you won’t know until analyzing all the evidence later.
  3. I ended up getting a heart catheterization, the gold standard for actually LOOKING, which might have taken a lot longer otherwise – but might also have never been done, especially if the pain resolved soon enough AFTER THE COUGHING stopped. So I have the baseline I, as a PWC (person with CFS) would not be able to get with a treadmill stress test (testing to exhaustion has horrible effects on PWCs; I won’t do it) or chemical stress test (same effects on PWCs; won’t do that either). But it didn’t have to be the whole ambulance/ER/cath lab emergency experience. IF the chest pain hadn’t stopped, I would probably have had the test eventually.
  4. If the doctor you see in the ER gives you meds he says you should take, take them. I did with the ER doc’s meds (I think). It was later, in the hospital bed alone all night (they slap a heart monitor on you and then only come if you call) when I decided not to take the meds the over-zealous cardiologist ordered. 50/50 on that one.
  5. It is possible (maybe) to stop your own coughing – IF it’s on the way out anyway, and you take it very easy, and use the OTC meds (and the cough syrup with codeine I was prescribed at one point in those 3+ months), but it’s a full-time job, and I may only have been fooling myself. By my husband’s symptoms – he who gave me the second virus – I had expected to be done with the coughing by this Wednesday. It happened/I forced it to stop on Thursday by fighting back with every cough attempt. Maybe my yoga breathing helped a bit. I couldn’t do it before, so maybe that’s also completely bogus.
  6. Don’t get sick. And even if you think someone else’s illness is the same as you have, it is STILL possible to hand it back and forth – so keep up with the precautions, don’t get near other sick people, wash your hands a lot… Everything spouse didn’t do.
  7. Try not to have overlapping illnesses. It messes up the diagnoses.
  8. Don’t be stupid – this was a royal pain, a huge expense, and a possibly wasted effort – and it was still the right thing to do.
  9. You may feel like an idiot when it turns out your heart is fine. I did. But you shouldn’t. They really can’t tell, and you really need to know, and you can’t take that chance. And you are the only one who can decide: What’s happening isn’t right, for me. Unless, of course, you’re passed out on the floor and trusting someone else will make the right call.
  10. I am SO glad it is over (or getting there).

Share your own happy experiences in the comments. I’ll listen. Might learn something.

The MOST important thing they don’t tell indie writers

Snowy forest night, black sky above. Test: Award winner! Bestseller! Get reader's heartbeat up! Alicia Butcher EhrhardtSOME INDIE AUTHORS ARE GOOD ENOUGH FROM THE FIRST BOOK

Traditional publishing believes it: they LIKE to take a beginner’s book, push it like crazy as ‘the next big thing,’ and then, if it takes, take credit for the success. If it doesn’t, most of the time (as that first book can take a number of years to create), we get articles in the NY Times and The New Yorker by disillusioned young MFA-program writers who thought ONE book was their ticket to live in Manhattan forever.

Hindsight is 20/20. You learn things later you wish you had learned sooner. And they can hurt you. Significantly.

And it’s possible this isn’t important for many beginning self-published writers, so no one has thought to mention it as specifically important.

Instant gratification is a plague on the modern world.

And the Dunning–Kruger effect is rampant. The link will give you a precis of the science, but the short version is that about the bottom 10% of people in competence in a subject think they know it all. Reread that sentence because Washington is full of it right now. The least competent think they are the MOST competent.

Maybe it’s a survival thing – if you thought you knew how to hunt the mammoth, even though your hunting skills were terrible, the mistaken belief allowed you to leap in there with your spear, and it was successful just enough of the time that the gene didn’t die out. Once in a while. And possibly is the origin of the phrases ‘fools rush in’ or ‘beginner’s luck.’ But I digress.

How does this apply to new indie authors?

Here it is: the thing I wish I’d known about – and had paid attention to: your book launch is critical, because in the first month you get a bit of free publicity (new books) from Amazon, and the DATE of that launch determines its eligibility for awards, and you need to know if your book is good enough and apply for those awards at the right time.

NOBODY IS OUT THERE SEARCHING THE NEW INDIE BOOKS TO SEE IF THEY ARE ANY GOOD, AND GIVING THEM AWARDS.

I published late in 2015. That made me ineligible for most 2015 awards (their deadlines had passed), and ineligible for 2016 awards because Pride’s Children: PURGATORY was published in 2015.

I didn’t need to publish then; I could have waited, would have waited if it I’d known the consequences. Early 2016 would have lost me the Christmas 2015 season (during which I sold a few books, very few), and I was so focused on getting that thing out there, that I didn’t even think about awards.

TO GET AWARDS, YOU HAVE TO SUBMIT TO AWARD COMMITTEES – AND PAY AN ENTRY FEE.

The fees cover the administrative costs of most awards, and the prizes (part of which may be subsidized by some foundation). They are set just high enough to discourage most new authors from frivolous submissions. And if you’re determined that the book should pay its own way, are an expense that may be hard to justify.

NOBODY will know that you applied for an award. Other than the financial one – which could be significant – there are no downsides to applying. IF those committees are honest, this might be your only chance to be considered on pure merit (their subjective definition, of course).

And the whole process runs up against the other part of the D-K effect, that the most competent people are  hesitant to say they are competent in a subject – because they actually know how much they don’t know. Many top scientists are modest and humble people.

There is a surfeit of Arrogance in the world.

Self-promotion is something most indies have to work at, and we’re all tired of the relentless self-promotion – Buy my book! Buy My Book! BUY MY BOOK! – of the modern Twitter feed.

But once in a while, a new – or even a first – indie book is a carefully-drafted, polished tome that would have merited consideration by an award committee – but didn’t know the basic facts of submission, because, even though they spent years reading the forums, blogs, and boards before publishing, the FACTS above in bold were never mentioned.

I would have liked to try.

‘Bestseller’ or ‘Bestselling author’ is USEFUL in marketing. And that should be achieved by sales, which most indie newbies won’t have. But ‘Winner of the _____ Award’ IF the award is a real one, and a significant one, is also very good for a book.

I would have liked to know it could be important. I screwed up.

If that’s arrogance and ego, so be it. The awards committees would have let me down, the money could have been wasted.

But the simple facts would have been nice to have, so I’m putting them out here on the off chance that someone else in the newbie self-publisher category will see this, and at least know to look up the awards and their submission guidelines and dates.

And that’s my screed for today. Are there hidden gems, condemned by the very lack of knowledge of their indie authors to remain hidden? What do you think?

“I coulda been a contenda,”

Marlon Brando, On the Waterfront.

Or so one likes to believe.


 

If you had only one year, what would you write?

gratitudeA THANKSGIVING REFLECTION

Today is turkey day for many people, including my huge and wonderful extended family in Mexico City, Detroit, and all over the western world. I am so grateful for them. I wish I were with them.

I am grateful for friends.

For self-publishing. Even for Amazon.

I realize how grateful I am for the ability to write, however slowly, but I’ve been feeling lately it is slipping away.

Part of that is the normal losses of life: the last chick has left the nest (we hope, for her sake and happiness, for good). I am in the middle of a huge effort to downsize. And another huge effort to walk properly again. Both these efforts take a lot of energy – and the energy has to come from somewhere.

A big part is chronic illness; it demands more than anyone can afford.

But part is also aging, and the thought that if I slow down much more, I will be at a standstill.

Time is finite – will you be happy what you do with yours?

So this morning I asked myself the title question: If you only had one more year to be a writer, what would you choose to be your legacy?

Many writers have had this question thrust on them. Some have quit writing – they’ve said what they want to say, and the work is getting onerous.

Others, like Sir Terry and Iris Murdoch, were taken from us by the disease no one seems to be able to fix except in mice – Alzheimer’s Disease. I hope AD also removed from them the pain of knowing they were losing it, because it is the most awful feeling.

But still others – and I hope to be in this group – use this question to focus, to re-prioritize and re-aim their writing, and to ask themselves if they really are doing everything they can – and whether the work is important enough to warrant the expenditure of so many chits.

I have a very short professional list:

I have to finish Pride’s Children: NETHERWORLD, and Book 3, tentatively subtitled LIMBO & PARADISE. Or maybe just PARADISE. And get them both published on Amazon.

I want to put the prequel short story, Too Late, up on Amazon.

I want them read, and I hope they will have an effect on people who consider the disabled ‘other,’ and not worth considering – or reading about.

I think I can accomplish those things IF I focus. Tempus fugit.

It is nice to consider that I have all the time in the world. But nobody ever really does. Life can strike the writer at any age.

Note that I’m also asking this question of people who don’t consider themselves writers – is there someone you should write to, or something you could write, need to write? That letter to your children? The one where you tell someone how much they’ve really meant to you?

What’s on your list?

The damaged brain: the OTHER writer’s block

A volleyball alone on the beach. Words: Will I know when the game is over? Or will my brain just slip away. Alicia Butcher EhrhardtOVER THREE WEEKS WITH NO REAL WRITING IS SCARY

I live with a major fear, that my damaged brain, so far able to eke out a couple of hours on a good day for being creative and writing fiction, will some day become unusable for this purpose.

Add aging decline to the damage sustained from illness or trauma, with the inevitability of death at the far end of the descent, and the conclusion is inescapable: one of these days I will write my last, whether I know it at the time or not, and I won’t be able to cajole the neurons into working for me ever again.

This happens to Alzheimer’s patients, such as novelist Iris Murdoch. One day, after not much work, the pen is put down – and never taken up again.

Or a stressful interlude may divert the writer for a while to other matters, and the synapses break down in the interval – and writing is never resumed.

What will the end be like and when will it come?

I don’t fear it so much if I don’t notice it, though I fear greatly the depredations dementia perpetrates on its victims, including the lucid interludes which come and go, with the old desires undimmed.

What I fear is what happens every time I take an enforced break – taxes used to do it to me, preparing for/going on/recovering from vacation does it now every time – of not having my good time available to write with regularly because said good time is required for more pressing matters which I have decided to allow/have forced on me.

This vacation, which ended last Sunday, Oct. 9, with a long day of travel, has been followed by an extraordinarily non-productive week. Unproductive of fiction, though I’ve written several blog posts.

Because I’ve sat myself down at the computer most of every day to write fiction. And it isn’t coming out because I’m not having my good time. It isn’t happening.

Interruptions are harder for me, and take longer to come back from

What I’m having a lot of is interruptions. Hubby is doing taxes, belatedly, for NJ – and has decided to investigate various long-overdue details from the years when I was doing them because he was working – and ‘needs’ things, and he needs them now so he can move forward with his plans, and he doesn’t know what he will need ahead of time so I can locate them the night before, and he can’t divert his attention to something else because whatever it is is on the critical path. One or two of these diversions, which cost people in general almost a half hour each to recover from, and me much longer, and that day is dead to fiction. Yes, I’m that fragile.

Daughter is moving out, coming and going at random, requiring something very small at times – where are the decongestants? Or rather where is the box where I usually find decongestants? Which requires that I stop what I’m doing, important or not, and find them in the suitcase we took on vacation, which I meant to return to the box on the floor which will then go back to its natural place in the bathroom closet – where she would have found the decongestants without bothering me, had I made it that far on unpacking.

A friend who moved precipitously to Florida, without me having a chance to take her out to lunch and talk with, calls. We spend an hour on the phone, and I will take her out to lunch when she comes back to get the house ready for putting on the market – we’ve been friends thirty years – and I want to talk to her. Up until recently, she was right across the street – and we rarely found time to talk because I can’t easily walk over there, and she has grandchildren, and there was always tomorrow – only now there isn’t.

This Saturday started with the leaf-blowing neighbor and his lawn cutting service making a constant noise I could only partially block with my ear-plug-and-industrial-strength-headgear solution – which isn’t really comfortable enough to write with on the days where I’m so close to the edge of not being able to write – like today. The leaf blower just came back for a second session, forcing me to wear headgear again for my afternoon nap.

Coming back from a sea-side vacation with wet bathing suits and T-shirts requires laundry. It has taken chunks out of four days, and will take more: gather and wash, put in the dryer before it gets moldy, get daughter to bring up because heavy loads are getting too much to me, and folding – but it’s sitting on top of my still full suitcase, instead of being stored where it belongs, closets and drawers in several rooms, because it is ‘vacation stuff.’

Healthy people don’t have these fears, even when they get sick

Daughter pushed through, loaded the car on Thursday, drove four hours, unloaded in NY state. Today she drove back with the feeling of being sick, and went out for the evening and possibly overnight – as soon as she had some lunch. I used to be able to do that, LONG ago.

I wrote the above a while ago, before a nap and dinner, and then the hubby came in and complained about being under the weather (he napped all afternoon) since we got back, and the fear died down a bit. Maybe we’re still fighting off that small vague illness we all brought back – and the aftereffects will go away.

I hope so. Even at my pace, I want to use what’s there to write.

But that fear won’t ever go away.


Do you experience this kind of writer’s block? For the same – or a different reason?


***** Just a few more days until the end of the fall Kindle Countdown deal – 0.99 US, UK *****

Amazon US & Amazon UK:

Blogging topics can turn too serious

where are we goingGOING DEEPER OR GOING HOME

Blogging is optional. No one pays you for posting on a blog like this one, you have promised no one anything you must deliver, and the posts usually reflect what’s going on in your chosen topics.

This has mostly been my writing blog and my CFS blog, and they go together because many of the things I do as a writer, except for the actual writing, are affected by CFS and low energy and brain fog.

When I say, not ‘the actual writing,’ it’s because that part is still as much a mystery as when I started. The preparation is tailored to me and my damaged brain – so I can operate on very small chunks of material at a time, and still end up with a coherent whole.

But the writing – the actual words that come out, sit on the ‘page,’ and are chosen to stay in the final product –  that is something that just comes when the prep is finished. This post is not about my fiction.

Blogging is different from writing fiction

Up until now, when I had something to say about the things I was learning as a writer or a person living with CFS, I would come up with an idea, sit and write about it for a while, clean it up a bit and add some headings, and voilà, blog post.

Like sitting down, and dumping my opinionated opinion on someone who happened to ask, “What do you think about…?” and then sat and recorded what I said. I often clarified my thinking about something – or organized a proper set of steps to do something (quite different usually from the chaotic way I figured it out) – as I wrote.

These were easy.

Images became de rigueur – so I added some

I’ve added a few photos I took and occasionally worked on. I used programs such as Quozio and Stencil which had free and easy ways to make a few easy quotes and images.

And I’ve created specific images with Pixelmator, as necessary, to illustrate how I do something.

Nothing fancy, but that has been uncomplicated.

Something’s changed, and I’m chewing on what that means

Most of this blogging occurred during the writing and launching of my first published novel, Pride’s Children: PURGATORY.

As a newbie, I first looked mostly online, and some in books, for instructions on how to do things involved in getting a book ‘up there’ on Amazon. If I didn’t find something that worked for me already described, I wrote it up.

Because I have a Mac, and don’t use Word any more for most of the writing, and am not learning Photoshop or GIMP, my solutions were often different – and I wrote about them.

There’s nothing unusual in that among bloggers.

How deep is too deep for a purveyor of fiction?

But now I have 30-40 blog posts that I’ve started – and nothing is coming out of my fingertips.

Thinking about it some gave me the insight that a good number of these abortive topics are ones where I’m getting in a lot deeper than I intended to get on a blog.

Opinions that I hold are coming out of the depths – and I am not naive: I know these are controversial, argumentative, and not bland.

I think that’s why I’m not finishing these posts and posting them. I keep thinking: if I say this, it’s out there forever. Potential readers can find it, and may not read me because of my opinions.

Other people are controversial, but I haven’t been, not out loud. Partly because it takes way too much energy to deal with the controversies in our modern world. If you’ve read my fiction, you’ve probably figured out that I hold opinions that are considered somewhat old-fashioned. But in fiction the ideas are expressed with some subtlety, through characters pro and con, not stated overtly.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do

I like blogging. I like the people who pop by and enter the conversation. I have a variety of new friends since I started commenting on the publishing blogs, and then blogging myself.

But I’m not sure if I’m ready for the consequences of the topics I keep coming up with since I have moved beyond the stage of getting a book actually finished and published.

It’s not that I don’t stand by those opinions. If I don’t feel like entering the fray, I could cut off comments, not approve commenters, or not engage – all valid blogging strategies.

It’s that I shy away from publicly stating that I hold any ONE position – which divides the world into us and them.

Going back to basics: why do I blog?

The original thought was the common one: blog, people will get to know you, and when you publish, there will be a group of people out there who already like your writing, and will try your books/stories.

It doesn’t work like that, at least not with this kind of blog.

That’s more like an Author page – or a Book page – where the main purpose is to let your fans know when the next book comes out because they want to know. Most of those readers are not going to engage with the author on other subjects. They like the book(s), not necessarily the writer and her opinions on writerly topics.

I visit regularly a number of writing blogs. I comment when it seems appropriate. But I don’t buy the books that come out of the same writers often – because they are not, and were never, my kind of book. I still have a lovely horror story I bought because I loved the cover – but I don’t and won’t read horror because I can’t get it out of my head.

Some writing topics are common to all stories; I read those posts. Some publishing or formatting or editing topics are common to all writers; I read those posts.

The future of my blogging is: I don’t know

The internet is forever. If I put posts out, they will be there, part of me, characterizing me, for anyone to read.

I may lose interest in staying relatively informational and bland after I finish my silly little set of Author Photo posts.

I am NOT going to post scenes of NETHERWORLD as I finish them. That I know for sure. I was a huge effort, it worked when I needed a little commitment to keep me going at a couple of tough spots – because I had promised, not because readers were clamoring.

I’m not going to publish much new fiction on my blog, except for adding a few Drabbles I’ve written for something else to the ‘short stories’ tab. I’ve learned that I don’t go to people’s blogs to read their fiction.

So the answer is that I have no idea how this is going to play out – and that’s why I haven’t been posting nearly as frequently. I think that happens to bloggers a lot – when I came to the blogs, Joe Konrath published rants almost every other day, and Hugh Howey’s posts were very different from what they’ve been lately. The only fixed lighthouse has been ThePassiveVoice, and even that has been changing subtly lately.

Maybe the whole thing was fueled by the need to share, to pull more people into self-publishing by showing them how. I came to that party late.

My ‘how to’ posts fit in that category, even though I realized a while back that NOBODY writes the same way I do. They’re quaint when viewed through that lens. I have no followers for my methods, so I failed there. Even though I wasn’t trying to get ‘converts,’ I didn’t realize until I’d been out there a while how very different my methods are. I hope I have provided a few laughs and head-shaking moments for some entertainment value. SP is common now; we are taking down the barricades and coming down from the ramparts.

Bottom line?

Bear with me as I figure it out.

Tell me which posts you’ve liked and would read more of.

Tell me what you think you would do, if you were me.

Tell me you’ve been waiting to hear the controversial stuff. Or think there’s plenty of that out there already, and find my blandness soothing.

Because I haven’t the faintest idea how to break this streak of unfinished posts except by writing them, and it will be a lot of work, and I’m not sure anyone wants them.


What say you?

Creating and improving the dreaded Author Photo: Part 2

look like 2CHOOSE YOUR GOAL: HOW SHOULD YOUR READERS SEE YOU?

This is a toughie, because we would prefer to be attractive naturally (‘attractive’ here meaning strictly to find more readers who will like your writing), and then any picture would do.

So you have to instead suss out what those readers expect to see, and trust to produce the kind of writing they like to read.

You can go with mysterious, and skip all forms of visual presence. Your choice. Which will be destroyed if you ever get interviewed, do a book signing, go to a convention – and someone takes a photo of the ‘mysterious author’ and makes it public.

“But,” you say, “I never go out in public.” Like me. Okay, not never, just rarely. Maybe then it’s even MORE important to have a photo you like be your representative out in the world.

I’m sure it varies widely by genre, and a fresh-faced young beautiful blonde girl would lack the picture creds to write a really nasty military thriller conspiracy. We trust Stephen King to write horror – he LOOKS like he writes horror. We have these ideas in our head…

If you don’t look like the stereotype, can you modify yourself to look like the stereotype? No.

Can you modify your PHOTO to look like the stereotype? Yes.

Determining the stereotype requires a bit of detective work

Pride’s Children: PURGATORY is a mainstream contemporary literary love story.

Here’s my analysis:

  • The author of such doesn’t have to be as pretty as the author of a Romance (who should at least look a bit like her (usually young and beautiful) heroine).
  • She should be older than the ‘pretty young thing,’ but maybe not ‘old.’
  • She should be smiling. Love, after all, makes us happy. But not grinning.
  • She should NOT look like a business person, yet she should look competent. She will be your guide on an adventure.
  • She should be slightly soft, rather than hard.
  • She should not look deeply worried.
  • She should definitely not look realistic, warts and all.
  • She should be dressed in something that does NOT signal Romance or Romance writer (think of Meryl Streep in She-Devil with Rosanne Barr – go look; I’ll wait). Nor should she dress like Roseanne Barr on that poster (which is a parody of the Romance-reading suburban housewife). Roseanne Barr is a beautiful woman, and so is Kathy Bates, but they have made a career out of allowing themselves to be portrayed as ugly or frumpy – I’ve been startled by how well they clean up!

How does this translate to what I hope to aim for in the Author Photo?

Plan to ‘airbrush’ or ‘retouch’ the heck out of anything I choose. This is not the time to be starkly realistic.

Plan to pick a background to enhance the person; here’s the Kristin Hannah photo on Amazon – if I looked like her… but older? A really good makeup session, and a really good photographer would do that for me. The choice of clothing and the background combination bring out her eyes beautifully.

A forward-facing but slightly un-centered and three-quarter body position is better than one squarely facing the camera, like a mug shot or a photo for a job application.

Look directly at the reader. Readers need to be able to trust the writer of an improbable tale.

Smiling, but not grinning.

No plastic hair for this – enough said? Soft, flowing, but tidy, a frame for the face. This part is me: no bangs/fringe. Not too much hair obscuring the face. No hint of hiding.

And, of course, the EXPRESSION – the overall ‘feel’ of the image – has to be right. And no, I can’t define ‘right’ in this context; I hope I’ll know it if I see it. It’s not just ‘pretty’ or ‘confident’ or ‘competent.’

It’s the same reason I licensed the photo for the cover that I chose: I could not find another that had the right ‘expression’ as a whole – and that one worked for me, though in that case the face is not visible – it’s the whole body and body position that expresses the longing.

Okay now – skillset? Acquire or farm out?


CAUTION

*** This is how a PWC* is doing this, not how you should if you want a beautiful photo. ***


I thought about going to fiverr for the retouching after I picked out a photo with a suitable expression. There are a lot of people there who will retouch for a very reasonable fee, and the portfolios I saw were impressive.

Maybe I’ll go there later, if Richard Avedon still doesn’t live in Hamilton, NJ.

For me, it’s always the balance between how much energy it takes to set up and work with another person, usually a healthy, energetic person. But more importantly, people with their own ideas and opinions, whom you hire because of those, are not going to get exactly what you want without a good deal of back and forth over a suitable period of time. And it would take a lot of time to vet the portfolios, and go through the whole process with several people. I might be surprised and pleased – the same way I might be surprised and pleased with some of our local photographers – but I don’t have a history of success in that department.

Maybe I’ll just send the picture I choose, pay three or four people, tell them ‘glamorous,’ and see what comes back. Still sounds like a lot of work.

I don’t have a friend who just had a gorgeous head shot taken.

I don’t live near my sisters, or their hairdressers.

Pixelmator and Youtube to the rescue!

With the caveat that the best way to get a great picture by retouching is to start with a very good picture that is almost what you want, but needs a little enhancing and cleanup – and I lack said good picture – I located online, free, available any time (my kind of energy saving), a series of videos giving me exactly the tools and instruction I need, and which I am learning, taking notes on, and starting to follow.

As usual, I talk/write too much, so I’m going to cut the ‘goal’ post off here, and write the rest as I try to achieve my goal: to look like me as you should see me, not as the cold harsh light of day does.


Your place to dump the insecurities that make this dreaded – from the Author Bio post comments, I assume many other authors (and normal people) have the same problem, or I wouldn’t be posting this!


*PWC: Person with CFS (chronic fatigue syndrome).

Also, thanks to Stencil for the free account I’m using to do the images at the beginnings of my posts. They have paid accounts if you need more than an occasional image.

Creating and improving the dreaded Author Photo: Part 1

look likeYOUR CHANCE TO CONTROL HOW THE WORLD SEES YOU. LITERALLY.

After having just interacted online about the dreaded Author Bio, and navigated that to a conclusion (satisfactory or not), I continue on my mission: to have every useful feature that connects me to potential readers for my fiction neatly and professionally (in the DIY sense) filled out.


CAUTION

*** This is how a PWC* is doing this, not how you should if you want a beautiful photo. ***


I COULD go out and find a photographer, get the professional headshot created, and post that. In fact, that’s on my To Do list. Has been for YEARS. NOT very near the top. If I ever become famous, have some extra time to waste, or decide I absolutely must, well, there are photographers in Hamilton, NJ. Every once in a while I look them up online. Richard Avedon is NOT in Hamilton, NJ.

I want to return to writing – and I’ve seen so many headshots that I positively hate, and few that I don’t – so, in my ‘fools rush in’ usual manner, I’m trying to make do with no help from anyone. Because I can count on me, and my tools, and everyone else seems elusive and slippery.

I have a nice little camera, courtesy of husband a few birthdays ago. It has lots of megapixels. It is the source of the snapshot that is the current photo of me in most places online. I’ll put it here, because the whole point is that it’s about to change.

AliciaHeadshotNO

It has, of course, been edited. Taken in New Orleans on a family vacation a couple of years back, it is cunningly calculated to fool all automatic editing by the cunning collection of windows and other architectural features from the cathedral I was standing in front of when someone caught a snap of the least objectionable expression on my face of the whole vacation.

Truly.

The source of the problem is…

That I, like many women (including models), don’t like the way I look in photographs.

There are PLENTY of photographs of me.

I come from a photogenic family – any picture of my sisters will show you how beautiful, polished, smiley, and always impeccably dressed and made up and coiffed (even on the golf course) my sisters are. Mother’s cheekbones are still impressive and lovely, and she just turned 93. She is ALSO kept beautifully coiffed by her lovely helpers.

But I rarely measure up. The CFS means the energy it takes – and it is considerable, ask my sisters – is not available. I throw myself together the best and quickest I can (cleanliness IS next to godliness, if not before it – I manage that often), with no thought for style.

This little detail is a very large part of why ‘Have professional headshot taken’ is so low on the priority list, BTW. Besides the four months of doing nothing but dieting required, I would have to get hairstyling and makeupping and fashion updates which are out of my energy budget from the sheer amount of time they would take, not to even mention the energy.

Your excuse may vary.

So the solution comes from…?

Well, I’m working on it.

For people like me, there are two sources of an acceptable photo:

  1. Candid shots taken by someone else – the source of the one I’ve been using
  2. Shots taken by me on daughter’s forward-facing iPhone camera – one of these days; for reasons which will be discussed below, it won’t help until I have some extra energy
  3. Shots taken by me on my computer – with the software and hardware already available to me – in this case, the wretched Photo Booth

Why wretched? Because it turns out the resolution is absolutely crappy, and there is no way to change it! The resolution settings for the camera – which sends much better quality pictures of me to Skype and such (so I know it can) – have NO way to be accessed ON the computer.

But it has the ONE advantage I need: I can see what I look like as I take a picture. Or rather, what I THINK I look like. So I can manipulate the heck out of that.

The source photos I accidentally acquired

One day within the past year, I went to church, where I sing in a tiny choir.

As I try to do, I was tidy, had a tiny bit of makeup on (okay, eyeliner – it makes my pale lashes stand out a little; possibly lip gloss – easy compared to lipstick), my favorite purple shirt, and my hair was as clean and soft as it gets with my limited haircutting and maintenance routine (yes, I cut it myself when it drives me crazy; very fast compared to that energy-sucking salon trip which normal people use).

So, basically, I looked as good as it gets nowadays (don’t expect that much).

For an unknown reason, I had a bit more energy than usual when I got home from church (maybe daughter drove), I sat at my computer, and it hit me: take some quick snapshots – and we’ll process them later and see if we can kick this headshot thing up the next step. I took my glasses off to avoid reflections. Besides, I don’t usually wear them EXCEPT at the computer, so you wouldn’t expect to see me in glasses.

I quickly took about 20 photos with Photo Booth – and the day’s extra energy was used up.

When I looked at them a few days later, I discovered that Apple, which usually does much better for me, had chosen the low resolution photo as the output of this app which comes with the computer AND there is no way to change that!

Aargh! After blowing my energy wad, I had 20 low resolution photos of me at all kinds of coy angles, every one of which would go straight to the garbage if I had my druthers, and not one of them was suitable as taken because of the background, the coloring, and the subject.

But I’m nothing if not game, and I will be using one of these photos (I might even dare post beginning and after versions) as the source of the dreaded Author Photo, which, unless you are beautiful may actually be better a little fuzzy. Okay – a lot.

Thus endeth Part 1.


LAST KINDLE COUNTDOWN DAY US AND UK!

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If you like my prose, consider purchasing my fiction. It’s written by the same person.


Your place to dump the insecurities that make this dreaded – from the Author Bio post comments, I assume many other authors (and normal people) have the same problem, or I wouldn’t be posting this!


*PWC: Person with CFS (chronic fatigue syndrome).

Also, thanks to Stencil for the free account I’m using to do the images at the beginnings of my posts. They have paid accounts if you need more than an occasional image.

Writing the Author Bio is painful

all about meCHILDREN START WITH HUGE EGOS – ARE TAUGHT TO BE MODEST

Edited 1/17/17 (see end).


I have been struggling with a stupid task I thought I’d already accomplished and would merely have to revisit for a quick update before any more ad campaigns: having an ‘Author Bio.’

I don’t know how it is in traditional publishing, whether authors are now required to write their own bio in third person and send it in, along with a ‘professionally edited’ manuscript they’ve paid to have edited, but the big attraction was always that someone would interview you, tell you you were being way too modest, extract all kinds of interesting bits from you (thus allowing you to remain officially modest), and write something up that made you sound much more interesting that you are.

Until you could replace the whole thing with the fact that you are now famous and a list of your accomplishments as long as, well, whatever.

Once OTHER people have conferred interesting-ness on you, you can act modest and even bashful, and still wow consumers into buying whatever it is you produce.

In these days when indies have dumped gatekeeping and vetting from outside, and have learned to speak of their own work in public, and say that it’s good and persuade you to read it – the other part, writing your own ad copy, is also hard – we now find ourselves in exactly the position our parents would not want us to be in: praising ourselves.

The resulting bios, from absent (coward or busy or not realizing you need to have one) to whimsical to dry to boastful, have been instructive. And the samples online, ‘How to write your author bio,’ have been equally ludicrous.

About vs. Author Bio

You are allowed, nay, expected, to be whimsical on the About page of your own blog. Mine is a mixture of things about me which might appeal to someone – but they are just a random bunch of facts and factoids, things which are individually true or illustrative.

Many of the people who read your About page become online friends.

But the Author Bio on your books’ site – and the Author page on Amazon or your Goodreads Author Profile – is a different beast. It is for strangers.

It is supposed to represent you as a SERIOUS WRITER.

It is something which could be on the back flap of your hardcover traditionally-published FICTION, written by that (possibly fictitious) publicist/copywriter.

It’s a grownup thing.

Writing the REAL Author Bio is PANIC TIME

I can’t tell you how long it’s been on the list, because I thought I had done it, so AT LEAST since October 2015, and probably longer, this task.

Here’s a note to myself from 2013: “I come from the tradition that says the author is the least relevant part of the book, once it’s out.”

I have To Do lists with ‘check Author Bio’ on them, as you’re supposed to revisit your Amazon Author Page periodically and tweak it. I have resisted that tweaking mightily for a very good reason: I’m afraid if I touch ANYTHING on the materials submitted when I posted ebook and print versions, it will lead Amazon to review my materials – and possibly decide I’ve done something wrong and cause all manner of delays in getting it back up.

I didn’t ask anyone about that fear, because it is my experience that fear doesn’t survive information, and I DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT.

But I have this ad campaign coming up, and a To Do list specifically to be ready for it, and so many things causing me angst on it, that I decided this is it, the ‘write Author Bio’ was THE next task, and that I would not go on to another task on that To Do list until it was done, because bouncing around from item to item is getting me nowhere but even more confused.

The actual writing of the Author Bio took seven days

The current method – stick with one item until it’s done or the ad is past and there’s nothing you can do about it – started on June 16, 2016.

A usable (up for comments, so feel free) one was produced today by yours truly. 332 words for the long version, and a shortie of 72 words.

If you’ve gone through the process, you know. If not, I don’t think I can make you feel the pain sufficiently.

I have been facing this, putting it front and center as other things had to be dealt with, not moving on to the many other things I need to do (a handwritten list of twenty items, many with subparts), for SEVEN DAYS.

It’s been so bad that I started writing a new book – titled PAPER BRAIN for now – about how to use a damaged brain and still manage to GET SOMETHING DONE. Waiting for ‘good time’ not required if even half-functional. I kept throwing every bit of time – good, semi-good, and non-functional at the task – and getting nowhere.

Brain fog rampant. Inability to make decisions foremost. Whole worldview exposed.

Today I figured out how to break the logjam

In desperation at all the flopping about, lack of decision-making capability, and sheer angst, I found the right question.

I couldn’t write my Author Bio. Why? Because of all the stuff I started this post with.

But,

How about writing the bio I WISH I had?

As if I WERE someone else.

As if life had gone the way I planned it to, more or less.

As if all those details had happened.

I am ashamed of being who I am instead of who I always planned to be, and have been hoping to go back to. So someone could write a bio about me and put it on the books I always planned to write.

I finally realized it has never been up to me, not the final outcome: life is what happens while you’re making other plans.

Here it is, finally, shorn of angst and agita:

Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt is a former researcher and computational physicist at the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory and the Johns Hopkins U. Applied Physics Laboratory. She holds a BS in physics from Seattle U., and an MS and PhD in Nuclear Engineering from the U. Wisconsin-Madison. A minor problem with her right eye kept her from fulfilling her ambition as an astronaut.

A voracious reader since beginning to read at three, she had always intended to write fiction, and, now retired, dedicates her whole life – when not spending time with her husband, family, and chinchilla – to exploring the concepts of integrity in relationships, and the psychological questions of why people do what they do and make the choices they make, including their life partners.

A homeschooler by accident when illness derailed her working life’s plan, her life-long dedication to the sciences aided in the development of three STEM children with a love of language.

She has dedicated the past twenty some years to learning to write to the standards of the early classics she was steeped in, as she believes that messages in fiction must be surrounded by the utmost in quality entertainment, and that fiction is the most powerful tool we have to slipping through the barriers we put up around our hearts and our minds.

As a writer, she’s published traditionally in short story. She’s been featured on Wattpad, where her story Too Late has received 63.7K reads, and where her debut novel Pride’s Children: PURGATORY was serialized and currently has 19.7K reads.

When she’s not writing, you can find her enjoying the hummingbirds in her garden of perennials designed for them, or singing.

She is hard at work on the next novel in the Pride’s Children trilogy, working title NETHERWORLD, scheduled for publication later this year. Follow her on Amazon or at prideschildren.wordpress.com to be informed when her next story is available.

Discover more about her opinionated opinions and quirky writing methods on her writing blog, at liebjabberings.wordpress.com.

With the short version:

Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt is a former researcher and computational physicist at the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory.

A voracious reader, she had always intended to write fiction, and, now retired, dedicates her whole life – when not spending time with her husband, family, and chinchilla – to exploring the concepts of integrity in relationships, and the psychological questions of why people do what they do and make the choices they make, including their life partners.

This is me, folks. What will go out there in public for those who don’t know me, who haven’t earned the details by knowing me personally or reading this blog.

Comments of all kind especially welcome – it’s so much easier to change things at this point.


1/17/17 Update:

As always happens with these things, I updated, and then I visited recently, and didn’t like it. The content was fine, but I realized that, as a READER, I would want to know things in a different ORDER, because I wouldn’t care about the writer’s credentials and history (because I am not a famous person), but about whether she could WRITE.

All I had to do to have it work much better for me was to rearrange so that items of interest to me as a READER came first; then, if someone wants to continue reading about the rest of my life and times, they can.

Here’s the current version:

Alicia Butcher Ehrhardt is hard at work on the next novel in the Pride’s Children trilogy, working title NETHERWORLD, scheduled for publication later this year.

Follow her on Amazon or at PridesChildren.com to be informed when her next story is available.

As a writer, she’s published traditionally in short story. She’s been featured on Wattpad, where her story Too Late has received 66K reads, and where her debut novel Pride’s Children: PURGATORY was serialized and currently has over 20K reads.

A voracious reader since beginning to read at three, she had always intended to write fiction, and, now retired, dedicates her whole life – when not spending time with her husband, family, and chinchilla – to exploring the concepts of integrity in relationships, and the psychological questions of why people do what they do and make the choices they make, including their life partners.

She has devoted the past twenty-some years to learning to write to the standards of the early classics she was steeped in, as she believes that messages in fiction must be surrounded by the utmost in quality entertainment, and that fiction is the most powerful tool we have for slipping through the barriers we put up around our hearts and our minds.

A homeschooler by accident when illness derailed her working life’s plan, her career-long commitment to the sciences aided in the development of three tech-oriented children with a love of language.

She is a former researcher and computational physicist at the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory and the Johns Hopkins U. Applied Physics Laboratory. She holds a BS in physics from Seattle U., and an MS and PhD in Nuclear Engineering from the U. Wisconsin-Madison. A minor problem with her right eye kept her from fulfilling her ambition as an astronaut.

When she’s not writing, you can find her enjoying the hummingbirds in her garden of perennials designed for them, or singing.

Discover more about her opinionated opinions and quirky writing methods on her writing blog, at liebjabberings.wordpress.com.

What say you?

The Newfangled Writer gets a Book to Market

WRITING IS EASY; GETTING A BOOK READY, HARD

I have been MIA for a number of weeks here, and it has been for a necessary reason: once I got Pride’s Children, Book 1, out of the category of ‘writing’ and into the category of ‘prepare a product for market,’ I was completely out of my areas of expertise.

But I have also been in an area where my basic do-it-yourself nature has taken over in a big way, AND I have had little that I felt was useful to other people.

You can’t teach people how to learn. They have their own individual methods by the time they are past young adulthood: a combination of their predilection, say, for audio over visual, or kinesthetic over being lectured to.

Adult learning is Self taught

It is because people have to become fast at learning, once they’re out of school.

School should be focused on 1) basic knowledge of the world, and 2) developing the capacity to teach yourself anything you need (which doesn’t preclude more formal academic learning, if desired).

So, in the course of writing, I first started thinking something I could write on this blog MIGHT be of assistance to another writer learning to write. Then I moved to a stage (long-term readers might remember) when I explicitly cautioned people that I was writing not so much to provide instruction in my particular methodology, but to provide entertainment at how convoluted and ‘special’ that methodology had become.

Pick the best teacher – only rarely another complete beginner

Now I’ve moved to the stage where few care what I have to say precisely because I’m such a beginner at most of the remaining tasks of publication that there are far better teachers out there, and my bumblings aren’t even special any more, and therefore have little entertainment value.

Do you, Dear Reader, need to learn how quickly a graphics file with layers (Pixelmator, Photoshop) gets humongous? If you do your own graphics, you already know. If you don’t, and have no intention of ever trying, you don’t need to know. Really, you don’t. If I write it, you’ll skip it!

So I haven’t had much to write about that I would spend time turning into a blog post.

Have I been idle? You can bet your sweet biffy I haven’t.

In the interim, however, I have been working my little tail off (while sitting in this chair and trying not to let the enormous amount of time in a sitting position make the sciatica and mobility problems any worse).

EVERYTHING else has gone on the ‘To be done when I get this thing up on Amazon’ list.

A very long list that includes anything I could put off or postpone (even though I’ve been postponing since March, when I finished the what I thought was completely finished and polished version of Book 1):

  • Routine maintenance on the ol’ body.
  • Sorting out paperwork.
  • Making anything in my workflow better and more efficient.
  • Dealing with clothes (and the season has now again gone back to cool, and I think I bought two pairs of shorts I haven’t used over the summer – that’s all).
  • Vacations.
  • Getting a new assistant and working with her/him to organize this place.
  • Holly’s Tiny House pictures
  • CFS posts and walking posts and house posts
  • … (I won’t bore you – you each have a list like this)

I foolishly thought that if I just concentrated, I could get this thing up on Amazon, and get to writing/revising/editing Book 2.

But the time has now occupied FIVE MONTHS of my life.

Where DOES the time go?

Graphics took a good three months – I had a lot to learn, have (I think) blogged about it a bit. However, I was not willing to put my new cover, the final product of said graphics, up too soon. Jinx? Dunno.

I’m getting to the point where I must COMMIT – and it will be time to do a cover reveal very soon.

All this, of course, at the extremely slow pace of my brain-fogged thinking apparatus, which still (thank the Lord!) operates for a while every day even though it is mostly sidetracked at the station.

Getting to Mt. Doom and actually tossing The RING into the fire

One of the interesting things that happened as I spent a LOT of time on things I am NOT good at (yet?), was that Fear, or what Stephen Pressfield calls Resistance, or possibly self-protection (if you never publish, nobody can fault you for being too revelatory, or a terrible writer, or full of yourself) gets a HUGE second chance.

And had to be battled back down to its homunculus size. Several times. Possibly more than once per ITEM (editing, formatting an ebook, graphics, Amazon keyword – all count as items), because in each new field of endeavor you are an ignorant beginner again and should not dare to have an opinion or tread where the angels don’t go).

To summarize this all up: I have been incredibly busy, incredibly productive, incredibly frustrated. And life has had its own little share of cherry bombs and landmines.

KNOWING there is a light at the end of your tunnel, and not a train

But I am getting extremely close, since:

I FINISHED FINAL EDITS.

In that department, once the proofers and the beta readers have had their say, it will be done – because most of my part is done.

Don’t quote me. And I have no idea how long it will take me to do the book description’s final version, or to rewrite the tiny Prologue if I’m going to, or to create front and back matter and then credit Oxford University Press properly for allowing me to use quotations from the King James Version of the Holy Bible, or a hundred tiny details like that.

But that final editing thing? It was a bear I didn’t expect to see coming out of the woods – and it is finished. Done. Vanquished. Vanished. Vamoosed. Va-beared?

Except for typos – and any extremely unlucky plot holes, etc., my lovely helpers may turn up.

Thank you, Gentle Reader, for your patience.

The now Extremely Near Future

I will soon be asking for a bit of help from readers, so if you’ve always wanted to be part of the team who gets the eARC (electronic Advanced Reading Copy) of a novel, or one of the Influencers in the adoption of something new, there will be opportunities. And much gratitude.

So thank you ALSO for keeping me functioning and working all this time.

This, the first time, will not happen again. Do you remember yours for a big project?

Thanks to Quozio.com for the quote software.

DEAR BRAIN: stop protecting me from finishing

DEAR DIARY:

I’m having trouble getting started after a day away, because of roofers hammering on the roof all day yesterday – and because I have to stop and think at a scene I thought was done.

It is easy to lose faith when it’s been a long slog, it seems I’m no closer to the end than I was three months ago (I honestly believed I’d be published by now), and I run into what turns out to be a minor rethinking in a scene that was hard to write.

It’s not the scene.

I think I know what to do, and it’s a minor set of corrections to make reality and fiction overlap somewhere in the middle. The rule is: if you’re going to use the real world, either do it accurately, or CHOOSE to do it differently.

I don’t know why it seems necessary to me to anchor this book in the real world and time – I think it has something to do with making the implausible seem eminently possible at the end.

It isn’t even a requirement – fiction does NOT have to make sense.

But I’ve chosen to anchor many parts in the real world (for my values of ‘real’), so it threw me when I thought I had done so, and Google Earth showed me I had not.

Why blame Google Earth?

Well, because there was a car trip in there (during which some serious thinking is going on), and it went from a slightly fuzzy place (Kary’s house) to a very real place where I’ve been myself, and which is the reason this part of the story got set in New Hampshire.

So I thought I was on solid ground and had planned this out – and that the hard part was giving a framework to the thinking going on, NOT the car trip it is inserted into.

(BTW, notice that I’m not mentioning WHICH trip I’m referring to – don’t want to spoil the magic if there is any.)

I think this is more symptomatic of FINISHING than of any small flaw in the plot or writing.

It’s the EXCUSE

The reason why this long effort can simply not be finished, ever.

And once I stop and write this, thus taking all these horrifying doubts from the inside of my brain, where I am incapable of sorting them out (CFS brain fog redux!) to the cold hard (okay, hot hard – it was over 100°F here yesterday – those poor roofers!) light of day, then I see its size (not so big) instead of its shadow (humongous), and I can think of getting back to work.

Steven Pressfield (Turning Pro and others) calls this ‘Resistance’ and reminds us that the apparent size of Resistance is related to the success possible just around the corner. As you get closer to your goal, the Resistance grows (because, I think, your self is trying to protect you from the negative consequences of success such as NOT having success or having success that is too big for your britches or whatever). So you won’t get hurt.

This is getting a little boring.

So I take all this garbage out of my head, put it on the page (thus proving I am NOT blocked, at least not in writing to you, Dear Diary), and can examine it dispassionately.

It’s just a small bump in the editing.

It is easily fixable.

When it’s fixed, the next bump will appear on the horizon, and I will deal with it.

And there will be more.

And then, just as in all the tasks before, from writing to cover to formatting to, well editing), it will be over.

The TO DO list is FINITE.

Thanks for listening, Dear Diary.

Love,

Alicia

PS Stories of similar will be commiserated with, encourgament  met with great approval, and will accept chocolate (virtual if that’s all you got)

Writing chickens come home to roost

HOW DO YOU GET TO CARNEGIE HALL?

When you’re writing a book, especially one that took a very long time to write, such as Pride’s Children (Book 1), and you really, really want to get back to writing, so as to get Book 2 moving, and return to that nice quiet place where all you face every day is the blank computer screen, and you’ve done that many thousand times before, and know you can, you find that there are all these little details you’ve sent flying every time they showed their feathered heads while you were writing – and they’ve come home to Mamma.

I’m sure that’s true whether this is when you start querying agents, or whether you have plans to do it yourself, but to write I have to be in a bubble.

The key is PREPARATION – but you have to DO it, not just read about it

I have hundreds, maybe more, blog posts by other writers bookmarked: covers, marketing, editing services or self-editing instructions, online Twitter/FaceBook/website/blog presence, formatting, layout… The list goes on.

I’m sure the list of things I have to do now is finite – at some point you throw ‘the product’ up on Amazon as ‘finished’ as you can get it for now, and then your words must live on their own, and people may love them or use you and them for target practice.

But it doesn’t seem like a finite list when I look at the material I’ve accumulated which I intended all along to go back to, ‘after I finished writing.’

The after is now, and it’s daunting.

Future shock, present shock

I have other things to write, besides fiction.

I even go back to all the semi-coherent blog post starts I’ve been writing – and have trouble figuring out why I bothered to write those words which were supposed to get me started on what seemed like a good idea for a post – 6 months ago.

They seem pathetic, boring, uninteresting, banal.

I know it’s shock: the future HAS arrived, and it has a lot more details to it than I allowed myself to think about back then, when I DIDN’T want to let things distract me.

The problem of perspective

When you write, you are a god. Minor, but definitely in control. This is even more true when it’s the first universe you’ve been god to (for the record, it’s my second – there IS a trunk novel with intriguing bits…). Feel free to laugh at me.

When you publish, well, then you’re just another wannabe, competing with potentially millions of other writers, better writers, more established writers, writers who have publishers that market for them and edit them and design their book covers and spend lots and lots of money promoting their latest book…

Oh, wait. That is the old model. The one I’ve promised myself to eschew because there is no way I’m going to attract their attention.

So, on the self-published side, is it easier? Nope. Here you have to compete with all the SP writers who KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING.

Fortunately, many of them are wonderful folk who have shared how in books and websites and blogs.

There are services – people happy to take your money and do all these things for you. I just don’t count myself able and competent to navigate finding them, employing them, and interacting with them – it takes a lot of work to be an employer.

So instead I commit to LEARNING how to do all this stuff. With my brain – they wouldn’t give me a loaner.

Is that all? Nope.

Oh, and the worst part? You now have to go do something completely out of your comfort zone: GETTING A HEAD SHOT OF A SMILING YOU (or whatever) which will adorn the flap, the blog, and the author page on Amazon.

Bringing up the final point: Yup. You have to describe you and your writing and your book – to your prospective millions of adoring fans.

If these two don’t make you crawl in a hole and pull it in after you, I have no idea what will.

Please enlighten me.