There are a lot of things that go into being a successful author, that is, being read by readers. Unless you’re writing for yourself and hiding your work in a closet, then just ignore me. But I would say, don’t do that. The written word is meant to be read. But for some writers, if they’re the only ones reading their work, it’s fine with them. That’s what a diary is all about. BUT if you’re not writing a diary, for heaven’s sake, get that work out there.
Easier said than done, I know. You can be the best writer in the world and the most talented. But if nobody knows your work exists you’re screwed, pardon my French. And thus, we enter the world of the writing business.
I have always been a writer for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I wrote lyrics to songs and short stories. Really short stories. Pluto lost his collar. Pluto found his collar. Pluto was happy. Pluto went home. I was 8. My first paying job was at 17 years old for the Miami Beach Sun. I wrote a weekly column on the comings and goings of the tenants in a large condo complex. I got $25 a week and was beside myself. I was a paid writer!
After college, I moved to Manhattan. During the day my writing consisted of plays, ad copy, and acts for performers. At night I would work Broadway behind the scenes in the Wardrobe Department. It was a settled world for me as a writer, and one I loved. But it wasn’t quite enough. Something was missing and I didn’t know what. Then I met Norman who was a jingle singer/performer. We got married and went on with our New York City lives. But what was exciting when you’re 20 can become tedious when you’re 40.
We were tired of wondering where our next job was coming from, which goes with the territory of being in the theater. We moved to California for some stability. Norman became an English teacher, and I ran the Faculty Recruiting Department at Stanford’s GSB. We have never regretted the move, but his singing and my writing never completely left the scene. Wherever you go, there you are.
Once in the Bay Area and without the backing of the New York Theater district, I was temporarily lost. But eventually, the entire world opened up to me. I decided to try writing a novel, something I would never have considered before. I finished my first novel by getting up early and writing from 4 in the morning until I went to work and then when I came home in the evenings. Ah, youth! But that was twenty years ago.
Ready to publish, I realized publishing was going through a transitional period. To put it mildly. Ah, the ramifications of the internet! Publishing houses began eliminating genres in order to stay alive. Or going out of business entirely. Agents were forsaking their clients and opening their own online publishing houses. Everything became different. But all the time I was learning. I was learning the good, the bad, the preposition, and the proposition.
I went with two online publishers, great people, but they didn’t give my books the care I thought they deserved. I waited until publishing rights were given back to me, then I struck out on my own. This was when there was a stigma attached to self-publishing. If you self-published, it meant you weren’t a good enough writer to have a traditional publisher. I avoided the looks of sympathy and derision from my peers. Because somewhere inside me, I knew that if I pushed at it long enough, I could have the career in writing I wanted. And on my own terms.
When you self-publish, the various aspects of getting a book out there falls to you. From the first draft, to the cover, to the editing, to the final product, it lands at your feet. Not to mention advertising and publicity. I took it all on. I wanted my books to be read. So, I persevered with learning the steps needed. All the time, I said to myself: Heather, you’re competing with Big Boy Publishers. You need to do exactly what the Big Boys do. So I did.
I hired the best editor I could afford. Eventually, two of them. One for content, one for grammar and punctuation. I had beta readers. Not my friends who would soft-pedal things, but experts in the field who would give me the feedback I needed. I hired a publicist. In short, I was as professional as I could be.
My fellow mystery writers helped me. Mystery writers are the kindest, most giving people I know. If any of you are members of Sisters in Crime, you know what I’m talking about. When I was doubtful or got into trouble, they would give me all the support they could. And often great words of wisdom.
So here I am twenty years later, one of the old guard. I still learn. I hope I still grow. Newbie writers look up to me. Well, at least one or two of them. And if they ask for help I am there, as all the wonderful writers in the past were there for me.
It’s a heritage we pass down to one another, this business of writing.
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Ladies of Mystery 