February 28, 2025

Friday

Guess where I’m typing this journal entry?

That’s right. At my DESK. The movers arrived on Wednesday, and the first thing they brought in was my desk, the one I bought in San Diego. I lost no time in organizing it the best I could, removing things that had been placed into the drawers. Before long, “office” books arrived, so I was able to recreate my desk-scape. Later, I found more books that belonged here and promptly arranged them in their usual spots.

However, as I had a more pressing use for the small wicker shelving that used to hold my writing craft books, those volumes are now on the main bookshelves in the living room.

The hefty red book is the 100th Edition of the Writer’s Market. The first was published in 1921. This 2021 edition is not only the 100th, it’s also the last, though I didn’t know it when I bought it. I always enjoyed reading the craft essays as well as scanning the publishing houses and magazines listed.

I haven’t been searching for magazine markets in recent years as I’ve been focusing on learning how to write and sell novels, but every once in awhile I think, “Maybe…”

It would be nice to be able to consult the most recent Writer’s Market. Except no. It’s now out of date.

Like so much else in publishing, the old ways and means are drying up. I was born closer to the 3/4 century mark than mid-century, but somehow I feel betwixt and between on this stuff.

I can get very nostalgic about pre-internet days.

Phone books. Telephone booths. Rabbit ears for the TV. The nightly news with Walter Cronkite, Dan Rather, and Tom Brokaw. Friday Night Videos. The Phil Donahue Show. (Oh my goodness. He died in August. I didn’t know. Sad.) Newspapers with many, many pages, including classified ads.

Cheap paperback books on a spinner rack at the corner store. True Confessions magazines. I know I think about all this too much. But…Coco-Cola in glass bottles. Popcorn made in an electric popper, not the microwave. Popcorn balls wrapped in wax paper and handed out at Halloween. Halloween masks made out of plastic that got all clammy inside and could cut your tongue if you stuck it out the breathing hole.

Turning a dial on the green plastic AM radio in the kitchen to get the music to come in clearly. Vinyl records on a player. The sound the disc made as it fell onto the turntable. The smell of the speakers on the stereo cabinet when they warmed up (they were covered in harvest gold fabric.)

American Top 40 Countdown. Matchbooks. Fondue pots. Leg warmers. Knicker pants and argyle socks. (Time for a comeback?)

Not having access to some of these things feels like I’m moving beyond my time. Which is weird. And scary. And weird.

Just yesterday it was the 80s, and I had feathered bangs and preppy striped polo-style shirts with the collars popped up and a neon pink sweatshirt and a burning desire to grow up to be Danielle Steel.

I read romance novels constantly. Barbara Cartland historical romances. Palomino by Steel excerpted in my mother’s Good Housekeeping magazine. Sweet Valley High. A box full of 1960s era nurse/doctor romances from Mills & Boon and Harlequin. Sydney Sheldon. Jackie Collins, oh my!

In junior high and high school, romance was my jam. When I got to college I learned about “literary fiction,” especially short fiction, but also more contemporary fiction, and my focus changed a little.

I found new writers to admire. Anne Tyler. Ann Rice. Ann Beattie. Why didn’t my parents name me Anne?

Barbara Delinksy. Barbara Kingsolver. Barbara Taylor Bradford. Why didn’t my parents name me Barbara?

Seriously, if you want your kid to grow up to be a writer name them Anne, Barbara, or John.

John Grisham. John Irving. Jonathan Franzen.

Of course, one summer day I was down in the cellar investigating a bunch of musty, old books stored there, including some poetry collections. Now that I look back on it, the book must have been English Romantic poets. I sorta remember one about Excalibur.

I was young. Not yet ten probably. Imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered there was a guy from the olden days named Percy Bysshe Shelley. I tried to read some of his poems, but they didn’t make much sense to me. It was above my reading comprehension at the time. But I took the name as a sign.

Also my last name was Reed. You know, a homophone of “read.” My parents did okay. Thanks, Mom & Dad. I really love my name.

[By the way. I was taught that this was called a homonym, but no. Homonyms are spelled the SAME and pronounced the SAME but have different meanings. Homophones sound alike but can be spelled differently and have different meanings. All homonyms are homophones, but not all homophones are homonyms.]

Wow, this journal entry has certainly gone off the rails.

Economicastrophe

I’m not writing what’s really at the top of my mind which is: The Consumer Confidence Index. “In February, consumer confidence registered the largest monthly decline since August 2021,” said Stephanie Guichard, Senior Economist, Global Indicators at The Conference Board. [https://www.conference-board.org/topics/consumer-confidence]

Let me reiterate. Americans have not been this uncertain and gloomy about the current and future economy since the height of the GLOBAL PANDEMIC.

Ummm…..anyway.

A literary publicist/marketing expert pointed out on her Substack today that this news does not bode well for publishing. People do not buy as many books when they are worried about their finances.

Read it here. https://kathleenschmidt.substack.com/p/the-biggest-challenge-publishing

As I’ve been hemming and hawing about my goals and vision for my literary future, this bad news was actually helpful to me today. Here’s my thinking.

Writing books during an economic downturn=excellent idea.

Publishing and trying to sell books during an economic downturn=bad idea.

I hereby give myself permission to stop thinking about indie publishing, authorpreneurship, and all that other biz biz. I can, instead, work to create novels and short stories and flash fictions and maybe even articles and poems. And art. And newsletters. And blog posts. In other words, I can create. I can produce content. I can worry about what to do with it later.

I’m feeling happy to be given some time on the bench. Also, too many books have been published in recent years, so this might work in all our favors. Too much product equals reduced prices. Reduced prices mean hardly anyone makes squat. Supply and demand, baby.

Readers might find an economic downturn the perfect time to dig into the towering TBR pile, to find that quirky, funky used bookstore down the road, to host book swap parties, to haunt the local library stacks searching for gems missed because of the avalanche of books that fell upon our heads in the last fifteen or so years.

Mine included.

Food in Guam

A meal I ate last week in Guam. This is the Chamorro Breakfast Plate at the House of Chin Fe in Hagåtña. This restaurant has a little of every kind of cuisine, but I wanted something particularly Guam. The sausage was chorizo. The ham was fried Spam. The egg was over-easy. The rice was plain ol’ white. I liked the Spam and egg. The chorizo was a teeny bit overcooked & dry. The service was excellent, and we will go there again. We took home desert and the cheesecake was excellent. Yum.

Now it’s time for dinner. C just put together the new console for the television. Maybe we’ll check out the Chinese restaurant down the block. It’s been raining off and on for the past few days. I’d like to take a walk. And get some lo mein.