Last week, I ran into a sailing acquaintance at my favorite coffee shop downtown.  This person wasn’t a close friend – just someone I’d gotten to know over the years.  We chatted about weather, family, and boats (not necessarily in that order), ordered our snacks, and waved goodbye.  Such random encounters are one of the many things I love about living in a small town.

No matter how well technology and social media enable communication, physical proximity still counts.  It’s great (mostly) to share everyday life with people on the other side of the world who we see once a year (or once every ten years, or never), but online interaction will never be the same as running into someone downtown.  Complaining about the weather, breathing the same air, choosing from  a common menu – all those seemingly insignificant experiences create a bond between people who might not otherwise have much in common.  That’s why people still leave their computers and e-friends behind and head for the coffee shop, or the bookstore, or the beach.

Around the globe, friends are now sharing snippets of their day from the other side of the world.  I first learned about a local tragedy from a Dutch friend who reached out across the Atlantic to the only Rhode Islander she knew.  Information we used to wait days or weeks or months to learn – births, deaths, tragedies, regatta results – is all now available instantly.

Our neighborhoods are no longer limited by geography.

And now that we can “hang out” exclusively with the people we choose instead of letting the accident of location choose for us, is it any wonder we’ve become less tolerant of the differences between us?

This post first appeared as a guest blog on East Coast by Choice.

The conversation usually starts off like this: I make an innocent reference to one of the many objects that I own and take completely for granted, like my bent-handled snow shovel or extendable ice scraper.  Or maybe I rave about my favorite hat, best boots, warmest gloves, softest neck gaiter…

And after one or two polite remarks, I’m invariably asked:

“How do you STAND it?”

The “IT” is winter. The questioner is usually one of my friends from San Diego, where the weather is mind-numbingly beautiful year round and the locals complain if the temperature varies by more than eight degrees Fahrenheit.  They have absolutely no understanding of black ice, crusty snow, or the closet space required to house winter gear.

Here on the East Coast, we embrace winter as part of our birthright, like a schizophrenic aunt or evil twin sister.  I love to complain about winter’s misdeeds, but if someone from “away” dares question her value, I instantly jump to her defense.

I explain the luxury of lazy afternoons, the joy of “starting out too late and giving up too soon.”  (Thank you, Stan Rogers.)  I talk about curling up on my favorite window seat with a book, smugly confident that I’m not wasting even the tiniest scrap of pleasant outside time.  And from the blank stare I get in return, I can tell that my words aren’t making the slightest bit of sense.  Great weather isn’t something my friends worry about wasting; why would they, living in a place where the sun shines every day?

If I lived in a more temperate climate, I’d never get any work done—unless I transitioned to an outdoor career.  When an east coast friend moved to LA, she didn’t clean her house for almost a year.  Inside chores should never ever be done while the sun is shining.

John Parker Oughton describes the joyous beauty of winter perfectly in his lovely post, “Winter Keeps Us Warm.” I plan to refer my San Diego friends to his description the next time they ask The Question.

And now it’s true confession time:  I will soon have a chance to catch up with these friends in San Diego because… well, I admit it, I usually go out there for a visit once February rolls around.  This year’s excuse is the Southern California Writer’s Conference http://www.writersconference.com/scwcmain.html.  As long as I take a warm-weather break, winter remains a cozy friend.  If I stay home too long, I’m soon beating that bent-handled shovel against the icy driveway and asking myself:  “How do I STAND it?”

Thanks to Paul Cronin of WhiteCap Video for capturing a Narragansett Bay sunrise on the shortest day of the year.

For the past fifteen years, six magic words have eliminated almost all telemarketing calls from my life:

“Please take me off your list.”

Because there’s a potentially stiff ($10K) fine from the FCC for repeat calls, most companies do as I’ve requested.  But recently I had to resort to more severe methods when regular calls from a script reader with accented English offered a “free listing” in something that sounded vaguely like the Yellow Pages. After the fourth daily call when I started to lose my temper, the guy even asked me why I wasn’t interested.  It’s a free listing, he insisted, “not a sales call.”

I finally asked for a supervisor who agreed to “erase” me from their list.  Which makes me wonder how I made it onto said list in the first place, when my number is on the Do Not Call registry.

Telemarketing must work, because companies are still using it.  And it is refreshingly clear: no matter what line they give as an opening, someone is definitely trying to sell you something. But now our worlds are being invaded by something much more subtle: a crossover from advertising into “information.” We sales avoiders are a victim of our collective success, in a way; so many of us now tune out or Tivo around ads and sales pitches that companies have switched to product placement and infomercials instead.

And now that those same companies have set their sights on social media, the line will blur further, into a whitewash of soft sell.  Customers who are too savvy or too jaded to look at a regular ad might just be coerced to buy through a Facebook posting from a friend who has “just discovered a great new product.”  Perhaps that’s why Facebook keeps “updating” its privacy settings, requiring us all to keep modifying our preferences if we want to avoid such postings?

There’s nothing new about companies struggling to find new ways to reach consumers.  What is new is this:  The very tools they struggle with make it possible for us to listen in, and to participate in the discussion in a way that has never been possible before.  Access to those who control the companies that are trying to shape our buying habits is only a Tweet away.

As the lines blur, it is up to each of us to answer this question for ourselves:  Is it advertising if my friend is promoting it?

This post first appeared as a guest blog on Paula Margulies’ “Helpful Tips for Book Promotion.”

Last fall I got a long-awaited email from writer Roberta Gately: “I sold my book!”  Her novel “Lipstick in Afghanistan” (which I’d edited, early on) will be published in October 2010.

We exchanged squeals of glee, and then she asked if she should hire her own publicist.

“Absolutely,” I replied. In this brave new world of publishing, authors are expected to help with marketing—not just retreat to their book-lined study.  I specifically recommended Paula Margulies,  who’d done a great job scheduling signings and drumming up press for the second edition of Oliver’s Surprise.

But I couldn’t answer the rest of Roberta’s questions.  And she couldn’t answer mine—questions too vague for an agent, too basic for a publicist, too business-oriented for a writer’s group.  Finally, one of us dreamed out loud: Wouldn’t it be great to bounce ideas around with other authors struggling to make their books stand out?

A few days later, Roberta invited me to join her for coffee with Randy Susan Meyers, another debut author. I made the hour and a half drive to Boston and we met at a coffee shop near Randy’s house, planning to chat for an hour or so.  All of us had braced for disappointment, like a three-way blind date.

There must’ve been something in the air that day (or an extra shot in our lattes).  Two and a half hours later, Roberta looked at her watch and jumped up… she was late for an afternoon meeting, and we hadn’t yet solved all the problems of the publishing world!  We agreed to meet again, as soon as possible.

That was the spark; within weeks Randy had fanned it into a blazing group of nine authors I’ve since nicknamed the Literary Guerillas.  Three have been recently published, four will be published later in 2010, and two are agented and soon to be sold to a publisher.   All of us have already “succeeded” by typical writer’s group standards; the focus of our meetings is book promotion.

We haven’t set too many rules, but the next author to “come out” has priority.  In January we met five days before Randy’s very successful launch party for The Murderer’s Daughters. We critiqued the chapter she planned to read aloud, since that was her biggest concern.  And we discussed which of several outfits she should wear.  (I swear, our “token male” started it.)  She later told us it was a great comfort to her at a very stressful time.

In March, Holly Lecraw takes center stage; her book The Swimming Pool, is due out April 6.  Holly claims she’s much less prepared than Randy, but she’s already received some great reviews.  I’m sure her coming out party will also be a success.

And with additional publishing debuts in May and October (and my sequel coming out in July), the LG’s will have plenty of things to talk about this year.

Best of all, when any one of us has a question, we know right where to go.

Are you involved in a writers’ group focused on publicity/promotion?  If so, how is it structured?

You may have already read a review of The Murderer’s Daughters, by author and (full disclosure) friend Randy Susan Meyers.  I’m quite surprised to find myself recommending it.  To be honest, for the first month I knew this book existed, I dreaded having to read it.

Randy is the leader by default of our writer’s promotion group, a collection of authors who are just published, about to be published, or about to be sold to a publisher.  We get together once a month to discuss best practices for book promotion.  Yes that sounds boring, but thanks to our wide-ranging and frequently humorous conversations it’s anything but. (One night we even got around to something really important: What to Wear to Your Book Signing.)  I’ve nicknamed our group the “Literary Guerillas,” based largely on the undercover moves of our “Camouflage Mama;” she singlehandedly got Randy’s book moved from the Back Shelves to the Big Table Up Front in her local store.

I first met Randy when she was counting down to her publishing date.  Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’re probably aware that the book industry is one collective eye roll these days.  It’s all too easy for even an optimist like me to get depressed about the whole business.

Randy’s approach provided a refreshing contrast to all the usual gloom and doom, an old-fashioned success story built on hard work, excellent networking, and reaching out to help others.  Best of all, once I got to know her I realized that it’s not all about Randy; a matching amount from each book sold at her launch party went to the Home for Little Wanderers’ Harrington House—an organization working to provide homes for kids.

I admired her enthusiasm, professionalism, and social conscience.  I lapped up her bottomless knowledge about all things publishing.  I drooled over the lovely artwork on her book’s cover, especially the extra ferris wheel hiding at the bottom of the spine.  And I dreaded cracking open this beautiful cover and starting to read.

Why?  Because I figured any book with the word “murderer” in the title would be dark, depressing, violent—all things I try to avoid in fiction and real life.  And if I didn’t like it, how was I going to be an effective Literary Guerilla and promote it as promised?

Fortunately, my dread was totally misplaced.  Yes, a murder takes place in the very first chapter, inside the home of the two sisters who tell the story from their vastly different perspectives.  I had no trouble picturing the bloody scene, but I never had to skip past anything too gruesome.  After twenty years of working with domestic violence victims, Randy chose to show just enough so the real story (how two sisters deal with tragedy) makes sense.

I started The Murderer’s Daughters a few days before leaving on a weeklong vacation.  I didn’t plan to take it with me, since it’s bulkier than a paperback and too beautiful to jam into a suitcase.  But by the time I packed, I’d already read eight chapters and was completely hooked -  so into the carryon it went. I’m so glad I had the chance to savor the surprisingly hopeful ending at a leisurely pace.

And what really makes this book worth recommending are its deceptively simple descriptions.  Here’s Lulu talking about her younger sister:

“Merry was unusually cute, and I was unusually plain. People stopped us every day, bending down to gush over Merry’s black curls or her Tootsie Pop eyes—the chocolate ones—or to stroke her rosy cheek as though her skin were a fabric they couldn’t resist fingering.  I felt as though I toted around the Princess of Brooklyn.”

I’d offer to loan out my copy, but I’m still savoring its presence.  Fortunately, it’s probably available at your local bookstore.  It’s definitely available on Amazon.

So thank you, Randy, for this rare gift; a view into an unknown world that leaves me grateful for my own happy upbringing but even more grateful for the chance to share the lives of Merry and Lulu.  Maybe if you’re very, very nice to me, I’ll tell you which character is my favorite.

For most people, the line between work and play used to be very well-defined in both time and space.  Work:  9 to 5, at office.  Play:  the rest of the time, in the rest of life’s spaces.

Nowadays, we can keep track of our work from anywhere, and it’s easy to interact with other time zones —  eliminating the distinction between “work time” and “play time.”   And since more and more people are now working at home, or telecommuting, the whole spacial delineation of “going to work” has also become, well… blurry.

Bottom line?  The Flintstones’ “yabba-dabba-doo” five o’clock whistle doesn’t mean much to anyone anymore.

Which makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

For the past twenty years, the line between my work and my play has been a finger-painted colorful mess.  I don’t get paid to sail, but going to a regatta might lead to an exciting new client, blog post, article idea — or even all three.  Reading my favorite sailing magazine or browsing a regatta website can be justified career-wise just as much as (or some weeks, maybe more than) logging onto Redroom or Backspace.  Booksignings are fit in around regattas, conferences, or even that absolute rarity — a real vacation.

Wherever my work and play take me, the best is when they overlap.  I’m very lucky to have spliced together so many of my skills (writing, sailing, reading, editing, desktop publishing, photo editing, communication) into a multi-faceted career that actually pays the bills.  That spontaneous Tuesday afternoon adventure off-island might point me to the next story; so could the next well-planned regatta on the other side of the country.  Either could also produce nothing more than great memories.  But taking time for what I consider important keeps me fired up to work harder when I get back to my desk.

I received some sage advice from a friend when I first started out:  “It’s not a living — it’s a lifestyle.”  In other words, you may never get rich following your passion, but you’ll always be happy.  So far, she’s been right.  I’ve been racing sailboats around the world the last twenty years, and I’ve NEVER had to ask permission to take another week “off.”  My schedule is dictated (mostly) by me and the priorities I’ve established — not by someone else.

So welcome, newbies, to the challenging excitement of the blurred line between work and play!  May you enjoy taking responsibility for how your time is spent as much as I have, for the last two decades.

And now that I’m a published author, is it really okay to deduct all the novels I buy for pure pleasure?

My sister Nancy has a theory, or at least she did when we were growing up: that the world is quietly spinning faster with each passing year. That was how she explained the complaint of every grownup—that time goes by faster and faster, the older we get.

Much as I’d love for my sister to be wrong (sibling rivalry never dies), I’d really appreciate someone proving this particular theory. Wouldn’t it be great to have a scientific explanation for such a universal experience? And it makes sense: when we come into the world, we assume the current rate of spin is normal. As our globe twirls faster and faster, the next generation climbs on and self-adjusts to the accelerated rate—the new normal. And so on.

I was twelve when Nancy first explained this to me, two years younger than her older daughter is now.  In those days, waiting for the next Saturday was just one step short of sheer torture. A decade later, months went by at a reasonable clip. A decade after that, seasons began to change well before they dragged into dull. Last year, even winter seemed too short. And then a few days ago I realized—hey! Where did this first tenth of the 21st century GO?

One of the many reasons I enjoy losing myself in the pages of a good novel is that time often slows down. Sure, a good action scene goes by in a flash, eyes chasing forward across words and paragraphs to make sure a favorite character survives with no lasting scars. But a great writer can also slow time to a turtle crawl, allowing us the luxury of time to smell, taste, hear, and savor the world the writer has created. (And maybe as a result, better understand the time-pressured one in which we live.)

When I get lost in my own writing I can even reverse time, turning the clock back to a world that was gone long before I was born. I sniff a distant harbor, trim the luffing sails overhead, feel the bow plunging into waves bigger than I’ve ever imagined before. Even as I edit, I luxuriate in bringing to life a scene that, up until now, existed only inside my head. Did it really happen? Well, no. But could it have happened? That’s the important question.

The non-linear aspect of creative writing adds to this time warp. In order to tell the story I know is hiding within the first draft, I have to spend more time than can really be justified to figure out the best possible word or phrase. Does it need another scene, or one less piece of dialogue?  The only justification is the end result.  So the hard work of telling the story—the actual wordcraft—reinforces the time-stretching too.

Is it any wonder that the faster our world spins, the more people discover the luxury of writing and reading?

And this, for me, is why books will continue to be valued as we rush ahead into yet another decade. Whether we choose to read on recycled paper, on a screen large or small, or on some not-yet-invented substrate, the stories we experience on the biggest screen of all—the one between our ears—allow us to adjust the passage of time to our own preference.

Even if my sister’s theory isn’t true, that will be a real comfort in the shorter and shorter decades that lie ahead.

Update:  Listen to an NPR story on this same subject.

Hurry—only three shopping days left to find those final presents for family, friends, and the postman! Looking for that WOW gift, the one guaranteed to entertain long after the wrapping is forgotten, that still fits into your budget and under the tree?

Well look no further.  Join me in making 2009 the Christmas of Books.

Over the past year I’ve spent a lot of time in bookstores, primarily for signings, but also for a few luxurious hours of selfish browsing.  I love the illusive scent of reading—paper, ink and imagination all bound together in a unique bundle of comfort and joy.  What could be a better gift?

Fortunately, everyone in my family reads.  So I’m not just giving what I would like to receive, I’m sharing the wealth.  Having unread books on the bedside shelf is like having money in the bank—pure potential.

The postman?  I’ve never asked if he likes books.  All I know is he rides a Harley.

I’ve met some great authors this year, so I’m also playing literary matchmaker.  Chris Abouzeid’s “Anatopsis,” a young adult fantasy, will go to nephews and nieces.  My publisher GemmaMedia just came out with a lovely memoir called “Yarn,” which I’m hoping my ever-knitting mother will enjoy.  My youngest niece (the only one still enjoying colorful illustrations) will get to test her rhyming and multiplication skills with “Math Attack.”  (It’s even autographed, since I shared a table with author Joan Horton at a recent booksigning.)  And two of my favorite men will unwrap—hopefully simultaneously—“Spanish Castle to White Night,” a coffee table book about racing sailboats around the world with excellent text by Mark Chisnell.

Of course, picking out books for others can be a challenge, like trying to imagine what one of my characters would have for breakfast—except that these folks all talk back.  But it’s so much more personal than a gift card.  And there’s nothing more satisfying than introducing someone to just the right story.

Books as presents also have a valuable fringe benefit.  By spending my gift dollars at the independent bookstores that have helped to support me this year, I’m rewarding people in the book industry who still think of books as companions—not just as a part of their bottom line.

As for the postman, I think he’ll get a copy of my own book, “Oliver’s Surprise.”  Maybe I’ll spot him on his Harley next spring, sneaking a peak downward to read about a boy, a schooner, and a bump on the head.

I used to object to lights and trees that went up before December 10.  Then I decided it was okay after December 1.  Now if people wait until after Thanksgiving (even if it’s the morning after) I can handle it.

Every year there is some new challenge to my sense of when Christmas celebrations should start.  Carols belch from tinny overhead speakers as I shop for a Thanksgiving turkey.  Lights drap across  trees in early November.

Last weekend I overheard yet another example of seasonal creep: apparently, parents can now count on photos with the mall Santa anytime after November 15!  That’s a full 40 days (and 40 nights) before the actual holiday, time enough to fit in a flood of biblical proportions.

Maybe this extended holiday season isn’t a bad thing.  What a blessing to give ourselves a few extra days or weeks to sit back, reflect, take stock–maybe even fit in some old-fashioned social interaction.

(What?  That’s not what this longer shopping, er, I mean holiday, season is all about?)

In every other aspect of our lives, time frames have shortened. It takes less time to communicate, receive packages, close deals.  So why do we need an extra two or three weeks to get ready for Christmas?

I’m not usually paranoid, but I’m beginning to wonder if the Christmas elves are in league with the NBA.  Their season seems to get longer every year too.  Maybe by 2015 the first Christmas lights will be  up before the NBA finals are complete.  Then the basketball-loving elves, knowing they’ve achieved their ultimate goal, will be able to take off a year or two, to celebrate.

Last week, a really nice article appeared in the New London Day, about–of all things–me.  Back in the late nineteen hundreds I used to read the Day on an, ahem, “Daily” basis, as a student at Connecticut College.  So the story seemed somehow more significant than the others that have appeared in newspapers around the country.

The hook was last Saturday’s book signing at the Mystic Seaport bookstore.  Even after so many events this year (and a few in 2008), an invitation to the Seaport is a special honor.

Better yet, the article (entitled “Sailing into a Writing Career”) also cleared up a dilemma.  At book signings, the question from readers and fans that I struggle with the most is this: “How did you go from Olympic sailing to writing fiction?”  Whether they’ve come to meet the author of a story about a twelve year old and the Great Hurricane of 1938 or a 21st century Olympian, the juxtaposition of the two – in the same body – is confusing, even to me.  Someday I’ll write a book about going to the 2004 Games, but one thing’s for sure–Oliver’s Surprise ain’t it.

Thanks to journalist Kristina Dorsey (who has never met me), now I have the link between Olympic sailing and writing fiction: Self-motivation.

As I told Kristina on the phone, “Nobody is making me sit down to write fiction that may or may not be published.”  And nobody forced me to buy three boats, fundraise, find sponsorship and teammates, and go on the road 200 days a year for a very un-guaranteed reward.  Success at the top end of my chosen sport requires a great deal of personal sticktoitiveness, and I sure can’t justify it from the financial end.

Hmm, that sounds a lot like fiction writing.

Many of us put a lot of time and effort into things for which we don’t get paid.  Or at least, we don’t get paid ENOUGH to financially justify all that time and effort.  Most people call these things “hobbies.”  For better or worse, I’ve now taken two “hobbies” far beyond the usual scope of the word –and found success in both.  As one of my Jamestown acquaintances told me a year ago,  “It’s not fair that you got to go to the Olympics and now you’ve gotten a book published too!”  The least I could’ve done, she seemed to be suggesting, was get something published ABOUT my Olympic experience.  I’ve often thought that would’ve been easier; an obvious leap from sailing to writing.

How nice, then, to have a random reporter figure out that it’s the same aspect of my personality driving both forms of success.  Olympic sailing and fiction writing require the same thing:  A dogged devotion to craft that has nothing to do with making money, one that probably couldn’t survive within a (potentially more lucrative) 9 to 5 mentality.

I spent three hours at Mystic Seaport last Saturday, handing out bookmarks and chatting with visitors from all walks of life.  I sold twice the number of books expected and spoke with close to a hundred people–by far my biggest and best signing yet.  And even though I was wearing my booksigning uniform (the Team 2004 podium jacket), only two people asked about the Olympics–one because she’d read the newspaper article.  In that setting, I was simply the author of the book lying on the table between us.

Now that I finally have an answer to the question, are people going to stop asking?

Read the Day article