Five Easy Pieces: Punching My Book Proposal in the Face

Five Easy Pieces: Punching My Book Proposal in the Face

Amazing cupcake on fire courtesy of this place.

I had an epiphany that made me punch my book proposal in the face. Last week I started a new job and was feeling pulled in so many directions with work, the book proposal, this blog, that blog, and these articles, that I didn't know where to start.

So I took a breath and approached myself as if I were one of my own overwhelmed students:

   
     Instructor Me: Hey there, Erica. Which of those tasks is most urgent?

     Me: All of them.

     Instructor Me: Great! Now, which task are you avoiding?

     Me: The annotated table of contents for the nonfiction proposal.

     Instructor Me: Why?

     Me: Because I don't know if this book will ever sell, so what's the point?

     Instructor Me: Ah. Well. That sounds like a problem for Future Me. Would you send a baby to prom?

     Me: What?

     Instructor Me: Exactly. So why not combine the annotations with a blog post? You like blog posts.

     Me: I guess. I mean...It would be cool to use this blog as a place to authentically draft my chapters. All I need are the mini-sections I'm going to use in each chapter and start there. 

     Instructor Me: And what are those mini-sections?

     Me:Uhm...The Confession, The Story, The Hindsight, The Takeaway, and The Resources.

     Instructor Me: Great! Let's do this!

     Me: But what if the book doesn't sell?

     Future Me: LOL

And so, Dear Reader, I have a solution. My next dozen or so blog posts will be structured how I'm planning the book as well. With these five pieces:

          The Confession: A true confession about my time as PhD student.

          The Story: The story behind the confession.

          The Hindsight: What I realized a little too late.

          The Takeaway: What I've done or improved upon since the hindsight.

          The Resources: Resources I wish I had before I made these mistakes.

I haven't the slightest idea if the book will end up exactly with those five sections, exactly, but it's my starting point.

So here we go.

The Confession

I might be writing this non-fiction book proposal because I'm too chicken to finish the MG horror book. I know it started that way, but I genuinely can't tell anymore.

The Story 

This blog used to be called The Davis Girl, but now it's specific to my time as a PhDidn't. This is intentional because one major section of a non-fiction book proposal is my personal platform, and how it relates to this topic. So the new focus on this blog does double duty for me: It keeps me focused and helps me draft the chapters of Confessions of a PhDidn't.

The Hindsight

I should have been updated this blog weekly, if not monthly while I was in grad school. Then, it would have served as a perfect archive in my book. While there are some posts from that time, it's mostly just a glaring gap in time.

The Takeaway

Our forebears kept journals as a record of their daily lives. Why not maintain that tradition in our current literacies? I do keep scrappy journals, but something about a public web log ups the ante. I'm already editing as I type this. 

The Resources

Whoa. I just found an amazing article that's going to help me retroactively spruce my archives up, a bit. Take a look here for tips on how to increase blog traffic. 

The name of this site alone with an article on why we should blog makes me so happy.

Anyone else? How is your blog going? What are you punching in the face?

Let me know in the comments! 

The Davis Girl vs. A PhDidn't: The Path of Least Resistance

The Davis Girl:
Or the blog formerly known as this one.

Confessions of a PhDidn't:
Or the blog now known as this one.

Introduction: The Big Picture

The Davis Girl is now Confessions of a PhDidn't.

I've been considering starting a new blog anyway, and this was the path of least resistance. Why reinvent the wheel when I could just rename the thing? And right now, I could use some simplicity.

Background: What the What

As you probably know, I write scary stories for kids. Some of these stories might even get published.

However, I decided to take a break before rewriting my first Alphagories book. In the meantime, it's time to tell the story about my time as a PhD student. Why?
The voices said so.

Methodology: How the Things Are Done

The end game for my PhDidn't story is a cautionary humor memoir/handbook for struggling grad students. Because sometimes it's OK to quit. More on that in a few posts.

No, I don't know if Cautionary Humor Memoir/Handbook is an actual genre, but it is now.

I wasn't planning on beginning this project so soon, but when I shelved the scary book project, the PhDidn't story wouldn't leave me alone. It's all I could think about. I dreamed about it a few times too. But how different could non-fiction be from middle grade horror fiction:

Write the thing.

Query the agents. Blammo. Right?

Results: The Things About It

Wrong. Turns out: Nonfiction gets a proposal not a full manuscript. 

A nonfiction book proposal has about eight some-what agreed upon sections which you can learn about here or read more about here.

Screen shot from proposal Table of Contents

What I appreciate so far about this whole process is that it reminds me of academia: everything has a place. And it better be there. Or else.

And I like it.

I never cared much for schedules or structure, but now that I know how much easier it is on me when there's no guesswork, I crave it.

There's method to this nonfiction proposal madness.

And I got to make a progress chart. I've wanted to do this for my fiction projects before, but it never made sense to me because I kept changing chapters and scenes and structure and...

Roll that beautiful bean footage:

Who doesn't love a star chart?

Discussion: The Part With More Info

Moving forward, this blog will center on the writing, content, and progress of Confessions of a PhDidn't: How to Quit Grad School Like a Champ. If anything staying to this narrow of a focus will keep me on track. At this point, I am drafting the proposal itself. 

Here we go.

A is for Authorstition: #ThisIsMyBookSpot

I do not consider myself a superstition person. 

Sure, I avoid walking under ladders --because danger zone, party of one-- and, yes, I hold my breath when driving past a cemetery until I pass a white house because why would I want my soul ripped out of my body by the evil-magnetic ectoplasm that most ghosts have?

And I don't know if I'd call them super, but I've recently developed two authorstitions that just so happen to take place in my professional mothership: the bookstore. 

These authorstitions are as follows:

AUTHORSTITION #1: 

I ALWAYS make a spot on the bookstore shelf where my book will be.

Authorstition #1: Finding my book spot and making a space.

AUTHORSTITION #2: 

I ALWAYS walk away from my future book spot, circle the store, then go back to my spot and act disappointed that the latest Davis Girl book is temporarily Sold Out. 

Authorstition #2: Aw, man. The latest Davis Girl book is Sold Out [wink].

My most recent authorstition event occurred during post-dinner coffee with three amazing Buffalonian-Authoresses. No two of us are in the same stage of publication, but a few similarities did rear their lovely heads over the course of our evening.

The Buffalonian-Authoresses kicking it in the kidlit section. 
(L to R: Dee, Sandi, TheDavisGirl, Nicole)

After a long overdue dinner out, we four Buffalonian-Authoresses teleported to a nearby bookstore, bogarted some chairs, and set up camp in the kidlit section next to the toy train table with all the toy cars and germs. 

We talked the big issues like writing, and where the bathroom was. And dogs. And children. And spouses. And caffeine. And Fuller House. It was cathartic. Especially swapping WIP stories, plot lines, fears, frustrations, and favorite writing snacks. 

Then writing habits came up. Good habits. Weird habits. 

So when one of them looked around at a shelf and mentioned that she likes to picture her book on the bookstore shelf, I spilled. I told them about my book-spot authorstition AND THEY DIDN'T EVEN LAUGH AT ME AND WE ALL FOUND OUR BOOK SPOTS TOGETHER AND TOOK PICTURES AND IT WAS AWESOME.

This is Nicole's book spot

This is Sandi's book spot.

This is Dee's book spot.

In addition to a night of writerly bonding, I acquired a new respect for the differences between my colleagues' good, bad, and ugly writing habits and my own. In conclusion, Buffalonian-Authoresses are awesome because they know that writing is awesome. 

And fun.

And maddening.

And unpredictable.

And stupid.

And exhilarating.

And hateful. But only on Sundays. 

And I wouldn't give it up for anything. 

Except coffee because Coffee doesn't slam into your brain in the middle of a conference call with your new boss to inform you that It won't share anymore information with you until you make Its nemesis appear in every other chapter starting with scene six.  I know this doesn't happen to everyone. But this is my book adventure.

And this is my book spot: 

#ThisIsMyBookSpot. 

So, fellow writers: What are your authorstitions?

And where is your book spot?

Let me know in the comments or post your #ThisIsMyBookSpot on Twitter.

Winter Storm Jonas & Other Cool Things

Winter Storm Jonas

Three-and-a-half weeks into 2016 and it's already kicking 2015's backside.

This morning I took my laptop and sunhat out on the deck into my Adirondack chair to field notes of concern regarding our well-being during Winter Storm Jonas.

Here's my view of Winter Storm Jonas from the Adirondack chair:

I'm grateful for the concern, but it was about 68 here today.

#NotBuffalo.

Other Cool Things

In keeping with the infancy of the new year, I've chosen to simplify. In my writing, my home, my career, my food. In fact, this simplicityness started with food.  Corn syrup allergies don't care that I love Chinese food and Count Chocula.

Though, I can't eat enough raw fruit lately. Also, carrots. And pizza. But homemade pizza.

What makes the home made pizza even better is that we inherited a stand-mixer and the dough/bread/cookie batter has never been better.

Curse you, technology.

I thought I had it down pat, but man-oh-man. That mixer, what with it's knobs and such.

What a world!

Predictions for 2016:

My freelance business will starts with a bang and a continue with fizzle.

I dabble brilliantly in curriculum design.

My Etsy store will sells out--in the good way. (Thanks Mom!).

Trump drops out.

Three friends will get pregnant.

Nieces and nephews will compete musically.

I will be published seven times.

Henry and Ridley coach me to stardom on their Animal Planet variety show.

I will sell out--in the bad way--on YouTube.

Unicorn overlords will reveal themselves at the first new moon after a solstice, only to be usurped by Peruvian Howler Monkeys.

New bicycle!

Inevitable heat-death of the universe.

What are YOUR 2016 predictions? Let me know in the comments!

1993 & Other Hazards

On my 12th birthday an inner demon my parents gave me a dollhouse.

The Davis Girl circa 1993.

This dollhouse:

The Greenleaf Dollhouse (Assembled).

I was stunned. What was this heinous box?

But there was something about this dollhouse. It came assembled and painted [Maroon siding with ivory gingerbread]. Even had flecks of furniture including the neatest bathtub with tiny brass faucets and a working chain and plug that went no where. 

In the cubby-sized kitchen, there was even a pint-sized table and on it a miniature cake with frosting that looked good enough to inhale. 

That sugar rose frosting looked so real.

So did the dollhouse. With its beady little windows and wide toothy porch.

And it scared the bejeezus out of me but I wasn't going to admit this to my parents. I was a pre-teen of the 90s! I was supposed to be all: 

Go Blossom, go Blossom, GO.

 and

Dream Phone: Setting mathletes on the path to disillusioned joy since 1989.

At first I pretended that I heard creaks and scratches coming from it, hopeful my parents would be terrified on my behalf and Remove It From The Premises Immediately. But when I told them, they laughed and made me unload the dishwasher. But I insisted I hadn't Gotten The Idea from anything.

Well, obviously.

But then, I-Swear-To-God I heard things coming from it. 

Maybe it was a mouse. 

Or our own house settling. 

Or my dog stretching.

Or nanobots eating the oxygen or whatever. 

But I swear that godforsaken demon-box was watching me so I turned it around like Clarissa did so it would be innards-out like a shelves instead. 

SIDENOTE: Sam *made* Nickelodeon. 

But nothing looked right in it, so I turned it back around a few days later and that's when that nasty top spindly piece stabbed me.

Nasty Top Spindly Piece

Ok, I probably poked myself on it but I'd swear shoebox hut of death bit me. I swear.

I swear I wasn't even that near it. I still have the scar. But really. A dollhouse bit me.

Which made me wonder: What in the world possessed my parents to buy me a dollhouse?

I now realize my parents saw me like:

Though in reality, I was like:

but secretly wanted to be:

The Davis Girl has Spoken. Mlyeah.

The moral of the story is don't look a gift dollhouse in the windows because it will just suck out your soul and leave you with a scar on your eyelid and an irrational fear of particle board.

#TrueStory

7x7x7x7 Challenge ACCEPTED.

In honor of my colleagues braving the #Pitchwars waters, @mtelschwilliams  challenged me to take the 7x7x7x7 Challenge in which I post a set of 7 lines starting with the 7th line on the 7th page of my current WIP, ALPHAGOREY'S. Then, I challenge 7 more writers to do the same. 

And now, here are 7 lines starting with the 7th line of the 7th page of ALPHAGOREY'S:

       As Ashley dematerialized, the fireworks window display wavered, hissed, and sizzled into an aura of orange glow.
PUFF! A writhing cloud of yellow corkscrew smoke curled, stretched, then dissipated as a tiny paper-wrapped popper of no extraordinary size materialized.
     With a hiss and a whirr, firey words burned themselves into the window boasting:
      NEW-AND-IMPROVED CORK-ASH-POPPER - LIMITED TIME ONLY!
Alphagorey's shook out its shingles, rattled its shutters, flapped its neat little awning, and settled its hissing self down. 

As promised, I nominate: @bizzycoy @tongawingo @osutein @annsulliva @julieartz @rebekah_kritsch @thethirdmother 

The Man, The Legend, The Davis Dad. Or: The Definitely True Obituary of Howard C. Davis

Coffee stockholders are mourning the loss of their shares today. Right-wing recycling overlord Howard Crittenden Davis graduated from Shady Pines on April 23, 2015 during a top-secret mission to save blind puppies from a burning orphanage, probably.

Born on January 1, 1943 to Charles S. Davis and Faith (Howard) Davis of Getzville, NY, Howdy was the last in a long and noble line of Welsh sheep thieves and claimed to have been a "technical writer" (secret agent).

Among the various high schools Howdy sampled, his favorites were Nichols and Darrow, from where he graduated in the 60's. The 1960s, most likely. He did some Army, then graduated college with a B.A. in Sociology and a minor in Underwater Basketweaving Habits of Left-Handed Gnats. 

Howdy is survived by his partner-in-crime of 38 years Jerrie (LoDestro) Davis, favorite daughter [eldest category], Morgan (Davis) Krauss of Williamsville, and favorite daughter [gifted/talented/humble category] Erica (Davis) Secor of Charlotte, NC; his unfathomably talented and devoted sister Margo Davis who took him to that Bills game where everybody else left early because it was sucking--because it was the Bills in the 90s--but then they got their heads out of their butt holes, kicked some ass, and took some names. 

Howdy is also survived by three awesome Granddaughters: Hailey "Zerbertz Queen" Krauss, Kelsey "Bag-of-Squirrels" Krauss, and Catie "Poppy-That's-MY-Cookie" Krauss, as well as Henry Jones Jr. (Flat-Coated Retriever) Secor, and Ridley (reddish dog-like mutt) Secor.

Howdy is predeceased by Vicky (setter), Blinker (setter), Louie (standard poodle), George (setter), Hugo (setter), Socks (cat), Addie (collie-shepherd), Doc, (houdini/greyhound), Sammy Davis Jr. (one-eyed greyhound), Hannah (bichon/hell-beast), a mug of last week's coffee (still in the microwave), two sets of dentures, a wrist bone (2011), and, due to his own ingenious idea lovingly referred to as the "Kevorkian Machine", half the vole population of East Amherst. His spirit animal is a large wooden badger.

Howdy will be especially remembered for his self-awareness:

            I'm a septuagenarian who still has both his marbles and car keys.

His guidance on sibling relationships:

           

            Don't bleed on anything good.

His passion for the arts:

           

            Bach would have been a Barbershoper.

And his unwavering optimism:

            It's probably Barbershopable.

And his aptitude for conflict resolution:

           

            If you're going to argue, don't stand in front of the television.

Howdy was the founding father of the prestigious dozen-member strong Facebook group Only Ladies Wear Hats Indoors and continues to infuriate his wife by never having told her his password from his college fraternity days.

When he wasn't "writing" (going on secret missions) or raising upstanding (and naturally brilliant, yet unfathomably attractive) daughters, Howdy was a part-time astronaut. Just for extra cash on the weekends. He also enjoyed texting mildly inappropriate jokes on his clamshell phone, and intentionally never watched Star Wars.

In heaven, Howdy plans to sing bass in a Barbershop quartet with Leonard Nimoy (tenor), Johann S. Bach (lead), and AndyRooney (baritone).

In lieu of mourning, Howdy would respectfully remind you to stop sniveling; it happens to the best of us. Then, buy a friend a drink, get a dog, and do whatever you can to keep the whole world singing.

 Miss you Dad.