Hannah Goodman is the author of My Sister’s Wedding, a young adult novel that addresses the effects of alcoholism on individuals, friends and families. She self-published it in 2004 (a sample chapter appears in the WIR Gallery) and now often presents lectures on self-publishing and shares the steps involved, the pitfalls and how to avoid them, but the important part she says is believing in oneself and being confident in one’s own definition of success. In this week’s article, Hannah uses the personal essay form to evoke the way she is tested and retested on this attitude. Describing her journey, she informs her readers about the “authority” in the role of author and how those of us who write struggle to hold onto it. She also demonstrates how a writer gets writing mileage out of life situations–she not only teaches workshops on self-publishing and writes about the content of those workshops, she has now also written this week’s personal essay about how it feels to be the self-published author at the table of traditionally published authors.  The lesson is that what is happening to us, what we set in motion, makes good writing material and when it is truest to our experience, resonates with others. –Sheila

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SELF-Esteem and the SELF-Published Author
by Hannah Goodman

As my boots clicked against the worn parquet floor of Alumni Hall, I wondered, as I always do when I arrive at author events, if I was dressed right or if I should have put on some lipstick or mascara.   A cold self-consciousness gathered in my belly and curled up and around to my spine as I continued the journey down the long hallway.   Dim lights from antique wall sconces provided an ethereal glow, almost like I was walking through a misty forest.   I paused for a moment and shifted the box I held under one arm, and then, with the other arm, I attempted– but failed– to shrug the strap of my leather purse into a more comfortable position, as it was digging sharply into my shoulder.  I shivered with nerves, like a trembling, wet dog after a bath.   I clicked a few more steps and reached a doorway, the sounds of laughter and talking tinkled like wind chimes. Despite my nerves, I readjusted the box against my hip, and paused again.  I closed my eyes while doing a few “belly breaths” I learned in a yoga class.  Inhale while pushing your belly out. Exhale while pulling it back in.  Inhale. Push out.  Exhale. Pull in.  After a few moments, I still felt cold, but the ice in my stomach had melted a bit.  I took one more deep breath in and out.   Then, I stepped into the room.

 My eyes traveled over a group that I might see in the downtown Bristol Café, where I do most of my writing.   There were a mix of ages, shapes, and sizes in the room, all dressed casually or semi-casually in jeans and khakis, with a few of the women in simple, one-color dresses and skirts.  Some people sat in dark wood chairs around an enormous library table. Others milled about the room, talking or eating tiny pastries on paper napkins or sipping from glass mugs of what looked like apple cider.   Purses and notebooks took up the few remaining empty chairs. Mahogany walls had high shelves filled with leather-bound books and prominent busts of Catholic scholars and priests.   A huge, rectangular oriental rug lay under the table in shades of green, navy, and maroon, and flowing drapes of the same colors hung in the long, narrow windows. As I walked a few more steps inside, I silently thanked myself for not wearing the navy business suit and heels I had packed; gray pants with a light blue wool poncho over a black shirt made for the right combination of casual, intelligent, yet “artsy”.

Not everyone was seated at the table, and as noisy chatter and the smell of cinnamon and coffee washed over me, I took that as a sign that the Celebration Of Authors night hadn’t begun.   I followed my nose towards a smell that reminded me of my favorite fudge shop and wove through the crowd, pausing for an occasional smile and hello, wondering if anyone thought I wasn’t just a young woman interested in a round-table discussion with local, award-winning authors.  Does anyone know that I am, in fact, one of those award-winning, local authors?  My guess was probably not. I continued towards the origin of the fantastic fudge-shop smell and tried to ignore more anxious thoughts that prompted a re-icing in my stomach.

I stopped at the doorway to an adjacent room and readjusted a digging-into-my-shoulder purse strap.  Before me was a table with several large, steaming carafes, half a dozen white mugs and clear mugs, a pile of tea bags in a small wicker basket, and a large platter of small chocolate-drizzled pastries.   I knew balancing the purse, books, and a cup of tea would be impossible.   So I looked around for a place to temporarily park my items.  People grabbed tiny pastries and cups of tea and cider and eyed me with curiosity.  And as those eyes scanned me up and down, I felt like I was back in middle school with Ms. Perfect Popular and crew eyeing me on the first day of sixth grade when I wore the Kmart version of the outfit Ms. Perfect Popular had on.  By lunchtime, little drawings of me had been passed around with the word “poser” at the top, and Ms. Perfect Popular pointed and laughed at me all through lunch.  I sat eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, head hanging in shame.  How could they tell, I wondered?

As I put the box of books and my purse down near the wood-paneled wall, I snatched a small, white mug and wondered almost the same thing. Can they tell I am not a regular author but a self-published one? I downed a cup of decaf coffee and hoped no one else heard the cracking sounds of the hot liquid over the ice in my stomach.

I heaved my box of books back up to my hip, balancing it like I do my twenty-one month-old daughter, then grabbed my purse from the floor and let it dangle off my wrist.  I tried to tell myself I was being ridiculous and that there was no need to feel anxious, yet, I hesitated before beginning the short journey back to the library room. When I realized that I didn’t know what to do with the box of books, I paused, feeling like I was in a freeze frame, back in Kmart clothes being called an imposter.

Obsessive thoughts chugged into my brain.  Chug, I bet am the only self-published author here. Chug, chug, I don’t see anyone else with a box of books.  Chug, chug, chug….  My thoughts paused at the top of a long steep mountain and started down, gaining in speed. Where’s the book seller?  Where should I put my box of books?  How will I do the accounting if I leave the books with the bookseller?  How do we handle the money?  Will anyone even buy my book?  Will the other author’s be able to tell it’s self-published?  Despite the fact that these questions pop into my mind before or during almost every author event, that night, I actually felt panicked about it.

I flashed to an event I attended only four months into my career as an author.  The host called to tell me there was going to be a mix of self-published and traditionally published authors.  I was asked to bring my own books and do my own accounting.  None of this bothered me or surprised me.  The event was purely a signing and each author would have her own table.  But when I got there, an old gray-haired woman with a name tag that simply read “bookseller” instructed me that I was to bring my box of books, “Over there”.   She pointed to a small round table with several forlorn looking people, holding or unpacking boxes of books.  Not too long after, I huddled with those same people–all self-published authors–around the too-small-to-fit our books table.  We were like the un-cool kids squished into the geek table in the lunch room, eating our bland home made sandwiches while the cool kids drank soda and ate pizza or chicken nuggets, sitting casually on the table and not the chairs.  We were the kids who wore the headgear to school and had thick glasses that slid down our noses.  And the day simply proved how undesirable we were as us self-published geeks sold nothing and wound up trading each others books and spending a lot of time looking dejectedly at the old lady bookseller with the large rectangular table of books from the traditionally published sect. They did their signing for the first hour and then were free to mingle, eat tiny quiches, and drink wine while Ms. Bookseller sold book after book. The self-published bunch shared a plate of cookies and took turns going to the bar for sodas.

Most events I attend do not make me feel ostracized for being self-published, and based on my book sales, honors and awards, and reader emails, I know that self-published authors can be as successful as regular, traditionally published authors and sit at the lunch table with the cool kids despite our homemade lunches.  After all, the authors of Legally Blond and Eragon began as self-published geeks and are cooler than ever now. Yet, I there I was thinking back to the only time in the last year and a half when I felt being self-published might be a problem.   Maybe it was just nerves about being on a panel with famous, mainstream authors.  Maybe it was PMS. But there I was, my body seized, remembering Ms. Bookseller and the small table and the terrible, stale cookies we munched while trying to convince each other the night was still a success even though none of us sold a thing.

Suddenly, mid-panic attack, and before I had any more time to ponder my anxiety and flashback, I heard a sing-song voice call, “Hannah!  You must be Hannah!”  I managed to move my eyes towards the sound of the voice.  A gray-haired woman, about my height, with clear bright eyes and the kind of smile reminded me of when I was the new girl in elementary school and out of the crowd of snarling eight and nine year olds, one girl grinned so effortlessly at me I couldn’t help but smile back and feel welcomed. “Oh, let me help you.”  She reached for my purse and then touched the box of books.  “Let’s give those to–oh, pardon me!  I’m such an idiot.  I’m so sorry.  Hannah, Hannah Goodman, this is Mary.”  A shorter blond-haired woman appeared next to me, and as I turned to look at her, I realized that when I hustled through the room, I missed the table of books in the corner­–a large table.    Mary extended a hand and we shook like old friends.  “I’m the bookseller.”   Mary’s smile was that of a kind librarian or teacher, trying to help out the shy children.  The next few moments were a brief exchange of my books and a reassurance that she would indeed collect the money and settle up with me at the end of the night.  It was all effortless.  Things happened so quickly that all that anticipatory anxiety disappeared.

Soon after saying goodbye to the bookseller Mary, Darlene guided me to a vacant seat in the stately library room with the comfortable looking readers and writers seated around the long table. Just before we began, I looked to the right and left of myself and realized I was seated next to two internationally known authors. It was as if an air conditioner had been turned on inside me, cold air replacing the feel-good warmth.  The obsessive-thought train chugged back in: They didn’t have to pay for it.  They are good enough and you are not.  They are wanted, sought after, worth paying a sum of money for and you my self-published idiot are not.  But just as quickly as it came, it chugged out when I looked to my left and a gray-haired woman with a gentle smile extended her hand and said, “You’re Hannah.  I recognize you from your picture.”  And with that she produced a copy of my book and turned it over to reveal the picture of me that I slapped on the book in desperation–me in frosted hair in a black dress about to chaperone the Senior prom at the school where I taught at the time.

“I just loved your book,” she gushed.  “Could you sign my copy?”  I couldn’t help but glance over at the two “regular” authors, who had actually stopped their intense conversation with each other and were smiling at me.  I signed the woman’s book and thanked her more than once.  Then I turned back to the “real” authors and smiled back, “Hi,” I forced the word.  “I’m Hannah.”  As I extended my hand, I forgot my self-consciousness and anxiety and remembered that my intention when I decided to publish my book was to connect and share–not impress people with sales, awards, or agents.  I didn’t have time to chat it up with Mr. and Mrs. Regular Published authors as Darlene announced the panel discussion would begin.  She asked us each to tell a bit about ourselves and also to read a bit from our books.  Warmed by my “fan”, I skated through this part effortlessly.  Then, when Darlene asked the audience if they had any questions, someone raised their hand and requested the “how you broke into publishing” story from each of us.  The two established authors seated next to me went first.  They both told how they just “fell into” writing.  So-and-so discovered me at such-and-such writing conference where I didn’t even bring a full manuscript one of them said with a teacher’s pet grin.  And the other rolled her eyes in mock self-deprecation: I didn’t know what I was doing.  I just sent a bunch of stories out to some magazines­–magazines lying around the house.  Magazines I don’t even read!  Ha, ha, ha. and the next thing you knew, I had a New York Times best seller.

I squirmed and tried to will my stomach to melt, hoping I wasn’t showing any sign of feeling inferior and self-conscious.  I quickly shoved my hands in my lap to avoid chomping on my cuticles.   Hearing how effortlessly they each fell into the very same career I’ve been wearing my knuckles down over made me want to pull at my cuticles till they bled. When it was my turn, with a wobbly smile, I opened my mouth.  Maybe it was a hidden pride that propelled me to share with the group a story of determination and tenacity I had rushed through at other events.  Once I finished, I felt like the room should get up and give me a standing ovation.

They didn’t.

For the rest of the night, I didn’t have the urge to pull a cuticle.  Despite the anxiety of the early part of the evening, Darlene made my being self-published a non issue, and I was able to feel what I said to the group:  “I am self-published and proud of it.”

Additionally, while these mainstream authors seemed to have an effortless journey to publishing, they each still had struggles all writers face.   One author spoke about rewriting: “Sometimes I rewrite a paragraph fifteen times and then windup throwing it out.  That hurts.” Another discussed making a living not off his books but writing for magazines.   What I finally heard was the harsh reality that being an author is a hard for everyone.

By the end of the night, after we broke for book signing and more goodies and coffee, I actually felt a kinship with the other authors.   We each had different paths to publishing, but the end result was similar.  We all had to teach or write for publications to supplement the paltry income from book sales, and we all struggled with new ideas and writing roadblocks. Now I understood that this may be a hard business for some to get into, but it’s a challenge for us all to stay and it’s a challenge for all of us to feel good a lot of the time.

When I pulled out of the long, narrow driveway of the alumni hall and drove through the quiet, dark campus, gripping the wheel of my SUV and trying to figure out if it was a left or right out of the college and back to my hotel, the realization came that no matter if I have a good or bad experience at an author event, I can do this again.  I can self-publish my next book, why not?  Why wait?

I know I have an agent.  I know she’s working hard to re-publish my first book with a traditional publisher.  But in the mean time, why not publish my second book myself?  What’s the big deal?  Once the publishing part is out of the way, all authors experience the same hurtles and pitfalls–selling books, landing speaking and signing gigs, trying to make a living off what they love to do.  We are all the same, trying to tell and sell our stories, trying to balance the part we love with the parts we must do to survive.  As I saw stars pop out of the midnight sky, I exhaled long and deep.

A month later, I was sitting in front of my computer, desperate to drum up some of that loose warm feeling again.  I was desperate to remember my revelation during the car ride home and frightened about the prospect that maybe I had it all wrong. And then the email came. I had submitted a proposal for a yearly conference for the professional authors’ organization I belong to for a workshop called “Successful Self-Publishing”, in which I wanted to focus on how self-publishing has been a vehicle for me to arrive, hopefully, at mainstream publishing.  I wanted to focus on my process and the steps I took with my innovative marketing, teaching and speaking that led me to an agent. I wanted to share what I had discovered about self-publishing. What caused me to feel back in ice-land wasn’t the rejection itself or that the boilerplate email didn’t have the correct author’s name inserted.  “Catherine,” it began. “Although self-publishing is a viable option which is growing in popularity, as an organization BLEEP feels it is important to show support for traditional publishers.”  My first reaction, of course, was who is Catherine and is she being rejected for the same thing?  My second reaction was to think back to the A Celebration of Authors night, to how the night was one of ironic success.

With the email now printed and in my hand, I thought about how I feel during Christmas time when every one says Merry Christmas and I want to scream, I’m Jewish.  Not everyone is born into the majority.  The same thought overcame me. I cannot do anything about being self-published; it’s part of me and this email feels like discrimination. What I chose to do next surprised me because I like to fit in and have felt for most of my life the struggle to fit but still be true to myself.  I never rocked the boat.  But at that moment, I chose to do it and rock it I did.

I sent out an email to the forum for the organization that relayed the email-rejection and posed a simply question:  what do you all make of this? What followed that email has changed my perception of what it means to me to be self-published.

Here I am sitting and typing this essay about being self-published and it’s been over a week since I sent out the email to the forum and the emails are flooding my in box.  Some are on-list but over twenty-five are off list and personal.  Some are from other self-published authors, many are not.  Very few defend the letter and many urge me to do my own workshop without the support of as one person put it an organization that doesn’t support all members equally.  What’s happened on the list is a huge debate–that at times is a little nasty– about the legitimacy of self-publishing and whether or not the organization is discriminating against the self-published sector of membership.

The fact that debate doesn’t show signs of slowing down makes me realize not only the power of being self-published but also the power of me.  I think back to the horrible event with Ms. Bookseller and the table of self-published geeks and I think back to the time when I was ostracized for wearing the imposture outfit and I think back to the A Celebration of Authors night, and I try to put it all together in my mind.  What does this all mean?   It means that despite how hard it is to go against the traditional and conventional, I will if I believe in what I am doing.   It also shows me that just because something is mainstream, conventional, common, doesn’t make it RIGHT (or WRONG) and doesn’t make it BETTER (or WORSE).  After all, the A Celebration of Authors night was all about a level playing field for all authors.  When we all sat together and talked about our journeys, there were more similarities than differences.

Aren’t we just talking about something that is a label?  Aren’t we just perpetuating the divisiveness that causes war in this world? Within the country?   Within an organization?  Within ourselves?  Self-publishing. Self-published should NOT be in the same category.  People should not be threatened by it and yet it seems to be happening.   Self-publishing is PART of what I do, as a writer–in the same way that entering contests, acquiring an agent, or attending workshops is part of what I do as a writer.   If you are a writer, I believe that the things you care most about are the process of writing and the reward of sharing your work.  Isn’t self-publishing simply another means to an end?  The “end” being sharing our work with the world and the “means” simply the “vehicle” which we use?  Self-publishing isn’t a right or wrong it’s just another way to get your work out.

I stopped struggling with me long ago when I graduated from high school.  But the struggle I remembered fueled my writing and made me create authentic and self-conscious teenage characters.  I owe a lot to that struggle. And I owe a lot to the struggle over the last year and a half.  Even when I do get the big book contract and am in a traditional publisher’s hands, I won’t forget it, this struggle to feel good enough, to prove myself, and to bring readers a good story; this struggle is a means to an end and I will continue on.