There are a lot of small-world stories in the writing world. Here’s one of mine: In 2000, I was asked by Writer’s Digest Books to judge personal essays. From over 3500 essays, for first place, I chose an essay by Janice Urie about the death of her 13-year-old son, Sean. For me, Janice’s writing was evocative, honest, and very moving. I had also recently learned that the 23-year-old-son of Sam Turner, a colleague of mine in Tucson, had died one night while asleep.

My own mid-twenties son was excitedly entering his chosen profession of architecture and getting engaged. But by the end of 2000, he had died in a snowboarding accident. Even in my sudden, unanticipated grief, I realized I already had companionship–Janice Urie’s words in her essay and my remembered conversations with Sam Turner before classes provided a touchstone, a way of knowing others had survived the loss of their sons. Ultimately, Janice’s book and Sam and his wife Phyllis’ columns for The Compassionate Friends newsletter proved very helpful.

In this week’s article, Janice Urie shares her publishing experience and next week, Sam Turner shares his book publishing experience. I continue to be grateful for the words of these writers.

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About the Publication of My Book
by Janice Urie

My book More Than Tears; Lifting the Burden of Grief tells the story of my family’s recovery after the death of my teenage son, Sean. However, it’s more than just a story. A shaded box at the end of each chapter offers advice pertaining to that chapter and in the back of the book there is a section with information—addresses, phone numbers and websites—to help the bereaved locate that “just right” support group or a 24/7 chat line. They will also find information on grieving magazines, newsletters and conferences. In the book, under “Children’s Grief,” there is a directory where parents can find information on children’s support groups, websites, and summer camps that are organized and led by professionals.

Tears wasn’t written just for the bereaved. It helps friends and co-workers to understand what their grieving friend is going through and lets them know what helps and what hurts. If they want to give more than just flowers, they can find a huge selection of gifts for the bereaved—audios, videos, cards, books, urns, memorial stones, personalized ornaments, jewelry, porcelain remembrance boxes and comfort baskets—at the online gift stores listed.

I’d always wanted to write a book, but not this one. I started writing letters to my son shortly after his death and, over time, the idea of writing a book began to nag at me and it wouldn’t let go. In my book I explain what finally led me to make my decision and I won’t go into detail here other than to say it was something I felt compelled to do. The process of writing the book was very painful but it was also therapeutic.

 When my son died, I had no idea where to turn for help and a trip to the bookstore was disappointing. My book is the book I was looking for that day and couldn’t find. My hope is that the bereaved can read it, identify with my story, and learn from the many mistakes I made as well as the wisdom I gained. But, I hope it is just the starting point on their journey to recovery. When I went online to do research for Tears, I discovered there is a wealth of help and information out there for all types of grieving if you know where to look. Since most bereaved people are not in the proper state of mind or don’t have the strength to get out there and look for themselves, I’ve tried to make it easy for them.

A book on grieving is not easy to sell to an agent or publisher. In our death-defying society, it’s a topic many people are uncomfortable with. One agent told me bluntly, “I’m a mother of two and I’ve never read stuff like that.” I thought, how fortunate for you that you have that choice. I queried many agents and publishers and six of them asked me to send my manuscript. When I received a rejection, I wrote back and asked why he/she rejected it and what could I do to improve it. I got some good feedback and it helped me to make it a better book. I heard from one agent three times before she finally said, “It’s a terrific book but books on grieving are just not big money makers.” And, for publishers, profit is the bottom line.

You’ve probably heard this before, but I didn’t write the book to make money; I wrote it to help others. Thank goodness for that! I decided to publish with Vantage Press because they have been in business for a long time and I figured they were reputable and would work to maintain that reputation. I read about them in Writers’ Digest and asked them to send me a packet. They were honest and upfront about what they would and would not do. When I sent them my manuscript they assigned one person to work directly with me and he led me step by step through the process. My manuscript was sent to the editing department where they did a line-by-line edit on it. I did a revision and sent it back. They sent me proofs and I made changes, then they had me check and make changes once again. They allowed me input such as adding shaded boxes at the end of the chapters and using my son’s picture on the cover. My experience was positive.

After my book was published, it was sent to Vantage’s Publicity Department. Vantage has a list of publishers and dealers that they send copies of books to and they asked me to submit a list of others I wanted the book sent to. I had them send a copy to each of the grief support groups and online sites listed in the back of my book. After the copies were sent out, I contacted the groups and sites and asked if they would list my book in their bookstore if they had one and if I could put a link to their site on my website and if they would do the same for me. Vantage also printed a pamphlet with ordering information and asked me to submit a list of addresses (up to 100) where I wanted pamphlets sent. I was also included in their catalogue of recently published books that they send to bookstores. They were good about keeping me informed on everything they did to promote my book but, as with most books, the author has to promote it herself if it is to be successful.

An excellent way I have discovered to promote my book is to use it as a fundraiser. The public library in my hometown is trying to raise money for an addition so I did a booksigning event for them (meet the author, punch, cookies, etc.). They ordered two cases of books @ 60% of retail. They sold all of their books, many of them before the event, and got more from me. The library made over $500 and I sold a lot of books.

I’ve promoted my book by publishing short stories excerpted from it. In fact one, “The View from the Top,” came out this spring in an issue of The Compassionate Friends quarterly magazine We Need Not Walk Alone. Recently, a man who lives in the UK emailed me after reading the story. He has a site, www.remembered-forever.org, and he asked if he could list my book in his resource section. Thanks to the internet, even a self-published book can travel around the world.

For the first year after my book was published, I wrote a monthly article on grieving for a southern Idaho newspaper. At the end of my stories and articles, I added information on how to purchase my book. I have a website. I do book signings and I’ve started public speaking, which is something I never thought I’d have the courage to do. Last summer, I was asked to fly to St. Louis and present two workshops for the Bereaved Parents’ National Gathering. After the first workshop, a man came up to me and said, “I’ve been grieving for 18 months and you’re the first person who has said anything that helped me.” Wow! That is why I wrote the book.

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Here is an excerpt from More Than Tears; Lifting the Burden of Grief that Janice is sharing with Writing It Real subscribers. It describes an oft-reported type of experience among those who grieve:

Sean’s coming down the stairs. My head spun and my eyes shot up the stairway. It was empty. I knew it would be. Had to be.

We’d rented a movie to watch that evening and Leonn, Ryan and I sat in the living room of the cabin—three zombies—staring at the screen with vacuous eyes. But now my mind was sharp and alert. Am I going crazy? But the feeling was so strong. No, Sean’s dead and I’ve got to face that fact. I can’t allow myself to entertain fantasies.

The movie ended. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with cold water. Leonn walked into the room behind me and I turned to see him leaning against the counter, a confused frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“While we were watching that movie Sean came down the stairs.”

“Oh, my God.” My hand trembled, sloshing water onto my foot.

“I know it sounds crazy but I swear he came down the stairs, walked across the room and sat down in the rocking chair. I don’t know what I would’ve done if the chair had started rocking.”

My gaze settled on the empty rocking chair next to the red carousel stove. “No . . . No, it doesn’t sound crazy at all. That’s why I was so startled. Because I felt it too.”

We stared at each other in awe. Were these the two modern-day realists who questioned the existence of an afterlife? The same two people who laughed at stories of ghosts and spirits? How could we rationalize this? Did we even want to?

And an additional excerpt from Janice’s website:

The acrid smell of burning rubber lingered in the crisp autumn air. Curious onlookers swarmed like a hive of bees in the right lane of Highway 30. They pushed apart to form an aisle as I dashed toward them. Almost as if they were expecting me.

“Sean!” I screamed when I saw my tall muscular son lying on the roadside at the end of the passageway. Eyes closed. Body splotched with dirt and blood. His Nike T shirt hung from the neckband in shreds as if he had pulled a tattered windsock over his head. Jagged white bone protruded from the mangled left arm that lay at an atypical angle in a pool of crimson blood.

A husky man hovered over him. He raised his freckled, balding head and barked, “Get her outta here!”

I stopped short, stunned. Does he mean me? But, that’s my child. He needs me. My eyes scanned the crowd searching for help. Some onlookers met my gaze with pity. Others stared uncomfortably at their feet. No one stepped forward to offer assistance.

My hands clenched into fists and I stepped back from center stage. A hand clutched my arm. I jerked away and whirled, ready to fight if they tried to drag me away.

“Janice, it’s me, Pat.” My neighbor, a tall slender woman with short, brunette hair and soft brown eyes, stood at my side.

I opened a clenched fist and grasped her hand. “Why won’t they let me go to him? He needs to know I’m here. I won’t make a scene or get in the way.”

“They’re just trying to protect you,” she soothed.

“If I wanted their protection, I’d ask for it.”

Eyes bored into me until I felt like Princess Diana in a crowd of paparazzi. A feeling reinforced by a man wearing a wrinkled white shirt who elbowed his way to the front and pasted a whirring camcorder to his right eye.

“What’s wrong with them?” I snarled, wondering if the accident would be featured on the evening news.

Pat’s answer was drowned out by the screaming siren of an approaching ambulance. I glanced down the road and, for the first time, noticed Sean’s crumpled black bicycle lying in the tall wheat-colored grass in the ditch on the right hand side of the road. Farther down, on the left, a jack-knifed truck-and-trailer rig perched precariously on the embankment. A slender dark-haired man stood beside it, his hand resting on the shoulder of a young boy. The thin mustache etched on his upper lip seemed to droop, as did his entire body.

Doors flew open and two attendants jumped out shouting, “Get back! Get back!”

One attendant pried his mouth open to clear the air passage and I saw the bloody serrated edges of broken teeth. My grip tightened on Pat’s hand. “His teeth were perfect. Thirteen years old and never a cavity.”

The other attendant slapped a huge white bandage over his injured arm and I wondered if they would be able to save it. Doctors can reattach arms that have been completely severed, I reasoned. Surely, they’ll be able to fix his.

With relief, I saw Leonn, my husband, had arrived. He stood at Sean’s feet yelling, “Fight, son! Dammit, fight!” For a fleeting moment I imagined everything was going to be okay. But my relief evaporated like a raindrop on a July sidewalk when he groaned, “Why isn’t his chest moving?”

Horrified, my eyes focused on Sean’s bare chest. My brain assured me he couldn’t possibly die while my insides shriveled into a small hard knot.

Defibrillator paddles were positioned on his quiet, blood-smeared chest. An attendant threw his arms out and shouted, “Stand back!”

A stabbing pain shot through me like a bolt of lightening as I watched my son’s upper body jerk off the ground.

“Janice.” Leonn stood at my side. “The ambulance is headin’ toward Boise to meet Life Flight. They’re taking him to Saint Al’s and there’s only room for one of us to ride with him. Do you want to go?”

I wanted to be with Sean but I knew Leonn was more aggressive than I–more capable of making split-second decisions. Besides, I had another son to worry about. Nine-year-old Ryan was playing video games at Movieland, unaware of his brother’s accident.

“You go and I’ll meet you at the hospital. I need to run home and tell Mom and Dad what’s happened and get them to pick up Ryan.”

“Where is Ry?”

“I had to finish some work at the office so I let him go to Movieland to play video games.”

“Can I do something to help?” Pat asked.

“Yes.” I’d almost forgotten she was there. “Will you find Ryan and stay with him until his grandparents can get there?”

“Sure.” She extricated her numb hand from my crushing grip and flexed her fingers to restore circulation before she dashed for her pickup.

Leonn scrambled into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and it sped away. It didn’t go far, however, before it slowed. The siren and flashing red lights were

extinguished and a quick call cancelled Life Flight. The ambulance turned in the opposite direction toward the local Gooding County Memorial Hospital. There was no longer an emergency.

Sean was dead.

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As one who needed guidance on my walk on this road of excruciating grief, I am forever grateful for the self-publishing opportunities available and to Janice Urie (and the Turners who we’ll hear from next week) for the hard work they put in writing their way through grief and working to make their strength available to me and to others in our shoes.