This week, we have the second in our series of interviews with writers who have self-published. Each of these writers reports on the successful experience they have had.

Adina Sara published her collection of poems and personal essays about being a legal secretary–her view into the work world and the world of those who work to keep food on the table–in 2006. 100 Words Per Minute, Tales from Behind Law Office Doors is a wonderful example of how writing to keep your spirit alive can serve to illuminate experience for others as well as teach you more thoroughly what you have learned.

She published with Regent Press, termed a “hybrid” press, meaning, Adina says:

that I subsidized the publication – I could choose to pay for printing only, publicizing only, editing only, or any combination thereof. I had my own editor so only used Regent’s services to print the book, assist with layout and design, and link me to larger distribution companies and book stores. In addition, they sent copies out for review and did some initial publicity.

The great thing about Regent is that though technically it is a vanity press, it has a good reputation with book stores who consider it to be a traditional press. When I presented myself to Barnes & Noble and Borders, as well as many wonderful local bookstores, the store purchasers had all heard of Regent, said they had positive dealings with them in the past, and did not hesitate to order my book. So Regent has given me the vanity advantage of maintaining rights and total control of content, yet also gives the book the status of having been published by a traditional publishing house (something that iUniverse would not).

As Adina says in the lyrical introduction to her book:

For the past thirty years I have wandered loosely through the folds of this accidental career. I tried retracing my steps, hoping to find the place where I tripped into my destiny.

But you can not move backwards. And though I don’t often say this out loud, it really isn’t such a bad thing to have your work life choose you, instead of the other way around.

It keeps you honest. It keeps you alert.

 I was delighted to have the opportunity to ask Adina about the history of her book and her publishing experience and believe her answers will prove valuable to others.

Sheila
When in your work as a legal secretary did you start writing these particular essays and poems?

Adina
Over the course of my unintentional and unsatisfying secretarial career, I wrote stories about office life to help give meaning to my meaningless work, and to remind myself that I was more than a typing machine. Writing about the frustrations and indignities helped me gain perspective and give me a sense of accomplishment. Sometimes I’d type out a poem at the office after something particularly disagreeable occurred (the poem “Dictation” was one such instance), and slipped it quietly into my purse, making sure to delete it from the company computer. It gave me a small thrill, a warped sense of victory in my battle over invisibility and indignity.

Sheila
At what point did you conceive the book?

Adina
I was in a writers’ group for a number of years. I didn’t realize I had written so many stories about my law office experiences until one of the women in my writing group said, “Why don’t you put all your law office stories into a book?” I went home and looked at my computer and rifled through my notebooks, and realized only then that I did have a book’s worth of tales, including the poetry. So I organized them in rough chronological order, separating the early years as a clerk typist (“Part I, Rookie”) from the myriad of horror stories as a full fledged litigation secretary (“Part II, In The Trenches”). By then I had become an office manager, and so I set out to create part three, which I named “Room With A Door.” There were a few particular quirky individuals that I hadn’t honored yet, so I wrote more stories to fill in the missing pieces. I finished writing the book shortly after my last job ended in yet another painful, defeated drama. I took it as a sign to stop typing for lawyers, and start typing for myself.

Sheila
What is your history of seeking a publisher or did Regent Press formulate the idea and approach you?

Adina
A friend of mine had published a book of poetry with Regent Press and had only good things to say. They were local – only 15 minutes from my home – which of course isn’t necessary, but certainly provided an added convenience. I checked out Regent’s catalogue and was impressed with the rich variety – poetry, history, fiction, and a number of offbeat subjects and approaches. I had already sent the manuscript to several places and though I got decent feedback, the old story “don’t think it has a market” kept repeating. One publisher told me it would be better without the poetry. For me, writing the poetry was what saved me from so many dark afternoons behind the secretary’s desk. And I thought the juxtaposition of poems and essays gave a fresh perspective to my experiences. Regent Press agreed. The owner has a very open mind – and it was clear from the beginning meeting that I need go no further.

Regent’s promotion extended to sending books out for review – beyond that, the arrangement was that I handle my own promotion and marketing. Regent Press does have a booth at local book fairs, but the marketing and promotion has been my responsibility. I actually prefer it that way, since it gives me more control. Regent Press set my book up on Amazon, as well as Baker & Taylor and Ingram distributors, and handles all sales and distribution of book store and internet orders. But because I own the rights, I am free to sell my books independently, which I have done both at author events in bookstores and professional conferences where I was an invited speaker.

A “hybrid” press, Regent provides the writer with complete control over their work, with the same exposure they would have from a larger publisher. I am almost out of my first run now, and am looking forward to working with Regent as more books get printed.

Sheila:  I’ve just checked the online catalog (which isn’t totally online yet) and am really impressed with the list. It certainly is eclectic! As I look at you book, I am not only impressed with the publication values but the blurbs. How does it feel to have a blurb from an attorney saying he never saw the people working for him but after reading your book “that veil has lifted”?

Adina
Gratifying, to say the least. As happy as I am when office workers read my book and appreciate having their experiences validated, it gives me greater pleasure to know that the stories may have helped a boss see that there actually is a living, sentient person sitting behind the desk, not someone who’s sole purpose is to spew out his/her work. I hope this book finds an audience amongst lawyers and other executives who often forget to appreciate the person who is helping them complete their work.

Sheila
What do you think the most remarkable effect of writing your book has been for you? For your audience?

Adina
I have always been a writer – privately – almost secretively. Having a published book, appearing at book stores and organizations to read my stories, having people line up to get my signature, well – needless to say – it’s a far cry from hiding behind a desk, typing out someone else’s words. Since 100 Words Per Minute was published, I finally have begun to acknowledge myself as a writer. I wish I could have done it sooner, but I think that working in a field that traditionally does not offer much in the way of respect kept me from taking myself seriously. So far, the feedback I have received from the office workers gives me a tremendous amount of satisfaction. So many amazing, intelligent, creative, inspiring people, live much of their lives unnoticed and unappreciated, because they have had to choose clerical work over something that might have given them more satisfaction. I wrote this book as much for them as for myself. Everyone needs to be heard, noticed, acknowledged. Secretaries rarely get that – certainly not in the legal field. I wanted this book to reach out and say, hey, I know exactly what you are going through. My greatest hope is that my stories will inspire other office workers to write their own stories.

Sheila
I know from your bio that you write a gardening column and have published collections of poetry as well as other writing in literary magazines. Can you describe this part of your life? Although there are poems in your book and much lyrical writing, the emphasis is on the workplace, the accidental career, the being human in an all too often dehumanizing environment. I’d like to learn about the rest of your writing life.

Adina
My preferred writing genre is the personal essay. I have written many pieces about my family, individuals in my life, short portraits. It was almost an accident that so many of those pieces turned out to be about my experiences as a secretary. I have just as many pieces unrelated to work – and am thinking about weaving them into a small memoir. My second love, beside writing, is gardening – and that has provided a fertile (as it were!) field for lyrical essays. I have published a few poems and essays in literary journals – my discipline in the area of marketing and sending out stories is not what it should be – but over time the essays are getting out there. It’s a long lonely process and I’m much more of an extrovert. So I keep plugging, am always writing, and try hard not to equate “publishing” and/or “exposure” with the value of putting words together and creating something meaningful. That is the ultimate joy.

Sheila
What are you working on now?

Adina
Much like the book on work, I have collected a good number of poems and essays about my relationship to my garden. I self-published a small book of garden poetry years ago and am thinking of weaving them with garden essays into a book that resembles 100 Words Per Minute in structure – but ah, the difference between law offices and planting beds! My philosophy on gardening is reflected in the gardening column I write for a local newspaper – not much in the way of facts and information – and a lot about the importance of having a personal relationship with plants and nature. The book, should I ever finish it, will be called The Imperfect Gardener, which is what I am. I hope to inspire people who are intimidated by serious gardening books to just get out there, get dirty, watch what grows, and connect to the amazing and constant teacher, nature.

Sheila
Adina, thank you for this interview. I know that Writing It Real subscribers will be eager to juxtapose our experience with others they are reading about his month in Writing It Real. It seems that the authors I am interviewing have each valued their publishers and enjoyed strengths of the different houses. I think authors will look into the experiences and notice avenues they might have close to home or, having read your experience and the experience of other self-publishing authors, realize what questions they need to ask any of the eager self-publishing companies coming forward. Looking at the self-publishing route through your experience sheds light on not only why to choose self-publising but on the difference proper distribution channels make.

And now, two excerpts from 100 Words a Minute, Tales from Behind Law Office Doors by Adina Sara, Regent Press, Oakland, CA, 2006.

****

Noon to Six

A veritable dream job. I had sunk to a new low. Selecting jobs solely because of the hours. Who cares what kind of law they practice or what kind of people work there? Just as long as the hours were convenient. Noon to six. How lucky could I get?

I was approaching forty after all. The cranky Madame Middle Age was waving her crooked little fingers in my face, shouting, “What the hell are you waiting for?” I had always, in my spare time, been a musician of sorts. My fortieth birthday shook me into a momentary revision of priorities. I began writing music again, which led to recording, and even performing a bit on the side. Which led to staying up very late at night. So the ad for a floater secretary, noon to six, seemed like nothing less than a magical omen. Now I could sing and type.

The elevator smelled of radon or boron, something distinctly carcinogenic. The building was a relatively new high-rise, magnificently situated on the edge of landfill, overlooking The City in all its glory. When the elevator doors opened, I did not have to look too far. Directly across stood a set of monstrous mahogany doors, decorated with bold and very gold letters announcing the firm’s title. This place wasn’t on the eighteenth floor. It was the eighteenth floor. The door was too heavy for me to pull with one hand, so I hooked my purse over my shoulder and with both hands and a good bit of traction, pulled it open and stepped inside. Like Alice, after popping the small pill, I slowly walked inside, feeling overwhelmed and distinctly outsized.

“I’m here for the floater position,” I whispered to the top of a head that stuck out from behind a spit-shined mahogany reception station. I sensed a masculine fragrance, something limey with a hint of frangipani. “One moment, please” was followed by a small buzz of intercom, and then “Please be seated. Someone will be with you shortly.” The disembodied voice was polite but skirting the edges of curtness. I nodded to the mahogany counter top and found a seat in one of three matching mauve and cream (with faint specks of cerulean) loveseats. The cerulean was picked up tastefully in the three Jackson Pollocky oils that decorated the foyer. Everywhere you looked, the Interior Designer’s concept repeated itself. Contemporary Dull. Almost inaudible smooth jazz oozed out of invisible spaces. I leafed through the magazine choices Business World, Investor’s Daily, Fortune, but even the ads were dry and disappointing. I waited some more, felt a chill of cold air on my neck (must be the forced air system), or was it coming from inside my skin? Men in suits, women in suits, breezed swiftly past me, coming and going, briefcases tight against their hips, like weapons, cocked and ready. The thick double doors left cool whooshes of air in their wake.

I rearranged my legs (shit, I didn’t wear pantyhose–what was I thinking?), but at least I had remembered to shave. I folded my legs as far back as they would go, debated between straight back and slumped back, when somewhere in midslump, a short, stocky woman approached me, her hand already out. I stood up to meet her, outstretched my hand, which she took and yanked once and then released. “I understand you are here for the floater position.”

“Yes.”

“Follow me,” she instructed, and I did. She led me down one hallway and then another, silent, thick-carpeted and lined with books that appeared to have been shelved that very morning. Around the comer appeared a row of pale blue cubicles, facing away from the windows, facing into themselves, separating secretary after secretary after secretary (I counted twelve) until at last, at the very end of a very long aisle, I was led to what would be my work station. Imagine the din of a hundred and twenty clacking fingers. Imagine thinking you were about to fall off the end of the earth.

I allowed myself to be seated by the short, stocky woman, who informed me without so much as a smile that I should find everything in good order, and if there is something I need, I should write it on the blue requisition slip located in the second drawer down from the left. She handed me a document and asked me to read it carefully and buzz her extension (#259) when completed. She then turned and walked back down the aisle. I followed her waddling form until it turned into a door that opened quickly, then shut quickly, as if swallowing her in.

The clock above my desk clicked to one. I had been there an hour. Five more to go. Day one. I was counting already, counting the forms on my desk (five); blue requisition slips; pink inter-office memos; yellow expense reimbursement sheets; a kind of salmon color for “Attorney Work Assignments – Floater Desk Only” and a sickly gray pad marked “Request for Schedule Adjustment.” I readjusted myself, opened desk drawers, not a single speck of dust. Nothing but absolute and, I had to admit, very impressive order. Letterhead in tray one; draft paper in tray two; blue paper (MEMOS ONLY) in tray three. Printed envelopes, window envelopes, return envelopes (pre-stamped) and practically sealed.

I turned my attention to the document, addressed to me, well, to me in the sense that it said TO: FLOATER, RE: FIRM PROTOCOLS. There were five pages in all. Subheadings included Employee Rules, reminding me more than once that I was “at-will” — a no-nonsense expression indicating that the firm could axe me for no reason whatsoever. More subheadings entitled Document Guidelines, Attorney Work Designation Guidelines, Requisition Guidelines, even the guidelines had guidelines. Subparagraphs were dotted with bullet points; bullet points interrupted by occasional sub(a) and sub(b) paragraphs that invariably led to ominous and unequivocal warnings about consequences for failure to comply. This place wasn’t kidding.

As though she had been hiding behind my desk, watching me contemplate every bullet point, the short, stocky woman reappeared just as I had finished reading the last page. We were about to enter into her favorite aspect of the Employee Training Period. I was about to become hers.

All the years in those mom-and-pop plaintiff law firms had not prepared me in even the vaguest way for this type of office culture. Sure, the words were the same, plaintiff, defendant, cross-complainant, an occasional intervener. No matter which side they represented, all attorneys made the same objections based on the grounds that respondent seeks documents and items which are protected by attorney/client privilege and the work product doctrine blah blah blah. Whether representing Standard Oil or Joe Klutz, everyone had to abide by the same court-mandated rules of procedure.

I had heard plenty of stories over the years about defense attorneys. I must have typed hundreds of letters to them, begging for mercy. These were the guys who defended mega corporations. They appeared to have endless resources that allowed them the luxury of burying poor pathetic plaintiff lawyers under mountains of discovery motions, all costly and exhausting. They were the Goliaths to all those dear Davids I had worked for. Plaintiff lawyers nicknamed them “Engulf and Devour” or simply referred to them as assholes.

And here I was, poking around inside their den, drinking their excellent coffee (a full range of muffins and fruit slices every Friday) and enjoying their well-stocked supply of top-of-the-line office equipment. Like the left-handed mouse that appeared on my desk shortly after I arrived. Incredible gesture, but creepy too. How could they possibly know I was left-handed? Were there cameras?

I stayed, I typed, I flubbed most of the protocol requirements. It was impossible, really, to line up the word text within one-eighth inch of the pre-numbered court-approved regulation paper. This was still the early days of Microsoft, and the most current MS-DOS version of Word did not have the fine lines down yet. Secretaries spent hours of their day niggling with margins and footers and footnotes so every line matched up. The short, stocky woman measured our work, quite literally, because the one-eighth-inch rule was paramount to her. No “widows” or “orphans” allowed by the short, stocky woman, who judged all secretarial work through thick magnified lenses, requiring that a document be perfect, even if it meant missing a court deadline.

Only once I crossed her. A critical Reply Brief was due. It was related to a Motion for Summary Judgment, a make-it or break-it document that has the power of altering the entire fate of a lawsuit. One thing I did know about was deadlines, and the damn reply brief had to be filed by four o’clock or else. Still, the short, stocky woman insisted that I not send out any document before she inspected it for protocol violations. And this one, even I had to admit, contained more than a few faults. The Superior Court title line drooped a hair below the ruled number. I had fiddled with the margins, but Bill Gates still had more work to do and the program was not yet able to make the necessary micro-inch adjustments. The case name was italicized on page four and again on eighteen, underlined everywhere else. But it was almost four. The Court deadline ticked ever closer. The associate who gave me this particular assignment had been hovering around my desk. I could smell his sweat. My heart was with him, but I had to let him know my strict instructions were not to file anything without the administrator’s approval. He was now faced with an opportunity (which I expected he relished) to trump her outrageous abuse of authority. She may have been The Administrator, but she didn’t know shit about law. Only lines, rules, perfect bullet points.

The associate and I quickly agreed, without words, to do what had to be done. In battle, there are times soldiers have to make their own alliances. I handed him my version of the finished document, and he signed it swiftly, told me to get it out. I ran it over to the fax machine. Every page slid through as if on wings. Yes! I knew I had just blown paragraph eight subsection(e) of my protocol memo, and was damned proud of it.

After a while, the short, stocky woman backed off. The associate may have put in a good word for me or a word or two about her. When she passed me in the hallway, her greeting was so stiff it must have been painful on her tongue. I was absolutely certain that she loathed me. And why shouldn’t she? Who was I but a part-time floater? A nobody, lower case n. Here today and most likely gone tomorrow, like scads of others she’d witnessed over the past fifteen years. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere. This was her world, her rite of passage, her swan song too. It wasn’t unreasonable to imagine her dying there one day, a satisfied death, slumped over at her desk with red pen in hand.

Every month I stayed I felt like a spy, gleaning evidence that I might some day use with smug delight. I was dancing with the enemy, who, much to my surprise, turned out to be kind, respectful, and often entertaining individuals. The attorneys were decent people. No horns or fangs or crooked smiles. Same pictures of wives and kids in soccer clothes on the desks. They paid their secretaries well, as well they should. The secretaries deserved every dollar. They commuted long distances and devoted long years, approaching their work with clinical care. I stood beside them, and in their clear reflections could see that no matter how many years I did this kind of work, I would never be in their ranks. I was too flighty, too critical, too committed to lack of commitment. No matter what side of the law I worked in, it seemed I always wanted to be somewhere else.

Even from noon to six.

****

The Secretary Sits

The secretary sits
eyes joined to the screen, she is
mesmerized by the redundancy of her own movements.

Fingers keep hapless time on the keyboard
charting words along an endless course.

A conduit –
a breathing piece of machinery
she is tuned sharply, spring-loaded,
ready to strike at each callous command.

Straight-backed and queenlike
the secretary sits
upon a paper-strewn throne
yielding nothing
but the passing of hours,
and dreams that unravel before they begin.