Wildlife Rescue Series!

I am giving a presentation tomorrow afternoon, and it’s all I can think about, all I’ll think about til it’s over.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about it — simultaneously anticipating and dreading it — since February, when I was first booked as a speaker. See, I’m a Pisces with Leo rising; that is to say, a naturally introverted, shy, private person … with the secret heart of a Las Vegas showgirl. I spend hours, days, weeks planning and preparing these things, infusing my presentations with drama and mystery, assembling colorful displays, cobbling together slide shows and multi-media bling, creating gifts and take-aways for my participants … and wishing all the while that it was going to be anyone but me standing up there in the end.
In other words, I’m a writer.

I’d have to say the biggest surprise I’ve had with respect to becoming a published author is how little writing is involved; or rather, how much schlepping and hawking is involved.
Eden Robinson puts it this way, in a hilarious essay called, “The Author Reading That Made Me A Woman,” in Writing Life:

“I love writing. I love daydreaming for a living. But writing is barely half of an emerging writer’s career. The other half is hustle, or more politely, promotion. Any chance you get, you hump your work through schools, libraries, literary festivals, bookstores — anywhere that will give you a podium and an audience. I was drawn to the solitude of writing, but forced by the job description to perform publicly on a regular basis. I did my duty but I didn’t enjoy it and, judging from the way my tour buddies were trying to coach me, no one else was enjoying it much either.”

But you’re an actor! my friends always protest when I dare to whine a little about these promotional ventures. Yes, I reply, but as an actor, I get to rehearse, I have company on stage, and I’m speaking someone else’s words.

I’ve been resenting the time I’ve spent preparing for these presentations, having anticipated that I’d be writing by now, submitting proposals, plotting out the next book in Jane Ray’s Wildlife Rescue Series, entering contests, trying my hand at some adult (as opposed to young adult) fiction (and yes I was planning to do all of that this summer, thank you).

But I’ve realized in the process of sorting through my thoughts for this workshop (about creativity and self-expression as a heroic act) that I’m learning. A lot. And that part of what I signed on for when I became a writer was just that; lifelong learning. I remember selling shoes as a teenager to put myself through school, and looking around at all my buddies in the store who spent their coffee breaks complaining about their jobs and their nights and weekends spending their paycheques, and thinking, Please, God, don’t let me get stuck here.

The workshop prep requires me to read. To think. To write, and cross out, and write again. To marshall my thoughts on huge topics and corral them into 45-minute slots, customized for a very particular audience. It’s a discpline unto itself.

I’ve had a lot of jobs — ice cream scooper, shoe clerk, government hack, technical editor, author escort (that’s a publicity job, not a Red Light District operative), marketing, distribution, sales, display … it’s a long list. And through the years, I often wondered why. Why, why, why, when all I really wanted to do was write?
But when I published my first book, I knew why. As well as rich fodder for fiction, my checkered work experiences had all converged to provide everything I needed in order to be able to give my little books a public life. The performing, the high school public speaking and debating (oh, that admission’s going to come back to haunt me, I can feel it), the sales and marketing, the distribution, the magazine launches, the event planning, and yes, the author escorting.

It’s part of the job, I remind myself. The job I always wanted. So suck it up. Maybe even learn to like it a little.