How I Became Enthusiastic About Publishing my First Book

 

Ever since my Watermelon Letter, I wrote lots of letters about issues I considered important.  I also wrote short stories about my life for my children and grand-children. I earned a degree in English and became a teacher, but I had never seriously considered writing and publishing a book.

 

After I retired from teaching in public schools, I volunteered at the Senior Center as a computer tutor. Even though I now had time, I still didn’t think I’d ever enter the publishing world.

 

Then two incidents inspired me to think about publishing a book.

 

One day eighty-year old Ruth approached me at the senior center about helping her write a book. She wanted to write about her family memories and produce a physical book as a present for all the folks who would be attending the family reunion the following year. She had a vague idea of the contents—stories and pictures—and needed help in putting it all into a coherent whole. I gave her a few tips on the spot and told her to contact me when she was ready to let me proof-read and edit her manuscript. For six months I didn’t hear from her, so I thought she had given up on her project. Then one day, she called me. She was ready to put the book together. Her stories had been written and the vintage black and whites had been sorted.

 

For a couple of months we worked on editing the text and scanning and placing the pictures for final printing at a local printshop. We were both pleased with the result, and her family reunion was a great success with the addition of Ruth’s “Strolling Down Memory Lane.”

 

Then there was Alice, also eighty. We met frequently at the Elks Lodge where our husbands were members. She occasionally mentioned the manuscript she had written and submitted to a publisher years ago. Because she had received a rejection from the publisher, she just let it languish in her files. One day, I asked her why she didn’t just publish it herself with one of the Internet vanity publishers. At least it would be a physical book that could be given to her children and grandchildren. Alice thought that was a pretty good idea.

 

A couple of weeks later, she called me to tell me that she’d signed a contract with one of those publishers but that she’d need some help with formatting the manuscript and uploading it. I gladly agreed to help. Within a few weeks we celebrated her beautiful book, a young adult fantasy, called “White Hole in Space.”

 

After I helped these two elderly ladies publish their books, I thought, “If I can help others publish a book, I should be able to help myself publish one.” I gathered all the stories I’d written for my children and started sorting them chronologically. I filled in missing chapters and added my correspondence regarding nursing homes and contracted with a vanity publisher.

 

My memoir, “The Little Girl That Could” was published in 2009 at considerable expense. In 2010, I spent more money publishing “Mindpieces,” a collection of unrelated shorter pieces that range from whimsical poetry to serious political letters and fictionalized family lore. 

 

These two expensive books were followed by two self-published books, “Banking, Bowling and Beethoven” and “Maria Lives!” I chose CreateSpace.com, an Amazon company, for the printing and distribution of these books. Over the past two years, I’ve also written and illustrated three children’s books based on my childhood in post-WWII Germany.

 

Taking Action and Writing About It Becomes Easier

After my “Cop-out” experience I decided not to return to college; instead, I decided to devote some time to doing something more productive in the community.

An opportunity presented itself when I heard the then Governor of California, Jerry Brown, (1976) on the radio asking listeners to visit residents in nursing homes or other institutions. That sounded wonderful to me. For a year and a half, I spent lots of time and effort in a local convalescent hospital.

Because of my observations and experiences there, I was among the registered students at Solano College again the following year. This time, I presented a paper regarding convalescent hospitals to a professor that earned me an A.

The paper was in a fictionalized story of my experiences at La Mariposa. As narrator, I told the story about a woman called Rosemary in a story called “The Sudden Activist.” I had not intended to be an activist; I just wanted to be useful in the community. After one whole year of being welcomed by both the staff and the patients several days a week, the administration changed. With that change, I became an unwelcome nuisance by the new staff. The patients still wanted me to visit, so I endured an increasingly tense relationship with the staff, especially because I fought back in writing.  I gathered a series of correspondence that became the basis of an expository essay which I submitted to a History Class.

One of the skills I had learned in English classes in previous years was that a writer does not have to use the word “I” all the time. It is possible to be a narrator and put oneself into a story as just another character.

The experience of thinking myself a “cop-out” had made such an impression on me that it was logical to write out this story in the third person singular. The Marianne who endured the sting of criticism from an authority figure was not the same Marianne who loved her family. Writing in this style was one way to separate myself from the event.

In fact, writing had become very therapeutic for me. As my family continued life at work and school, I remained vigilant. Although I no longer felt panicky or in imminent danger, my responsibilities as a mother of an American family were clearly in focus now. I kept a close eye on news events, especially those of a political nature, and sent lots of questions to the people who made confusing or contradictory statements. It was clear to me that a mother of an American family should not be misinformed or misled.  I wrote lots of letters to various corporations and agencies in my quest for the truth and eventually regained my sense of humor and peace of mind.

As a realist,  I knew that I could not depend on the media to give me the straight truth about nutrition, medical care, national defense, and a variety of other subjects relevant to the well-being of my family. I wrote personal letters that got actual responses and investigated locally as much as possible rather than gather knowledge out of books at school. I viewed my time at La Mariposa as a chance to see just how much impact good nutrition, and especially a laugh or two, would make on the overall health of a person.

Was I ever surprised!

A cop-out? Me? Never again!

This essay was written in 1976

 

 

My essay in response to an assignment in “Mass Communications” earned a “B” with the hand-written comment “this is an elaborate cop-out.”

 

            "Every time I am asked to write a review I feel like Sancho Panza being asked to become Don Quixote. I am realistic enough to recognize the powers that be, my status as one of the masses, and my desire to enjoy whatever I'm allowed to have. Occasionally I am outraged at a piece of trash or delighted by a true work of art; however, to strike at individual creations within the system goes against the principles I hold most dear.

 

            I doubt that any other form of government has ever granted its citizens so much freedom of expression. The individual in the United States is limited only by his own abilities or motivations. Granted, the opportunities have not always been equitable, but this is largely the result of man's inhumanity to man rather than of legal obstacles. Most important is the right to express one's hopes, fears or dissatisfactions; the quality of each expression is secondary and subjective.

 

            The media are, of course, tools of a government by which to control or "mediate" the masses. This control may range from absolute propaganda reinforced by violence to the dissenters to absolute freedom of expression circumscribed only by the tastes of the audience. All the nations of the world subscribe to some form of control consistent with their political convictions. In the People's Republic of China the news media as well as entertainment media are highly nationalistic and designed to instill certain attitudes in the masses. I shall reserve my judgment (or lack thereof) on the merits of such a system, though I know that it can be only as "good" as its leader.

 

            Under Hitler I personally experienced what it is like to live with highly controlled media. Even though I was very young I sensed that something was amiss when Hitler was screaming through our black table model radio, and I saw my parents wide-eyed with fear one minute and disagree in hushed voices the next. Opinions were never openly expressed, and many of my questions were met with evasions. All music was of the nationalistic type and large rallies were held to arouse the masses. Children were popular entertainers reciting very inspiring new poems. I made my debut at age four at a firemen's dinner-dance with a poem about Hitler's "Eagle’s Nest" in the Alps. I remember my family treasuring books from the pre-Hitler days. They had been hidden during the collection of books which had been declared "verboten". Those books published in that era were total propaganda, and, as I recall, very dull to a young enquiring mind. It is difficult for me to imagine to what extent these media might have influenced my mind if Hitler had not been stopped in his insanity. Somehow I believe that my mind would have remained my own as it has under the influence of the opposite extreme of nearly unrestrained media.   

 

            In our political system it suits the government to let the masses be opiated by the relatively harmless daily fare of television. Those that have a little (or a lot) of talent can become the entertainers or the financiers and the rest of us are the audience. This does seem to be the ideal way to keep the masses happy and in line. Should the masses overreact to the freedom and get out of line, the government would soon control the media by regulation or strangulation.

 

            The real value of this system is that it also gives the dissenters freedom of expression. Those that see wrongs being committed by the government or other factions can use any medium to persuade others to their points of view. Those that wish to make financial profits may also use the media to entertain. This gives rise to wide choice of media, from live entertainment of the rawest kind to mild comic books; from classical music to "payola" recording companies, from underground newspapers to sophisticated textbooks.

 

            As a member of the masses I appreciate the opportunity to choose according to my own tastes; I also appreciate the efforts of others, be they financially or altruistically motivated. While I can tell the difference between what I like and don't like, I feel totally unqualified to judge on the value that one person's offering may have to another person. It is particularly difficult for me to take an isolated book, television program, magazine or movie, criticize its statement, and evaluate its influence on the masses because I see each as an example of a priceless freedom.

 

            I only hope that I may always be free to choose for myself how I should be informed and entertained and that wiser people than I are allowed the opportunity to voice their opinions in any medium whatever."

 

            The professor’s comments started a chain reaction within my brain that very nearly cost me my life. I looked up “Cop-out” in the dictionary and found that it was someone who doesn’t do what he should do. This was my turning point: I promised myself I would never be a cop-out again!

 

            When I say that being called a "cop-out" nearly killed me, I'm being completely truthful. I tried to please everyone around me by meeting their needs. I had taken my duties as homemaker, student and tutor far too seriously. Also, since my figure had become somewhat matronly, I began to diet myself into a skeletal shadow of my former self and refused any kind of food or medical help. Within a few weeks at this pace, all I could do was sleep for hours and stay up for a few minutes at a time. When I was at the point of death, my husband sat sadly by my bedside and listened to my incoherent whisperings. Suddenly I felt a rush of warmth throughout my person. For a moment I was stunned. Then I said, "I'm going to take a shower." Then I got up, took a shower, ate a decent lunch and took up life where I had left off.

 

            I decided to write a rebuttal and deliver it to the professor in person.

 

            "Mr. Siegel,

            I fail to see that my paper was an elaborate cop-out. To the contrary, if I had reviewed someone else's creation just to get a grade, I would have to consider myself a cop-out! I probably could have pretended to be sufficiently critical to suit you, but that would have compromised my principles. I tried to demonstrate in my paper how I feel about mass media, and if I failed to do that, I deserve an "F". Talk about copping out! Instead, I got a "B" and few snide remarks, such as, "Are you serious?" You bet I am! Deadly serious! The very reason for my attending school, and the mass media class in particular is to attain the skills needed to make a judgment or a contribution. Right now, I don't even know exactly what I have in mind, but I do know that any improvement of the world must start with me improving myself. With that I do not mean to say that I don't care what anyone else does; quite the opposite, I care, I care, I care. As a matter of fact, I see clearly the injustices, the misinformation, and the infinite examples of man's incredible ineptitude.

            I also see my own limitations and my potential. I am not an expert in sociology, psychology, anthropology or any other kind of ...ology. I am, however, gradually expanding my knowledge. By attending your class I had hoped to gain an insight into the workings of mass media; instead I found myself listening to various and sundry opinions of other students. Valuable class time was spent discussing the relative merits of "Jaws", bantering small talk about "Engelbert Humperdinck", or whether or not Susan Carpenter "thinks so, too." I learned one thing from this class, though, and that is, if one can appear to have all the answers even before the questions are asked, one is considered qualified. I'm not sure what you consider an "A" paper, since it is obviously not based on anything presented in class. Oh, oh, I can feel myself getting carried away...I digress!

            You asked me if I was serious. The answer is yes, I feel very strongly about the power of communication. Every culture (or form of governing) must somehow communicate with constituents. A totalitarian system uses the media to tell its members what they must do to survive. Its leaders suppress any attempts at two-way communication because they recognize the power of language. Once released, this power changes the masses into people: talking, writing, and thinking people. This same power of language is accepted and practiced in our culture. I have not denied it. In fact, I am aware that our culture is a dynamic entity. We are members of a society which, as a whole, is greater than its individual parts. This society or culture is not a finished product; it is a living, and as such mortal, being. Each member has a responsibility to use self-respect, self-restraint, and self-discipline to prevent the destruction of the culture. All this sounds very idealistic, and it is. That is precisely my point.

            Unfortunately or fortunately, we are all human and as such subject to human weaknesses, the seven sins: greed, avarice, etc. If we somehow corrupt our culture through our two-way communications, there can be only one foreseeable outcome. Someone will have to protect us from ourselves. This protection may take on some very unpleasant forms.

            Alright, so where does that leave me? Am I to be totally despairing or blithely optimistic? Should I start at the top and work down or start with myself and work my way outward?

Sincerely, Marianne

            I got an A for the course!

 

            Yes, the power of the word was impressive! I had found a new weapon with which to fight the world!  For the next few weeks I wielded my weapon so much that I nearly drove my husband and children to distraction. Fortunately, my habit of practicing logic and calm in a storm throughout my life prevailed and pulled me back from the brink. Instead of simply throwing words around, I began to write letters to people I considered experts on various subjects. I asked them questions rather making statements. I received lots of answers. Sometimes a lengthy correspondence developed; at other times, one sharp response sufficed.

 

            One particulary interesting set of letters ensued after I asked a cardiologist, “What is the human heart?”

Who knew? I grew up loving to read but hating to write. My mother used to force me to add a short comment or two to letters to my grandmother or other relatives. School teachers somehow managed to squeeze minimal essays out of me. I preferred talking.

Then one day it happened.

 My Watermelon Letter:

            “Love, I’m so angry I could scream!” I yelled and slammed the door as I returned from our small commissary. We lived in a base housing area just outside of Trier, Germany. The main commissary at Bitburg Air Base, was located twenty-five kilometers away in the Eifel mountains. Housing was limited on the main base, so the ninety units in five large apartment buildings served the American families stationed in Bitburg. Lee was the ranking NCO on this remote site and therefore in charge of overseeing the support activities, such as the movie theater, the cleanliness of the buildings, the Teen club, and other things. His actual Air Force duties had to do with the Precision Measuring Equipment Lab in Bitburg.

            “Wow, calm down, Love! What got you so upset?” Lee tried to give me a hug.

             “You can’t fix this with your charm!” I yelled so loud that our daughters came out of their rooms to check on us. They weren’t used to us fighting.

             “Okay, okay, just tell me what happened,” Lee was really curious by now.

            “Eve is pregnant, and she’s from Texas, and she likes watermelons, and we’re supposed to save gas by not driving to Bitburg unnecessarily, and, and…” I was getting out of breath with outrage.

             “You’re not making any sense,” Lee held my hand. “Now explain it to me again, but talk a little slower. Start from the beginning. Why are you so angry?”

            I took a deep breath, “For the past couple of weeks, watermelons from the States have been shipped to the main commissary, and  Franz, the German manager of our little branch commissary was allowed to bring a few for sale here. Last week he put up a sign that said ‘Watermelons need to be ordered ahead of time for Saturday delivery’. As you know, Eve loves watermelons, so she ordered one for today. The only thing is that she forgot she had a family trip to Luxembourg planned, so she asked me to pick up the watermelon for her. When I talked to Franz, he told me that the commander of the main commissary wouldn’t let him bring any more watermelons to Trier. Eve will be very disappointed”

            “Ah, so that’s why you’re upset,” Lee said calmly, and the girls went back into their rooms. The excitement was over.

            “Love, that’s only part of my outrage. What really gets my goat is that the base commander had an article in the base newspaper just last month about saving gas during this energy crisis of 1972 and not driving back and forth unnecessarily. And now we here at Trier Housing have to waste gas because of some stupid arbitrary rule about watermelons. It’s disgusting! Eve is going to be very disappointed. She’s pregnant! By now, you should be quite experienced about how women get when they’re pregnant.” I was finally getting calm, but I couldn’t let go of my thoughts about the situation. “I just want to slap somebody!”

            “Love, now it all makes sense. Why don’t you write the Base Commander and explain your feelings just the way you explained them to me?” Lee asked.

            “Are you sure? Won’t you get in trouble? Won’t that reflect badly on you? We wives shouldn’t be making waves, especially not overseas,” I had never complained about military matters before, and I considered the commissary and all other support services part of the military.

            “If you don’t use any profanity and explain your point of view as logically as you’ve explained it to me, nothing bad will happen. You might not get what you want, but there is no harm in trying,” Lee assured me.

            I wrote a polite note to the Base Commander, explaining my concern about the waste of gasoline and the unfairness of not getting our fair share of the produce that comes from the States. My hands were shaking as I deposited the stamped envelope in the mail box.

            A few days later, I received a copy of my letter with the Base Commander’s handwritten comment to the Commissary Commander, “ What about this, Bill?” I wasn’t sure what to make of this brief note, but I noticed that our Trier Housing Commissary had watermelons for the rest of the season. I assumed my little note had achieved the desired result and made up my mind to hone my writing skills as much as possible. I might have to move someone else into action in the future.

 

       That was years ago. Since then I've earned a degree in English and self-published several books. Stay tuned for my evolution into a writer.