Guest Blogger: Kristine Williams It's a Jungle in Here

Lori is being kind enough to let me stand on her soap box today, partly because she’s been very busy lately editing and herding authors, and partly out of the kindness of her advertising heart. She knows my own PR firm is an 800lb silverback gorilla named FooFoo who flings poo more often than he promotes novels, and sometimes I have to pick up the slack to get my name out there.

But enough about me . . . I was struggling a little bit about the topic for today. The plan was to discuss my issue with industry news and rumors, and how completely nutso I can get after a day of reading agent blogs and their comment trails – But then I realized Chest-Thumping Power-Whores and the People Who Love Them really didn’t seem like a subject line Lori would want on her blog.

Then I considered a post about the real truth of self publishing – fighting the tired diatribes: “Those who can’t make it in the real world, self-publish.” “Ninety nine percent of everything self published is utter drek.”

Or “Writers who aren’t good enough to get an agent always turn to self publishing and pretend that it’s the way of the future.” But I was pretty sure: That Ain’t Even Bullshit, That’s Horseshit also wasn’t a subject Lori would be happy to post.

So I sat here, staring at the screen and eating my cherry soy yogurt, and I pondered.

I pondered what makes me angry about reading industry blogs. I pondered what irks me about the reaction you get when you talk about self publishing. And I pondered the ape shit on my shoe, and reached a conclusion.


There’s an 800lb gorilla sitting on every desk. Every single writer out there has one. Whether it’s the discipline you don’t have, or the stamina you wish you could develop. Whether it’s the pride in yourself that you lack, or the social networking and public advertising you dread having to face.

Sitting on my desk, the 800lb gorilla has a name, FooFoo, because I’ve managed to bring myself to acknowledge him.

The next step is to stop feeding him and make him work for me, and in order to do that, I have to accept who I am as a writer. I have to admit that having self published novels puts me into a category in other people’s eyes – but I don’t have to accept it or agree with it. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t feel strongly about the novels, and my ability to tell a story. And if I can’t take pride in what I’ve done, how can I ask anyone else to?

My 800lb gorilla is the voice inside my head that keeps reminding me what other people are thinking. “You gave up,” it says. “They’re mocking you.” And until now, I’ve let that gorilla have his way. But not anymore. I finally grew a pair, gave that gorilla a name, and I’m putting him to work for me.

When you name your problems, you own them, and when you own them, they can’t tell you what to do any more.

But it’s a jungle out there, full of gorillas on writer’s desks.

Procrastination. He’s the one who likes to pick fleas off everyone’s back instead of doing his own work. He’d rather spend time in chat rooms, or writer’s forums, gabbing with cyber friends and giving out advice. Anything but working on his own novel or short stories, or getting that non-fiction proposal done, because he knows what will happen if he does. He’ll have to DO something with it. As long as he has a novel “in progress” or a non fiction idea brewing in the background, he’s not required to take the next step. He won’t have to write queries or research agents. He won’t have to suffer the pangs of rejection letters and revisions, or face the possibility that his dream is going to turn into just another thing he wasn’t good at.

Name him Petunia and stop feeding him.

What about his brother, Butt-in-Chair? This one has some amazing talents, and usually your spouse or significant other really appreciates him. He’s the gorilla that finds anything and everything to do BUT write. He’ll turn on that PC, open up that file holding the title of the novel and a big wash of white screen, and he’ll stare for about ten minutes, flex his fingers, crack his knuckles, then go do the laundry. After the laundry, he’ll clean up the kitchen, vacuum the carpets, wash the car, take the dog out, watch a rerun of George of the Jungle. He’ll glance at that screen as he passes by on the way for a snack, and contemplate the opening paragraph while he waits for the microwave to ding. Then he’ll sit down with a soda and his popcorn, flex his fingers, crack his knuckles, hold them over the keyboard and . . . the dryer will buzz, saving him from having to commit to the opening sentence.

You’ll never get that novel written unless you name this one Lambchop and take away his banana.

But what about Pete and Repeat? They are two scary-ass gorillas, and often harder to recognize until it’s too late. They don’t stop you from writing, and they don’t keep you from putting your butt in that chair. In fact, they’ll happily let you write your novel while they play patty cake for a while. It’s when you’re done with that novel that they go to work. Oh, at first you tell yourself they’re just editing, polishing that manuscript until it’s reached perfection, so you can send it out and find it a home. But after one or two of the rejection letters come in, Pete and Repeat take that novel, and get you to rewrite it. After all, if it was fantastic, it would have sold by now, right? So you’d best rewrite the whole thing, change up the protagonist, alter the antagonist -- maybe add some sex. Trouble is, that’s not good enough for Pete and Repeat. If you let them, they’ll keep you rewriting that same novel a hundred ways, year after year, always striving for a perfection you can’t achieve and keeping you from writing something completely different.

Call ‘em Alfalfa and Puddin'Pop and send them both packing.

Just keep an eye out for Misconception. The females are the most dangerous of any species, and fool a lot of people. Even before you’ve finished your first novel, she’s working away, whispering in your ear about how Publishing really works. She’s filled your head with tales of fame and fortune, and keeps showing you those Yahoo headlines about six-figure deals and book tours to Europe.

She’s got you convinced you’re going to sell this novel and be able to sit back and watch it all happen. Giant posters inside Barnes & Noble, book signing tours around the country, maybe even one of those trailers you see on TV and the Internet these days.

What she doesn’t want you to know is the ugly truth -- most writers have day jobs, and most publishers have very limited funds to spend on the bulk of their catalog.

They’re going to pick one or two targeted novels (more often than not these days it’ll be non fiction) and spend the most marketing money on them. While your midlist paperback is gonna get shelf space (if the bookstores order it) it’s still going to be up to YOU to make a lot of noise. You’ll need an author website, you’ll need to rub elbows, network, blow your own horn, all while writing your next novel.

Most writers don’t like to call Misconception by her real name – Delilah – and they’re afraid to stop feeding her.

But you’re in for a pile of ape shit in your future if you don’t at least put her on a diet.

And those are only the Great Apes. There’s a whole bunch of lesser apes, howler monkeys, and the occasional orangutan that can get in the way of writing and clog up a writer’s brain with false ideas, distractions, lack of motivation or creativity. It’s a jungle out there, and there aren’t any hunky, gun-toting adventure guides or thong-wearing jungle-Jane’s coming to your rescue. It’s just you, baby.

So don’t be afraid to look that 800lb gorilla sitting on your desk in the eyes, call him Snookums, and take away his banana. Either make him work for you, or send him packing so you can get your writing done.

Just, um, don’t tell FooFoo I said that. He’s huge, and he scares me.

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Kristine Williams is completely off her nut. If you need further proof, she's got a webpage full of free fiction over at Midnight Reading and a blog where she randomly goes off. Just watch for ape shit and carry a big banana.