One Month Away! Book Launch and Deals

Posted on by sereichert

Ya’ll, I haven’t been so excited about a book coming out since…well ever. I started this book a couple of years ago at a writing conference. It was a rare and beautiful madness, where the characters would regularly interrupt me on my morning commute to the kids’ camps, my Peloton rides, my hikes, in line at the grocery store, with little snippets of their life. Like I was a radio that would pass by their frequencies and catch conversations. Notes were drawn up on my phone, scraps of paper and notebooks. Eventually landing on my screen. Only I didn’t write it as one novel. This book started out as two separate novels, one from each perspective that I then had to go back and merge into the finished project. It was messy and strange, (and an absolute headache for my editor I’m sure) but through it all, I’ve never gotten to know two characters more intimately.

It’s safe to say, I’m in love with them both. I need a Charlie in my life. I think we all do. I think we all need a Meg too. Someone to remind us what’s worth living for. To kick us in the pants when we feel too sorry for ourselves. To be in our corner, no matter what.

So, I hope that you’ll preorder it. Preordered sales count in the total number and it can really help an author to be seen in some of the bigger markets. Its not so much me that wants to be seen. It’s Charlie and Meg. I want the world to know them. So pre-order if you can! But if you want a little something more, I’m running a special book package for No Words.

If you chose to buy the book this way, you’ll be sent a signed copy of the book and some goodies, hand selected by me. The price will include the shipping cost. More details will be released in a couple of weeks, but if you’re interested now (I like to start making my list) shoot me an email (with the subject line No Words Special) or DM me on my socials.

I will also be crowing about the book launch and book signings that are currently getting hashed out, so please stay tuned for those and if you’re in the area, stop on by! I’d love to talk books and writing with you, and sign some copies. Dates and places to be announced soon.

Here’s a little excerpt:

Charlie asks me to meet for coffee the morning after Bradley’s departure. I, of course, comply. Coffee with Charlie always breaks me out of my mood. If there’s anyone crabbier at the world than me, it’s him. Plus, I love to hear him talk. About anything and nothing. I love the way he sits back and listens, discerning brows pulled together, as though he’s contemplating my words. As if I matter. I’m curious as to why he asked me and didn’t mention Gina coming along. Her birthday is coming up soon, and I’m sure Charlie, in his old-school romantic way, has devised a plan he needs help with.
What a man to find, I think as I put on my worn red boots to navigate the slush-deep sidewalks. It’s ten blocks but I don’t have enough for fare today. When I arrive, Charlie is there, already seated, readers on and mouthing answers to the crossword. I watch his lips count through the window. The spaces, the letters, making it all fit. He looks up, a graying curl on his forehead. He waves me in.
He looks pale. Paler than I’ve seen him in a long while and his bright blue eyes pop against his skin. His mouth is downturned, like he doesn’t want to talk first. He rarely does.
“Hey!” I puff out and the breath feels hot on my cheeks.
“Did you walk all the way?” he scowls.
“It’s a lovely fall day.”
“It’s twenty degrees out, Meg.”
I shrug and take off my coat, I settle in, nod for coffee and don’t allow even a moment before I dive into the dramatic end scene of Bradley. Charlie remains a statue as I recount the far-too familiar episode.
“And that’s how I ended up with all the rent and none of the sex.”
Charlie’s scowl deepens. “Well, thank God. The guy was a grade-A moron.”
“He got into Cats.” I say over the menu.
Charlie rolls his bright eyes over his readers and levels them on me.
“He couldn’t get into a bag of chips with scissors. The man was a talentless hack and you shouldn’t have paid his rent as long as you did.”
“You’re just saying that to be sweet.” I sip my coffee and looked out over the busy city street outside. The cloudy morning spits gray flakes against people’s faces as they walk by. I set aside the menu. I can’t afford toast, let alone breakfast.
“When have you ever known me to be sweet? Go to hell.” Charlie studies his puzzle again. I watch him from across the table. I love looking at Charlie. His wild and curly hair, unkempt and disrespectful. His face a map of a million laughs, handsome but in total, unrefined.
“Thanks,” I whisper. For the moment of stability, for reaffirming my faith in men. He reaches out, without looking up from his puzzle, and places his warm hand over mine with a squeeze.
“How is Gina?”
Charlie pauses, and with him, my heart. He never pauses when talking about Gina, he’s over the moon in love with her. There is always some news, some show, some smash hit that she’s working on mastering, filling up their brownstone with repeated notes and lines, and the sparkle that is Gina. There is no pause to a life so full. Charlie clears his throat.
“It’s back.”
The words are like a double hit to my chest. I don’t have to ask what ‘it’ is. It’s only be five years since it took root in her the first time. Now it takes root in me, with the kind of despair that steals words.
“Charlie, no.”
“Yes… It’s bad, Meg.”
I ache with anger. I want to throw my fist into something, but I’m stupid and weepy instead, so I take his warm hand in mine.
“What can I do?”
“Be here,” he says.
I sniff and look up to staunch the deluge. My crying doesn’t help any of us, and he certainly doesn’t need to feel worse for my tears.
“Ok. How is she?”
“Tired,” he shakes his head, tucking the paper beneath his plate. I watch him take off the readers and rub his eyes. “This time is already worse.”
I’m at a loss. What the hell do you say to that? I’m a fuck up, not a doctor. I have nothing to give him, even after they’ve given me so much. My heart aches and I’m desperate to do something.

A Little Something…

Posted on by sereichert

Hello friends, writers and readers.

I hope this week finds you getting back into the swing of things and finding a groove. Whether that’s winding down summer and getting ready for fall, or getting your kiddos back into school, I hope you’re finding some time to rebalance, and recenter. I’ve got a little teaser for a book I’ve been working on this year. I thought it might be a change from the poetry I normally offer and maybe a preview of a book that will hopefully be coming out within the next year.

Enjoy!

No Words After I Love You: Excerpt

““I’ve never believed in God, but I believe even less now. If there ever was a God, then it was her. My planets revolved around her and the world did not deserve the warmth of her star. None of us deserved her.” Don knows I mean him; the great idiot has to know. I hang my head, chance a glance at the crowd, blurred through eyes that are viciously crying, despite my resolution to be angry over sad. “God doesn’t deserve her either.”

That’s all. That’s all I can get out and not point my finger at Don and his treacherous heart. How dare he ruin the last testament to my wife, even if I didn’t want to be here. How dare he show up and mourn a woman who was mine? I sit down next to my father who clears his throat and in it, speaks a volume of reprimands.

Denouncing God in front of the entire church on such a sacred day such as this, Charles?

“Add it to my tab, Dad,” I whisper beneath my breath.

The flurry doesn’t stop, and I think I sign some paperwork, and I collect the ashes, which were to be separated and scattered, between New York and Georgia. Both urns come home to the apartment, where a good old-fashioned wake has been dictated by my late bride. A wake.

Wakes are for Catholics, I’d said. She shrugged in her robe and took my chin in her hand.
They always seem like fun, is what she had said.

Of her own funeral, she wanted it to…seem fun. She wanted wine and music and dancing and laughing. I have the wine. I think Meg did that. Meg ordered the food too…It’s all here, and so is the endless trail of well-wishers, face after face. Graceless, awkward patting of my shoulder from nearly all. Gina was the hugger. They are not sure what to do with me.

The only thing that’s not here is Meg and I look at every new face that enters the apartment, every milling sheep as though she’s snuck in. Where in the hell is that girl? Maybe it’s my brain, trying to distract from my grief, but it’s got me worried. I haven’t talked to her since that morning when she asked me where to put the flowers after the service. I said I didn’t care. She said she thought she could donate them…

I said God could shove them up his ass. She said she was too short to reach, but she’d see what she could do…I unexpectedly smile in the middle of someone else’s story.

Where is Meg? Did she get left at the church? Left by the people she loved, once more? Orphaned again?
Two hours into the malicious and introvert nightmare, and the endless parade of people (thankfully Don must have taken my not-so-subtle hint and had the mind to stay away) is starting to quiet.

Meg walks in. I watch, from the kitchen as she sneaks through the front door, as if she’s trying to slip in without opening another wound. Her nose is pink and her eyes are watery from the cold. Or maybe its the grief.

She hangs up her scarf and that old threadbare coat. She pauses to say hello to my father, as if he deserved her softness. She’s walking through, not a soul recognizing the plainness of her, the very un-Broadway nature of Meg, in her simple black dress, probably the only one she owns, and probably only because Gina helped her find it. She gives people that awkward, tight-lipped smile that one offers in these situations, perhaps a handshake or a fluttering pat on the shoulder. But no words are exchanged.

My God, but she’s given me something to focus on. Poetry in her plainness, an anchor in this stormy sea.
I can tell she doesn’t want to be here. I can tell she knows she doesn’t belong.

I feel like she might try to sneak out. Give me some awful excuse tomorrow, like she was there but missed me in the hustle bustle of it all. But I can’t let that happen. Because she needs to know…she’s not abandoned. Someone notices. Gina begged me to notice her. As she passes the kitchen I reach out and take her wrist in my hand. It’s small and just the act of wrapping fingers around her bones halts her world.

I always think Meg is so much bigger, but she pulls easily into my arms and I’m just as startled as she is. The kitchen is quiet and I’m not sure why I react like such a desperate man, thinking she might leave. I’m not sure what to do now, with Meg so close. I cannot account for the grief in me. I am desperate. For any normalcy. For someone not in the business. Someone who…knows me.

“Where have you been?” I hiss.

“The park?”

My heart shoots up into my throat. The smallness of her wrist and how easily I was able to kidnap her into the kitchen makes me overpour in worry.

“By yourself?”

“I couldn’t—” she pauses and looks into my face. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Didn’t think I’d notice? That you weren’t here?” Words come out of my mouth. I’ve been regulating all day. I can’t regulate with Meg.

“You’ve got a lot of people here and more socializing than I know you want to do. I didn’t want to be one more obligation for you.”

Martin, one of my favorite horn players from the pit of many a show-stopper, steps into the kitchen for another sandwich. He gives Meg an awkward, tight-lipped smile, and pats my shoulder lightly, before he leaves. My brain refocuses into the tired vulnerability, unguarded in her.

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“You’re not alone, everyone is here,” she points out.

“They’re here for her—” I ache. I look towards the sounds of laughter and stories in the next room over. In this sea, I am alone.

“I’m here for you,” Meg says and puts both of her hands on either side of my face. I look into her eyes, a quiet shore. I feel my face pinch up like I’m going to cry and that stupid girl, throws her arms around my waist and holds me. Buries her face in my chest, so I can cry and not be watched. She holds me so tight.
Like someone who loves you holds you. Without reserve, without any awkward pause, without worry for societal rules or false conclusions. I’m stunned into accepting. When was I last hugged? Hugged like a Midwestern girl hugs? Warm and close and like two hearts are trying to reach each other through the cage of ribs between. Never.

She smells like cold air and the traces of someone smoking on a park bench, and shampoo that’s soft and flowery. I could push her away and berate her for being stupid and sentimental. But my body sinks into the warmth. Fuck, I need a hug. A real one. Does she need it as badly as I do?

I put my arms around the smallness of her. I don’t know how tightly she needs this and I know I shouldn’t care, so I just hug her like I want to hug, and she shivers and I shiver back and I feel the tears welling up between us, a great lava flow started from an earthquake. I run my hands through her hair, and hold her tragic little brain next to my heart.

“My girl,” I whisper and catch myself.

Who’s girl? Which girl?

It demands an answer and I have to decide. “She was my girl.”

The grief flies its middle finger to my stoicism and Meg is so warm and close and just so…there…that I start to cry. And I don’t know what to do, so I just let it go. She’s whispering her anguish, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry over and over like Meg was responsible for the treacherous cells or the decade long affair, or the loss of everything I thought was true. As if she was putting that on her plainly dressed shoulders.

Comfort in her warmth starts to feel like betrayal. I think she feels it too. I sniff and pull away. I’m too confused to have her so close. I’m too far into the middle of my grief, I’m bound to make poor choices. I can’t look at her in case any part of this ache is still in my eyes. She tries to look at me but I pat her shoulder like Martin patted mine. Awkwardly. Boundaries thrown up in defiance. I need to get out of this kitchen. Into a crowd where I can be unseen again. I pause and hand her a box of Kleenex before I go. I hear her sniff and pull out a couple before blowing her nose in a very…moose-like manner.

The honking of it brings the first tickle of a laugh I’ve felt in days.”

Move, Pitch, Get Out the Way

Posted on by sereichert

Yeah, I did just title this blog that…No, I’m not sorry. Yes, I hope that song plays in your head all day. Yes, it may seem “Ludacris”. Yes, I did just make a dad joke out of it. No, you can’t get a refund, this shit is free.

This is actually a post from a couple of years ago, but oddly enough, I’m headed up tonight to the Wyoming Writers Conference again. And again, I’ll be pitching. So I’ve tweaked a few things but the advice remains solid. I hope it can help you.

Now, on to the blog

This week, tonight actually, I’ll be pitching a novel to a publishing company at the Wyoming Writers Conference in Casper, Wyoming. I know that this should be something I do at least every year but with the past couple of years spent in catching up and starting new jobs, and my creativity taking a giant dump of late, I haven’t had the drive, material, or need to throw myself into the ring.

But, by strange happenstance, the novel that I started at last year’s WWConference in Laramie, turned out to be one of my favorite books. Its a strange blossoming feeling of re-reading it and having it punch me in the gut and make me laugh-cry. I could independently publish it. But…the past years have taught me, that there’s no shame in rejection or in throwing your heart in the ring, especially when you really believe in something you’ve created. So I slammed the breaks down and took a breath. A pause. A consideration. That if the story was “Well written, with a voice we really like” that maybe I should give it another tour around the pasture before sending it out, on my own.

So here I am again, years later, still sweaty palmed, reading and re-reading, and choking on my elevator pitch and changing it a dozen times to get the most depth of the story in the fewest words. And it’s exhausting. The sudden surge of trepidation inspired me go through some of my notes from previous classes and books on pitching. And here’s what I have to offer:

  1. Agents and publishers are human beings. They’ve probably slept horribly, are sore and uncomfortable from sitting, have heard a lot of story ideas, and are probably thinking about the cash bar. Just like you. So don’t treat them like a god up on Olympus by cowering or waving tribute in their faces. Be kind, be polite, and use some of your allotted time to treat them with dignity and respect. They’re there because they love reading and want to find a good story.
  2. Tell them why you love your story. Yes, yes, the general plot, genre, main character and conflict…but what is it about your book that fills your heart. Why do you find a reason to read and re-read it? What were some of the best compliments you receive from your beta readers. Human beings respond to enthusiasm and genuine admiration. Otherwise, we’d never watch baseball. Moving on.
  3. Be organized. Have a synopsis ready, bring a query letter and your business card. It’s been a long day for them and you; stories might start running together and they may need a gentle reminder what the 4:55 pm pitch was.
  4. Be open to suggestions and critique. Whoof, this one is hard, right? After all, we just gushed about what we love in our book. While you love it (or hate it depending on how many goddamn times you’ve had to read it and rewrite it) it is also a good time, before you sit down at that table, to think of your fledgling story like a kid going off to college. Its stepping out into the world to be made better, smarter, stronger. It has a lot to learn, so let it be open to becoming something more and living up to its potential. It isn’t a reflection on you as a parent, it’s a starting point for even more amazing results to come.
  5. Follow up. I’ve sat in the pitch sessions where every agent gave me their card and asked for ten pages. I thought I was a goddamn genius and that they’d be engaged in a bidding war over my book within weeks. Um…hate to ruin the ending there but THAT didn’t happen. Sometimes agents are required by the conferences they attend to receive a certain number of pitches. Sometimes an agent is mildly interested and looking for something to pad up their own resume. Sometimes they’re just bust-ass tired and like a parent giving in and handing their kid a remote cause they just can’t listen anymore, they pass along their card with a defeated…”stay in touch”. That being said, if it happens, act as though it’s the bidding war situation, not the tired parent. Send them what they asked for, in the format they asked for it in, and be respectful with your letter. ALWAYS INCLUDING: your name, that you met at ‘such and such conference’ and that they requested your pages. If you can, PLEASE include some other more personal detail. “It was fun talking to you about your dog, Jasper” (write that kind of thing down on their business card) but don’t make it too personal “I hope your rash has cleared up.” (that’s creepy)

After it’s all said and done a pitch session is like any other interaction introverts dread. You have to talk, somewhat excitedly, about something you love and worked hard on, and thereby risk rejection and public shaming. But please remember that the person sitting across from you is also probably an introvert (or works with a lot of them) and just wants you to tell them a good story.

Good luck out there, and if you’ll be in Casper this weekend for the conference I’d love to sit down and chat about pitches, your book, all the wonderful things we’re working on. Happy writing.

Survival of The Writer: And What National Novel Writing Month Teaches Us

Posted on by sereichert

I’m going to keep it brief and give you a little excerpt at the end of this blog to tie up another great year of NANOWRIMO. I hope that your month was successful and that it taught you something about your ability to persevere, in the face of ominous word counts, writer’s block doldrums, and persnickety characters that don’t do as they’re told.

I, for one, am proud of you. The winner of the goodie bag will be chosen this week and I’ll announce the name on the blog this week. Think of it as an early Christmas. I’m still curious to know how it went for all of you and if you have any pitfalls or successes you’d like to share, please send them my way. If this was your first or your 25th, I know that you got something out of the process.

If anything, it teaches us how to manage our time better, how to flow with the writing even when its not going how we think it should, and how to keep going even when its hard. I hope the very best for your project. My final piece of advice is this:

When the first day of December rolls around, I ask that you take that hard-earned manuscript you slaved over for a month, save it (Twice) and put it away. For a whole month. Don’t look at it, don’t tweak it. Don’t edit it. (the only exception is that if you’re really close to finishing something or the whole thing, keep extending your daily word count goal until you’re at a good stopping place). Don’t open it again until January 1st at the earliest. Give your brain and your thoughts time to settle and reflect, so you can come at it with fresh eyes and a begin the process of turning that beautiful raw material into a wondrous book.

Here’s a little (unedited) piece of my new project. Enjoy! (and Congratulations)

…

Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com

I wish the train would go faster, why do we have to keep stopping for people? I get off, shove my way through the current going down, swimming upwards like a desperate salmon. I keep the soup intact. I climb his stairs two at a time and the ache in my chest is probably equal parts worry and being terribly out of shape.
“Please answer. Please answer,” I whisper as I raise my finger to the antiquated brass button. Charlie rips the door open before I can even ring his bell. He looks wild. Unmoored. His eyes are fighting and strange. Like he’s made…decisions. I don’t know what to say so…Kansas takes over.
“Hey—”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where you going?” I ask and tilt my head to the side like an innocent farm girl, unaccustomed to dark thoughts.
“Out,” he grouches.
“I’ll go with you.” I shrug at this, and the soup and bread shrugs too. He glares at me; I can feel his mouth forming sharp blades of words.
“I’m suicidal.” The admission itself is a lifeline that he throws out. He could have said he had a meeting, or lawyers to talk to, or a walk to think. He hopes I’ll back down if he throws it, head on, into my face. I force myself to smirk and roll my eyes, even while I bully him backwards, my will and the box of warm food herding him.
“You’re hungry.”
“No!” he says, a split second before his stomach rises to greet me with a groan. “Just go, Meg. I’ll see you at the funeral.” His back is pressed to the not yet closed door.
“Who’s? Yours?” I pause, Charlie’s eyes go soft through the anger. “Get in the apartment, Charlie. Before it gets cold.” I force him back, and slam the door closed, putting myself between him and it. I set down the box and take off my coat and hang it up next to where he’s standing. He sighs, takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“Meg,” he whispers.
“Let’s eat,” I say and take off his scarf for him, hanging it with reverence next to my shabby long trench. He gives in and throws his coat over the bright blue. As though he can’t look at it tonight. I take the box into the kitchen and start to unpack the hot soup and warm bread. I have to get the step stool to reach the bowls in the cabinet and Charlie is just standing there watching me, shirt with his cuffs rolled up, untucked and pining for the bridge or busy street that would have ended the pain.
But the pain can fade. I know. It can become livable. It’s been my asshole roommate for some time. I set down the bowls and crack open the top of the container. Charlie leans in, trying to feign disinterest.
“Is that—”
“Chicken and wild rice, from Saul’s private stash.”
Charlie fake glares and his stomach growls again. “You little shit.”
I don’t respond but I pass him a full bowl and a chunk of fresh bread. He holds them both in his hands, warm, soft. Little things to cling to in a world that was so desperate and cold five minutes ago. He doesn’t speak, but he sits at the island and I saddle up next to him.
I talk about work. I talk about an article I’m working on about AI, I talk about the impending writer’s strike. I keep my topics to things easy to let go of. I talk about anything, but leave spaces of silence for him to contribute. He doesn’t, but he presses his long thigh against mine under the counter, and finishes the rest of the soup.
I offer to stay. He says it’s unnecessary. The funeral is tomorrow. We have things to take care of. He shakes his head. He’s changed from the man marching to death. To someone resigned to accept it. But I’m wary, and I don’t want to return to my cold apartment. Not with his knee touching mine.
“I can take the couch.”
“No.”
“Charlie.”
“I’m fine.” He says, and I believe him, but I look at him like I’m not sure. “I’m gonna be fine.” He says, and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Write What You Love

Posted on by sereichert

Today I’m talking about two pitfalls many writers fall into. First, the desperate search for the holy grail of what’s on fleek (do they say that anymore?) or ‘trending’. And secondly, the pursuit of higher literary fiction as the only respectable way to claim ‘writer’ status.

It’s no secret that trends play a big role in what kinds of books get produced and published. Like some kind of secret surfing spot, the waves that peak are often unpredictable and by the time you get your board out into the fray, the ride has already passed.

In the same manner, when writers take it upon themselves to invest in their education with an MFA program or something similar, they are put into a strange and high-walled box of what constitutes ‘worthwhile’ literary fiction.

When, as writers, we are so desperate for that publishing contract, agent, representation, royalty check—or whatever your goal may be—we often forgo our ‘pet projects’ to work on something that will sell or is more ‘meaningful’ aka digestible by a higher caliber of reader.

These are pitfalls and I’m going to tell you why.

  1. No one can predict trends. No one. In an excellent class, taught by Todd Mitchell, he talked about a controlled experiment wherein three groups were kept isolated (online) and given the same songs to listen to, vote on, dissect, and judge. In every group, a different song was chosen to be ‘best’. In every group, when one song started to get more votes, strange herd-like mentality propelled it further. Bottom line, people will choose at random and marketing departments of publishing companies don’t represent the whole palette of readers in the world. Writing to trends, especially if it’s not something you love or are invested in, is a waste of your talent and time.
  2. MFA programs are great at exposing you to a range of writers, styles, perspectives and technique. I highly recommend if you have the money and time, to pursue one. But you don’t need a higher degree to become a better writer. Also, having an advanced degree will not guarantee you will be published. The main focus of an MFA program is to get you to finish a novel, a whole project. In the process, it will look down its nose at genre fiction, light-reads, and non-literary fluff. Which may lead you to believe that kind of writing is not worth your time. Even if you enjoy it. Even if most readers prefer a lighter, easier book for at least some (if not all) of their reading time.

So what do we do? Well…I’m going to offer you the best advice I’ve ever gotten.

Write what YOU love.Trends can’t be trusted and you won’t write with heart and fire if the subject doesn’t drive you. The world only needed one Hemingway. What the world is severely lacking is your book. Written your way. I’m not saying you can throw out good writing, grammar, decent editing and the one-two punch of great plot and snappy characters. I’m saying if you love your pet project about ghosts on a mission to save their grandchildren from mutated vampire bats, but you try to write a theory-deep mind fuck about 21st century American Existentialism, because you think it will be more impressive—nothing will go well.

Writing without heart, without passion, will feel empty to readers. AND it will discourage and squelch your flame…and a writer without fire inside will sputter to ash.

So write what you love.

When it’s done, you’ll be excited about it, you will nurture it…it will be easier to promote and share because you believe in it. And it won’t matter who else picks it up or loves it, because it’s already loved. Even if it doesn’t ‘make it’ by industry standards, you win because you have created something that brought you joy. Approaching your project with love puts positivity into the universe and it tends to circle back around. With every project you do with maniacal joy and persistent love, you’ll build the confidence in your work and your purpose as a writer, which is the beauty of creating as a whole. And it leads to miraculous things.

So get out there…without worrying about the current trend or if you’ll hit the sweet spot of American capitalistic consumption. Create what you love to create. That’s success.