Sheryl Sorrentino

The Vulnerable Side of a Writer's Life

September 7, 2012
Okay, The Floater has been out for over a month, and I am into full marketing (ahem, hawking) mode. I hired a publicist to run a two-week media campaign, and I’ve gotten several “nibbles.” (And you’d be amazed just how thrilling it is to get any expression of interest from an online newspaper, blogger or review site—even if it means giving books away for free! You’d think I was actually generating sales!) I feel like a job applicant who emailed her resume to over a thousand people, got twelve calls, and is now waiting with bated breath to find out whether any of them like me enough to offer me a job (or in my case, media exposure in the form of a radio/newspaper interview or favorable book review).

You see, in order to “make it” as a novelist, I’ve got to turn myself into something of a mini-celebrity. Not only is this difficult to pull off when you’re a nobody, but as a basically private person, the end result isn’t something I particularly relish. My husband has warned me that, along with popularity comes vulnerability. Once we put ourselves “out there,” we open ourselves up to anyone and everyone who might not like us—or might like us too much. Already, I’ve been taken to task on amazon.com over a book review I recently posted, and a junior high school classmate popped up on Facebook, confessed to harboring a secret crush way back when, and began phoning, texting and sending me photos with unsettling regularity.

This is the harsh underbelly of a writer’s life: My soul craves the solitude and quiet creativity that go into crafting a novel keystroke by gentle stroke. My heart wants to focus on writing my next novel, but I have made a personal commitment to dedicate six to twelve months on hard marketing and media outreach so that the one I've already written might take hold. What this means, as a practical matter, is that rather than writing, I am spending my precious time trolling Facebook and Twitter; spamming any website or organization that might have any interest in my book; checking my Amazon accounts with unhealthy frequency; and becoming a general pain in my own ass. As my fellow writers undoubtedly understand, once we’ve managed to pen a masterpiece (or two or three), the fun has only just begun. While the writing process is nurturing, creative, and fulfilling, the marketing phase can feel obsessive and soul-depleting. It feels as though I’m a willing participant in some sort of feeding frenzy where my inner vultures are plucking the meat off my psychic bones.

I realize that anything we want badly enough in life comes with a price tag. And I’m sure many writers love the marketing phase just as much as—if not more than—than the writing itself. I can ultimately accept exposing my soul to the literary media in the hope that my creative output will be well-received. But at what point does a pragmatic, business-minded person question the folly of chasing a dream that will likely never “pay off” in dollars and cents? “Nibbles” or no, so far I have spent a good deal of time and money trying to launch my third novel before a vast, indifferent public, and have yet to see any tangible results in the form of book sales. And even more troublesome is that pesky question of why. Why is it so important to cultivate a fan base? Why can’t I simply be happy engaging in a joyful and fulfilling pastime for which I obviously have flair and passion? Why does writing without recognition not feel like enough?

Face it, no amount of touting my "product" can guarantee that I will become “popular” or “successful.” And in this business, popularity and success are measured in book sales, plain and simple. Until my efforts start bearing fruit in the form of my books being plucked from Amazon's infinite marketplace, my efforts don't amount to anything more than a fun hobby—no matter how many times my name might pop up in a Google search.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Should You Flirt on Facebook?

August 31, 2012

As my circle of Facebook friends has expanded (a direct result of my book marketing efforts), I sometimes face the lure of online flirting. And as a hormonally-unstable 50-year-old fighting a losing battle with menopause, I can personally attest that its pull can be irresistible. But should I do it?

Don’t tell me Facebook flirting is “harmless.” Obviously, it means something to somebody, or there wouldn't be so much advice out there counseling how to do it well. Online flirting is far from an inconsequential form of amusement. Why else would Facebook be implicated in an increasing number of divorces? Mobilemedia.com stated that one-third of 2011 divorce cases in England named Facebook as a cause, citing a U.K. poll in which 5,000 people designated “sending inappropriate messages to the opposite sex” as one of three major factors contributing to divorce.

Here are two apt definitions of “flirting” from dictionary.com: (1) to behave or act amorously without emotional commitment; toy or play with another’s affections; dally. (2) to deal playfully or carelessly (with something dangerous or serious); trifle: the motorcyclist flirted with death.

So flirting can be dangerous? Hmmm. I can personally attest that many, many years ago, before I was married, what began as “innocent” flirting eventually led to a full-blown affair with my (married) boss. And before we became parents, my husband's lone (as far as I know) foray into online flirting provoked a knee-jerk threat of divorce from me.

According to a recent Glamour survey, “It’s all about intention. Being attracted to someone else is natural—but if your intentions with that person mirror the ones for your significant other, you have a problem.” Good point. Ask yourself whether you would slam the laptop shut (or blacken your computer screen) if your spouse or significant other unexpectedly walked up behind you. If so, it’s because you know perfectly well that he or she would be upset by your conduct. As a recent “Dear Amy” column pointed out, the emotional contract of marriage (or any monogamous relationship) carries an implicit agreement to make every effort not to cause your partner pain or anxiety. Which is precisely why most online flirting is done in secret—because the perpetrator knows that he or she is crossing an unspoken line of loyalty and breaching an even more fundamental duty of emotional fidelity.

For these reasons, I consciously choose not to flirt on Facebook. I will admit, I have very occasionally allowed it to occur for a brief moment in “real life,” but that’s only because I’m one Estroven tablet away from being a completely dried up old prune. Nonetheless, I’d like to think I’m secure enough in my womanhood not to have to prove anything to myself by flirting with faceless strangers on Facebook. Some men, on the other hand, feel compelled to flirt—with any and all women with whom they come into (actual or virtual) contact. It’s something they must do to remind themselves that they are male. And isn’t it a shame that they need so much reminding?

Don’t kid yourselves: We’re talking about some powerful, heady stuff. So if you’re available and looking, have at it. It’s nothing short of amazing that we now have access to a (relatively) safe, anonymous forum for flexing one’s amorous muscles without leaving the comfort of our keyboards! But if you’re already lucky enough to have someone who loves you, consider yourself forewarned: You’re treading on slippery terrain; should you lose your footing, you might find yourself lying in bed crushed and alone.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

When Did Anger Become a Four-Letter Word?

August 24, 2012

The Floater just received another five-star review, for which I am thrilled and extremely thankful. In it, the reviewer characterizes Norma’s boyfriend, Oscar, as “a bit of a hothead.” This got me wondering, is it no longer acceptable to express anger in an honest and appropriate way?

Oscar gets pissed when (among other things) (1) Norma slams the bathroom door on his hand; (2) the firm where he’s worked as a supervisor for 14 years demotes him to mail runner; and (3) Norma’s sister, Inez, beats her 19-year-old daughter. He’s never violent—unless you consider bursting into the bathroom to wrap his swelling fingers, or yanking Inez off her daughter and restraining her arms behind her back, to be improper conduct. Mostly, he “growls” while candidly expressing his annoyance.

So I’ve got to ask, does Oscar come off as a “hothead” because he’s Black? Wouldn’t this same character be considered “appropriately assertive” if he were a middle-aged white man? Is someone automatically branded an “angry Black man” (or woman) simply because they happen to be Black and don't quell their frustration?

Putting aside the racial question, I realize there is a certain need for diplomacy and decorum in our public dealings, and for a measure of restraint in our private ones. But have we taken this notion of “self control” a bit too far? Since when has “anger” become a bad word? In my opinion, American society has become so phony—and its permitted sphere of personal expression so tamped down—that a misguided code of deportment has stifled this essential human response to an unhealthy degree. It is now considered virtually taboo to speak one’s mind, whether you’ve been wronged by the person cutting in line at the supermarket, or affronted by the government curtailing your Constitutional rights in the name of a “war on terror.”

I daresay that learning to constructively express one's anger is a fundamentally important interpersonal skill (as is knowing how to maintain your own composure when facing someone else's wrath). To do anything less practically guarantees passive-aggressive behavior in our interactions with others (best case scenario), until we eventually blow up and behave inappropriately. Worst case, we react violently when all that accumulated anger inevitably becomes unmanageable and turns to rage. Personally, I think we all might take a lesson from Oscar.  

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

What Constitutes a Fair Shot at Success?

August 17, 2012
I’m all for the American ideals of self-determination and hard work, but I also believe in that seemingly-forgotten principle that every American deserves a fair shot at the so-called American Dream. But becoming successful in this country is—and has always been—as much about having resources as being resourceful.

I just can’t help wondering: What if we had the ability to guaranty every child in the U.S. would, upon successfully graduating from high school, receive up to $250,000 to attend the finest college they could get into? If every kid knew he or she could go to Cornell or Columbia without competing for scarce scholarship money (or taking on hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt that will, in the best case, take twenty years to repay), what ramifications and unintended consequences would ripple throughout our economy and society?

Sure, the super-rich would still have a leg-up; they always will. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing; we all need something fantastical to aspire to. And—make no mistake about it—there will always be those who scam the system, take public money, and give back nothing of value in return. But what if every intelligent person with a practical ability, whether it be for repairing cars or contriving useful new product concepts, knew they could continue their education without worrying about money? Might your average inner-city kid (or at least some portion of them) grow up with enough hope to stay in school and work hard at developing unique skills and talents, rather than squandering their futures on a sure-fire ticket to jail or the grave by signing on with the friendly corner drug dealer?

I simply don’t know. Perhaps those raised in poverty would persist in succumbing to a mentality of hopelessness and failure, while those in the upper strata would continue to effortlessly claim their “due” at the country’s top schools and firms. But what about all those people in the middle? And what about those currently invisible individuals at the bottom who may have been born with exceptional talent and intelligence, but have no (lawful) means or opportunities to develop or apply them?

Don’t get me wrong: I am not suggesting a complete redistribution of wealth or anything so radical as that. I know my $250K-per-person proposal is silly and totally unrealistic (even though that's what it realistically takes to get a top-notch, private undergraduate degree these days, and that type of education is often a crucial key to lifelong financial success). But the notion that everyone should emerge from the dugout of youth to an even adult playing field is neither ridiculous nor unattainable—nor is the goal of somehow smoothing and fertilizing our increasingly craggy economic landscape.

In The Floater, after learning that she was passed over for an associate position in part because she went to the "wrong" law school and was "of a lower socioeconomic class than is characteristic of . . . new hires,” Norma Reyes aptly points out that she did not get to choose how wealthy or poor her parents were. This is true of all of us. (I might add we don’t get to select our race or country of origin, either.) I know some will find my ramblings offensive (or—heaven forbid!—socialistic), but seriously, why should any 17-or 18-year-old be tasked with overcoming the economic ills (as opposed to enjoying the fortuitous fortunes) of his or her forbears before they can have a fair shot at creating a secure and successful life? Doesn’t each and every one of them deserve an even chance based on their abilities and accomplishments, irrespective of wealth?

If America truly wants to be the land of [equal] opportunity, we should start by figuring out ways to ensure that every kid who has the ability and desire can attend the best college and post-graduate university he or she can get into (just as the rich do). At the end of the day, those with true smarts and ambition would have a meaningful chance of rising to the top. As things now stand, I’m not sure what that layer we call the “cream of the crop” is made of; I only know it continues to grow thinner and more impenetrable since I endorsed my own first student loan check nearly 35 years ago.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Let the Games Begin

August 4, 2012
No, I’m not talking about the Olympics. I’m sure you’ve heard enough about that all week. I’m referring to the game of life. When the whistle blows and it’s time to choose which lineup to join for this marathon event we call adulthood, which team will you choose? Because—make no mistake about it—life’s a game, and there are sides to be drawn.

Your best bet is probably Team Business, where the movers and shakers compete in a brutal race to promote America’s commercial interests, and millions of minions like me support them. Our team is also known as the “Business World” or "Corporate America," that all-pervasive machine driving America’s Capitalist culture and providing the goods and services needed to sustain our cushy, mind-numbing way of life. We, along with Team Law & Order (see below) are the only teams whose activities are both legally-sanctioned and potentially remunerative, so you’d better think twice before writing us off.

But what if you can’t hack selling 40-80 hours per week of your time and virtually all of your energy and creativity (which, for the overwhelming majority of Team Business members, aren’t so much sold as sacrificed) for a paycheck that may or may not sustain you in material comfort? Fret not—you’ve got other options.

You can join Team Felonious, where the Criminals play their game and ply their wares. Here you’ve got your drug dealers and organized crime kingpins; your scammers and hackers; your hit men and bank robbers. There are also a fair number of Team Business defectors here, those who aren’t happy enough being millionaires in the Business World, but feel compelled to veer out of that lane into this parallel one. As a matter of fact, many Team Business members dabble (if not dwell entirely) within this hidden realm. Team Felonious can be quite lucrative, so anyone presented with the opportunity will likely be tempted to join. But before you cross that not-always-bright line, you’d better be prepared to pay the price. Even if your scruples permit membership on this high-stakes team, this game could cost you your freedom, or even your life.

But wait—there are other choices. There’s always Team Law & Order (a/k/a, the "Enforcers"), for those inclined toward leadership or defense. These folks enter the world of politics or law enforcement, where you can still find many well-paying, secure careers, if you’re willing to dedicate your life to keeping the Team Business and Team Felonious players in their respective places. And don't kid yourselves: The primary—if not sole—function of government and its military/police divisions is to protect and serve Team Business, while allowing Team Felonious to fulfill its role as Big Business’s illegitimate counterpart. I strongly suspect that many—if not most—politicians and high-ranking law enforcement officials are allowed participation in the game by fiat (and under the aegis) of Big Business and/or its corresponding Criminal elements.

If by now I've made you feel discouraged, please don’t be. You’ve still got options on Team Alternative. If you’re soft-hearted or socially conscious (and reasonably intelligent), you could become a Do-Gooder. America still needs teachers, charitable/social workers, and religious leaders (though I daresay many religious leaders are really Team Business, Felonious, or Law & Order members in disguise). Sure, you’ll sacrifice financial comfort for choosing to stay true to your heart, unless you carry out your chosen profession within the Business World, i.e., the “private sector.” And remember, there’s also room on Team Alternative for "Creative Types," provided you’re prepared for a life of poverty. That is, unless Big Business (i.e., a major record label, art gallery, movie studio, or publishing house) notices you and deems you sufficiently “commercial” to join their team, in which case you’ll have a shot at fame, fortune, and the fleeting glory that comes from being popular.

From here, I’m afraid your choices only get bleaker. If you’re not inclined toward business, don’t have the stomach for politics or law enforcement, have no mindset for education or charitable work, and don’t have any (or enough) creative talent or Team Business connections, there will always be a place for you on Team Dropout. Here, you will not receive a living wage, will be given no recognition for your skills, talents or creative proclivities (whatever they may be), and will be shunned by the mainstream. Team Dropout has the advantage of an open admissions policy, but survival as a Dropout is challenging—you can either live on the dole, or figure out how to subsist as a fringe-dweller within the “off-the-books” economy of odd, low-level and sometimes illegal jobs. (But if you’re one of the lucky few, you can hook up with someone on Team Business, Felonious, or Law & Order. Then you will magically gain a measure of respectability within those far-reaching circles.) Frighteningly, more Americans than ever have—deliberately or unwittingly—joined Team Dropout. So if you find yourself here, take comfort in knowing you are in good company.

I, for one, cannot tolerate being poor, insecure, or shunned. So if you’re like me, you’d better get comfortable living life in the fast lane of Team Business or Law & Order (assuming your conscience doesn't permit you to try out for Team Felonious). If, like me, you’re too uncomfortable living life on the edge (or are unwilling to tolerate the fickle whims of a more powerful life partner), you’d better find your place in the rat race and make your peace with it. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you’re clear why you are doing it and try as best you can to hang onto your soul in the process. And maybe—just maybe—in the dark hours when no one else is looking, you can shed your team jersey and play on Team Alternative for a few sweet hours. Life is all about choices, right? So let the games begin!

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Is There Still Such a Thing as Duty?

July 28, 2012
My father was part of a generation of men who, out of duty, married the women they impregnated. (Or, if they were already married, they concurrently acted married to their unintended baby mamas.) They took care of ailing and failing spouses ‘til death did they part—whether they loved ‘em or not—and made both spouses miserable in the process. In my father’s case, he drove fifty miles each way to nurse a dying brother with whom he hadn’t spoken in years.

My father's generation, conscripted into World War II, marched across France to put an end to Hitler’s madness while their women—if not themselves serving as army nurses or WAC’s—went to work in factories to support the war effort while subsisting on rationed basic necessities. Unlike my fellow baby-boomers, this was a generation for whom suffering and self-denial were an accepted part of the human condition, whereas personal fulfillment was nothing more than a fanciful pipe dream.

It should come as no surprise, then, that my father (on whom the character of Lee Moskowitz is based) was a miserable bastard. He complained constantly about the grudging sacrifices he made for his two families—and his country. So wretched a martyr was he that everything he touched turned to decay, including my oldest brother's physical and mental health, which I truly believe were sacrificed out of a misguided sense of duty to our unhinged father and a desire to gain his unattainable approval. In the face of such toxicity, can you really blame me for moving as far away from my family as I could? At the time, the only “duty” I perceived was a compellingly personal one to preserve what remained of my sanity and pursue my own sketchy prospects for happiness.

My middle brother wasn’t so circumspect. Having stayed behind, he is now bearing witness to our oldest brother’s slow-but-steady physical and psychological decline. I, on the other hand, have tried my darndest to turn a blind eye and ear to their symbiotic suffering for the past twenty years. I have my own obligations and commitments, after all; I cannot allow two unbalanced and financially insecure grown men to place my mental and emotional well-being in jeopardy. So why, after visiting them for the first time in three years, do I still feel a sense of duty to what is left of my floundering family of origin?

A duty is a moral or legal obligation. Clearly, I owe no such duty to my adult brothers solely by virtue of the fact that I escaped our family circus at all cost, while they made little or no effort to do so. Why should I feel guilty for having made favorable life choices when they did not? Furthermore, what have I got to offer them at this stage of our lives besides a pointless willingness to listen to their interminable tales of woe?

Nonetheless, having fled our father's madness to find happiness and meaning in my own life, I now feel a strange impulse to express my gratitude by being kind and generous to those around me, however far-flung. I suppose I could call my brothers more often, and send them a few bucks every now and then. As the saying goes, charity begins at home. And let's not forget, "There but for the grace of God go I." (Trite, but so true.) I hope my little experiment does not prove to be a big mistake. So please, wish me luck.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Are All White People Racist?

July 20, 2012
I got into a heated debate with my friend’s husband last night about government handouts and people taking personal responsibility for their lot in life. Never once was race specifically mentioned, but somehow, having grown up in the real-life version of the fictional "Moskowitz" household where such discussions were rampant, I instinctively knew that each time he used the word “they,” he really meant Black and Hispanic people, immigrants, and “foreigners”—that handy catch-all for everyone else who isn’t white in America but doesn’t neatly fall into the above categories.

As a spouse in a mixed-race marriage, racism is an important and touchy topic for me. Curious, I did an Internet search and learned that, while the majority (38.8%) of welfare recipients in the United States are white, slightly over 37 percent are Black, and 17.8 percent are Hispanic. When you consider that, as of the last census, only 13.6 percent of the U.S. population is Black and 16.3 percent (likely an understated number) is Hispanic, the welfare statistics do give me pause. And while I’d be out of my league to posit causes for this phenomenon, I have little doubt that racism, lack of equal opportunity, and an ensuing loss of hope all play huge roles in perpetuating the vicious cycle of poverty in this country. And in today’s economy, it is more difficult than ever—if not impossible—to break free of poverty’s shackles.

This is an especially timely issue for me now that my third novel, The Floater, is about to be released. Among other enticing story lines, it deals with the subject of racial discrimination in employment. Interestingly, another white male (one of my “test readers”) asked why my Hispanic protagonist should expect to receive a job offer simply because she successfully completed a summer clerkship at a major Manhattan law firm. Although she was one of only two summer associates (among twelve) who weren’t offered full-time jobs, he pointedly questioned why Norma should be affronted by having been singled out in this way when the firm only hires Ivy League law school graduates and she graduated from a fourth-tier school. Given the fact that Norma proved herself a better candidate than the younger summer associates, I suggest in my novel that such “requisites” are nothing more than a veiled means of perpetuating racial discrimination by establishing artificial barriers to entry that disproportionately favor well-to-do white candidates, while excusing firms from doing the real work of evaluating prospects based on true merit. Shouldn’t the fact that Norma is more competent than her fellow (Ivy League) candidates trump the law school prerequisite? And given the inherently exclusionary nature of this requirement, shouldn’t the fact that she is Hispanic weigh slightly in her favor?

From what I can tell, nearly all white people in America are racist to some degree (and I include myself in this assessment). And the more bigoted one is, the less aware of this fact we tend to be (which is why my friend’s husband vehemently denied being racist when I called him on his remarks). Whatever one’s views about welfare in America, perhaps we ought to regard those less fortunate than ourselves with a measure of compassion, rather than hatred, judgment or blame—regardless of their race. If you have no need of public assistance, take a moment to realize how blessed you are. And whether or not you depend on welfare, recognize what a blessing it is to live in a country that has a social safety net—however imperfect it may be. Without a welfare system, we could easily become a nation where poor people—of all races—are forced to live on the streets and sell their offspring as child labor to the highest bidder. I hope I am correct in assuming none of us wants that.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Time to Count My Blessings

July 13, 2012
I had several snappy topics to blog about today, but on this worrisome morning—Friday the 13th—I’d simply like to take a moment to count my blessings. It’s hard not to fret as I tempt fate by embarking with my daughter on a flight to New York, that fertile land mine where my toxic family history resides. I am equally stressed anticipating the long and uncomfortable redeye, as I am worried about what awaits us at the other end.

I may complain about not being a successful enough writer, but all it takes is one tedious phone call from an unhappy sibling for me to realize just how fortunate I am, and what an unbelievably fabulous life I lead. First and foremost, despite my old-lady aches and pains, I am in phenomenally good health, which is a blessing beyond measure. I have a husband I still love after nearly 20 years, and a gorgeous, smart, creative-minded daughter who keeps me on my toes.

If that were not enough, I do well-paying (if not completely fulfilling) work—from home, no less! And when that becomes too tiresome, we head to our funky, falling down cabin in the middle of nowhere, which I love even more than the sturdy roof above my head right now. Yes, I can honestly say I’ve got it made, and am happy beyond my wildest imaginings.

So, should I feel guilty? My two older brothers and I departed from the same starting gate, so why am I successful professionally while they suffer economically? Why have I found love and created a new family for myself, when they did not? I’d like to believe it’s because I refused to be unhappy, whereas they—on some level deep down in the subconscious reaches of our collective psyche—bought into the comfort and joy of sustained familial discontent taught to us by our parents. I so want to believe that I manifested everything wonderful in my life through determination, hard work, and positive vision, but who knows? It could all just as easily be snatched from my grasp by an ill-fated hand lurking around the next corner. Lord knows, I have seen folks' luck change for the worse often enough.

No, happiness may be a choice, but good fortune is nothing short of a commonplace miracle. So I’d like to send up a prayer that I might have the strength, fortitude and wisdom to stay upbeat and spread positive energy to my difficult, less fortunate family members once we safely reach our destination. And to all of you, a happily uneventful Friday-the-13th.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

The High Price of Passion

July 7, 2012
Not too long ago, I fantasized about eliminating the workaday pressures of practicing law, and instead living off my fiction writing. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening! I don’t care how good a writer you are, how committed, or how relatively successful. Chances are, you’re not going to single-handedly support a family on the vagaries of the literary marketplace.

Sure, you might get lucky and sell a few hundred copies of your title, or even get picked up by a publisher. If you’re really fortunate, you might be one of the chosen few who sees income in the six figures from the sale of a single book. But what if you live in a high-priced metropolitan area and need those six-figures each and every year to feed your family? Unless you’re Stephen King, can you realistically expect to launch hit after remunerative hit with the same certainty as you’d produce a paycheck? Hardly.

Knowing this, I have come to embrace my writing as a purely pleasurable indulgence—one I must pander to despite its inherent costs. Up until now, I have deliberately limited those costs to forfeiting precious sleep and foregoing irreplaceable time with my family. But now, after two disappointing rounds in the self-publishing arena, I am beginning to suspect that, to become a successful writer, one must be willing to spend money on becoming well-known.

Which is why, this time around, I am seriously considering hiring a publicist to help launch The Floater. Such folly will admittedly set me back a few thousand dollars—money I may technically be in a position to spare, but which my breadwinner conscience tells me is sheer wastefulness. Because all I am sure to gain from this outlay is a pricey ego boost from doing something so-called professional writers do. Even if my launch is a smashing success, I’d have to sell thousands upon thousands of copies to recoup that expense; chances are, I won’t.

If (more realistically) my campaign is a flop, exactly how foolish will I feel having invested that much money on a purely self-indulgent creative pursuit? Like many people, I know all too well the fear and angst that come from watching one’s savings dwindle steadily in an unrelenting recession. I can easily see myself wishing I had left that money in the bank to pay bills.

I suppose the real question is this: What price am I willing to pay to promote my passion? Isn't the real joy in the writing? That part is free, so can someone please explain to me why it isn’t enough? What is so important about selling books for $9.99 on amazon.com, when I can earn exponentially more with each taxing, soul-depleting hour I dedicate to practicing law? Isn't it ridiculous of me to nurture a speculative and unconfirmed transformation from successful legal professional to poorly-paid prose pusher?

These are all very good questions I simply cannot answer. But I can tell you one thing: I’d better land a couple of well-heeled new clients this month and crank out a few more lucrative contracts if I want to afford that publicist.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 

Why I Write What I Do

June 30, 2012
Oh, I can feel those labor pains. The Floater is in head-down position, and I’m at six centimeters. Just one reader left, whose feedback I await with bated breath. But the comments I've received from test readers thus far have proven invaluable. I am excited—and scared! My baby is about to be born, and somehow, I sense that her emergence will, like the birth of a new family member, change my life in unimaginable ways big and small.

At this juncture, I cannot help but take stock of my first two offspring: First, we have Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz. My firstborn is loud, rude, and embarrassingly obnoxious. She’s like a bull in a china shop—you don’t especially want to witness this bloodbath, but like a shocking reality TV show, are strangely drawn to the mayhem and destruction left in the wake of such toxic family relationships. My “middle child,” An Unexpected Exile, is quite a bit tamer, but she’s still an oddball—well-bred and multicultural, she is too esoteric to "fit in" and is having a bit of a hard time "making friends” who understand and accept her.

And now, I am about to introduce a third young’un into the mix, The Floater, an odd hybrid of satirical law firm parody and graphic-yet-poignant multiracial love story. Alas, my literary life would be so much easier if I simply produced, to quote my latest test reader, “a book about a young lawyer on Park Avenue getting murdered by his jealous ex and his partner solving the case. Sexy detective involved.” This particular reader accused me of “dumping in a book” (Later With Myself); she further opined that my stories are too “heavy,” and to be successful as a writer, I must “go light.” But what if I do not wish to write formulaic drivel that panders to the masses, even if that's what sells?

I did some soul-searching and pondered the reasons why I choose to write the things I do. First, I want to assure existing and prospective readers alike that, despite the gritty themes contained in my admittedly semi-autobiographical first novel, I do not harbor unresolved angst about my childhood—or my father. I came to terms with my upbringing years ago; had I not, I could never be living the full, highly-functional and happy life I now lead. Writing Later With Myself might have proven somewhat therapeutic, I will admit; but that was an unintended and unanticipated side effect of a purely creative effort. And while I loathed the prospect of putting my personal history “out there” in novel form, what prompted me to write and publish this book was the simple fact that it is a compelling story that deserved to be told. Clearly, I would have an easier time marketing and selling my books if I wrote less offensive content in a more definable genre. But I have come to realize this much: I could write a completely marketable, “light” book that still might not sell—not because I lack talent as a writer, but simply because I am unknown.

Besides, I can think of several authors off the top of my head who have successfully published “heavy” stories: Jonathan Frantzen for one; Wally Lamb (whose writing style and market niche I can aspire to); Lionel Shriver, who wrote We Need to Talk About Kevin—a fabulous book that was made into a motion picture. (And you don’t get any heavier than a 16-year old boy shooting up his school, and the anguish and torment his mother goes through reliving his perverse childhood in letter form. Ahem, talk about “telling” vs. “showing.” Yet somehow, Shriver managed to pull it off!) And then there’s A Happy Marriage by Rafael Yglesias, a gem of a story about a man who nurses his wife through the final stages of her cancer. One need only look at the author bio on the back flap to assume that, like Later With Myself, this is a largely autobiographical work. Was Yglesias “dumping in a book”? I don't think so.

And what about Joyce Carol Oates, with her consistent male-bashing and sexually-tinged themes? I could go on and on, but my point is, one can be successful writing about intelligent, dark, challenging, edgy, and yes, highly personal subject matter. That is the type of writer I strive to be.

To put it differently, I want my books to say something distinctive and thought-provoking, not simply waste paper (and people’s brain cells). I want to move readers, as well as entertain them. To me, it’s the difference between eating a home-cooked meal and a Snickers bar. Sure, sometimes you want the candy bar, and it’s just the thing. But if all you eat are Snickers bars, you will never be nourished. Call me a snob, but to me, reading is about expanding one’s mind and challenging our fixed assumptions, while being entertained and drawn in at the same time. A good writer will do that. If I don’t do this already, then by all means trash my books with one-star reviews until I do, because you deserve nothing less from me.

I take comfort in knowing that there are all kinds of people in the world who like all sorts of weird things. I trust there is a market within this marvelous Goodreads audience that wants what I have to offer. But if there isn’t, I will not alter what I have to say one iota in the interests of commercial success. If The Floater at last brings me the literary recognition I so crave, then my life will be sweet beyond my wildest imagination. But if it doesn’t, I am already richer and wiser for having conceived each of my three "babies"—however unmarketable they may be.

Posted by Sheryl Sorrentino.

 
« Newer posts
Older posts »
 

Sheryl Sorrentino: Real Fiction for Real Women™


Sheryl Sorrentino is a practicing attorney by day who unexpectedly discovered her passion for writing after learning of a long-deceased half-brother in 2007. She is the author of five novels (Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz; An Unexpected Exile; The Floater; Stage Daughter and Stop & Frisk) with a sixth (Smarter Than That) slated for release Spring of 2017. She lives with her husband and teenage daughter in the San Francisco Bay Area. You can learn more about Sheryl Sorrentino by visiting her Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/sheryl.sorrentino#!/pages/Sheryl-Sorrentino/249323025094995. Follow Sheryl on Twitter at @SherylSorrentin.

Tags

Categories