Sheryl Sorrentino

In exactly three weeks, I will disrupt my life, spend a bunch of money I can ill afford (and nine days I don't have to spare), and drag my nearly twelve-year-old daughter on a redeye to visit my two brothers, whom I haven’t seen since 2009. Whereas the first few years after our father died, I spoke to them fairly regularly (mostly getting sucked into the dramatic vortex constantly spinning out of control in their respective lives), these last few years I seem to have moved to a different place in my own life—one where I don’t have as much time or patience for steady doses of predictable negativity. In the intervening three years, my focus has intensified, what with trying to make a living in this persistent recession, writing three novels, and now trying to market them on a shoestring while simultaneously nurturing my (thankfully) thriving law practice.

And yet, off to New York I will go, to blistering humidity and the physical discomfort and psychic assault of people and circumstances I wisely fled 23 years ago—even though my husband is dead-set against me spending my scarce family vacation time and limited financial resources visiting folks he considers undeserving of me. That “vicious argument” we had where we didn’t speak for days (see “Natural Energy Enhancers – May 19)? It was over my taking this trip.

So why am I going? Because those lovable idiots are family. Because family matters—however crazy, dysfunctional or messed up they are. Does this mean we allow them to ruin our lives or steal our hard-won happiness? Hell no! What it means, to me anyway, is that we don’t cut them off completely unless they've crossed that clear line into abusive territory. And persistent lameness, self-victimization and constant calamity do not qualify as abuse in my book, even if I find such character flaws unnerving, and whether or not they warrant any degree of compassion.

What my husband doesn't seem to get is that these blood connections are inherently meaningful. They root us to a particular corner of this vastly indifferent ball we call earth. If we're lucky, we create more satisfying connections as adults. But those first people—in my case the two unruly boys who terrorized me in the dark donning scary Halloween masks, and pushed me around in a stroller as a three-year-old, then let that stroller roll down the steep driveway and out into the middle of a busy street, these are the people who, for better or worse, share my earliest miseries from a parallel—if markedly different—universe. Like tumors, if they were malignant or cancerous, I'd expunge them at all cost. But since they are merely benign, I choose to live with my lumps—and even massage them every once in awhile, just to know they’re still okay.

Shortly after my dad died, I had occasion to speak to an old boss who had been somewhat aware of the trauma and drama infecting my relationship with my father practically from day one. I bemoaned the fact that I had left so many conflicts unresolved at the time of his passing. My former boss’s response? “But at least you were dealing with him. That much is good.”

There is pure wisdom in those words. We can run—and even hide—from the parts of our life we don’t especially like. Or—chin up—we can take care of business and deal with them consciously and with integrity. That way, when our (or our family members') time inevitably comes, perhaps we won’t have quite so many regrets to whine about.

Because I believe so strongly in my third novel, The Floater, and want to see it take off once it’s finally launched, I did something different this time around—I invited four people whose opinions I trust to read a proof copy and give me feedback on the story itself. By now—nearly a year after the launch of my first novel, Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, I trust that my writing is respectable (if not brilliant). But I’ve come a long way since releasing LWM; two novels later, I have a much better appreciation of just how tricky it is to craft and weave an engaging and vibrant work of fiction. Lacking any formal training or background in that sort of thing, I wanted to dip a toe in the water, so to speak, before taking my third plunge.

I got comments from one of my four victims last Wednesday. We met for lunch at Metro Montclair in Oakland. I felt as though I had shown up for the first parent-teacher conference of a new school year when he told me that, although my angel does shine (proud mama smile), she also has a few flaws we needed to discuss (smile quickly fades). Seriously? I’d already let my trusted best friend read an early manuscript. I then subjected myself to “slash and burn” editing by another friend and fellow writer (see “More on the Editing Process: The Thin Line Between Taking it on the Chin vs. Up the You-Know-What” posted on April 21). All I’d wanted was a reality check as to whether my story sucked, not a chapter-by-chapter underscoring of every spot where seams might be loose or frayed due to poor design or excess flab. Moments away from launching, I get this?

I furiously scribbled notes between spoiled bites of otherwise delicious seared sea scallops accompanied by fava beans, "sea beans" (sorry Metro, they looked and tasted like yellow green beans to me), and salad with champagne vinaigrette (on the side, naturally). It was quite a satisfying repast, even if, along with the food, I swallowed a complimentary order of bitter pills brought to the table by special request.

But you know something? I already knew these weak spots existed; they had gnawed at me from early on. And yet, I’d let them slide, opting to live with less-than-perfect work because I couldn’t figure out how to rectify them. Once we got to really talking about this handful of shortcomings (passing on dessert menus, thank you), some inspiring insights came to me as to how I might correct these deficiencies. And they're rather simple fixes, really. Now I can’t wait to snap on those rubber gloves and get back to polishing.

I’ll be curious what my other test readers have to say. Hopefully, I won’t go through this drill three more times! But rest assured, if I get further important feedback, I will do the necessary work to incorporate it. Unlike pregnancy, in the world of self-publishing, there's no such thing as “overdue.” But when birthing novels, there sure is such a thing as “premature.” I can feel The Floater kicking in my gut, so I know I must be in the early stages of labor. And while the last push is always hardest, when this thing comes out, I promise you’re gonna love her!

It is no secret all three of my novels contain explicit sex. In Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, I recount in graphic and disturbing detail twelve-year-old Millie’s exploits with five grown men. In An Unexpected Exile, I portray sizzling, obsessive sex that progressively pushes the envelope from passion to abuse (and by the end of the novel, unmistakably crosses that thin line). And in The Floater (coming later this summer), I explore and expose intimacy issues between a man and a woman through unambiguous renderings of their love life that leave little to the imagination.

Why do I do this? I have asked myself this question perhaps a hundred times. Sex scenes make me squirm. They turn me on, and turn my face red, even as I write and rewrite them. And yet, I want my readers to have this same reaction, which is why these particular paragraphs are the ones I craft most painstakingly and pore over most arduously. But I worry, do they brand my work pornographic?

According to Wikipedia, pornography (or “porn”) is the explicit portrayal of sexual subject matter (well, they've got me there!). But wait—Wikipedia goes on to elucidate the distinction between erotica (“the portrayal of sexuality with high-art aspirations, focusing also on feelings and emotions”) and pornography (“the depiction of acts in a sensational manner, with the entire focus on the physical act, so as to arouse quick intense reactions”). I don’t know whether my sex scenes fall into the category of “erotica”—Millie’s certainly do not. But I believe (and hope) that my characters’ plain-spoken sexual experiences will evoke intense emotions in readers, as they are meant to do.

And when it comes to sex, what a difference a “showing” makes (not to mention first person vs. third)! Four out of five of Millie’s encounters take place in real time (the first being recounted from the therapist’s couch, and through flashback). This, in no small measure, accounts for the intensity of my debut novel, right along with Lee's deranged outbursts. In my second novel, An Unexpected Exile, Risa recalls many of her sexual episodes with Arturo after the fact, a deliberate device on my part that has garnered me accusations of too much “telling” and not enough “showing.” Likewise, two out of three of Norma and Oscar’s couplings in The Floater are depicted through the prism of Norma’s memory (again, intentional), while the third and perhaps most climactic (no pun intended) unfolds in the present moment before readers’ eyes.

If these scenes evoke intense reactions, then I have done my job as a writer. In Millie’s case, the revulsion a reader feels witnessing her voluntary defilement is precisely the point. In Risa’s, I want readers, like my protagonist, to be turned on by the undercurrent of control, manipulation and—eventually—outright violence proffered by a passionate-yet-unbalanced new love interest. If this strategy works, it should offer insight into Risa’s haplessness, and oblige readers to forgive her more obvious errors in judgment where Arturo is concerned. As for Norma, when The Floater is released, I want readers to see, feel, and taste what she experiences when, for the first time in her life, she gives herself to a man she truly, deeply loves but who, by his very ardent and straightforward nature, pushes her vulnerable psychic buttons.

I’ve come to a contented realization: Like all good art, skilled writing is about stirring emotions and eliciting primal reactions. Authors do this by calculatedly choosing what they want to portray through their work, then distinctively selecting and formulating words to paint this series of unique pictures. I want my books to provide readers both an emotional and sensual experience on a visceral level; in some instances, this means veering into the sexual. Sex is as much a part of life as eating, eliminating, and dying (all of which also have a place in my novels). So I go there for the sake of both authenticity and artistry. And if, as I immodestly like to think, I am creating art through my writing, isn’t that precisely what I should do?

Those pesky typos. You've tried proofing your work, and spell-checking it. And yet, typographical errors pepper your book's pages like a stubborn heat rash that won’t go away.

Why does this happen? First, the eyes have a propensity to see what they want to see. Just as we overlook a few blemishes (be they skin-deep or deeply rooted) when we first become smitten by a new love interest, so do our eyes play tricks on us when we proofread our beloved manuscript. We simply don’t see flaws readily enough, and must therefore repeatedly read and re-read, allowing enough time between sittings to catch most—if not all—of them. A prospective partner’s imperfections will only reveal themselves over time and under varying circumstances; likewise, the blotches on our work remain well-hidden until we can examine it with fresh, objective eyes and in different print formats. That is why previously unnoticed errors can crop up in our newly-published book, seemingly for the first time.

Secondly, our brains have an uncanny ability to “fill in the blanks.” You’ve all seen those trick sentences where your mind automatically inserts a missing letter or word. Despite our most vigilant efforts, our brains are programmed to overlook misspelled, misused, or missing text. And while most readers' brains work the same way (fortunately!), there will always be those who pick up on these errors and omissions.

Finally, typographical errors are like amoeba. They reproduce themselves while you are not looking. Each time you think you’ve gotten 'em all, you haven’t. In fact, whenever you fix, move, or change anything in one place, you create the potential for new errors to pop up—there and elsewhere. It's not unlike playing a rigged game of whack-a-mole.

When you consider these sobering facts, you may want to abandon the effort altogether. Please don't! The quest for literary perfection is a noble crusade, even if, despite our best efforts, a few stray typos will inevitably infect our finished product. We can all take some comfort in knowing that this phenomenon is true even for traditionally published books; however, we shouldn't construe that as a license to allow an excessive number of glaring errors to gain permanent residency in our self-published ones.

So how many typos are acceptable in a self-published book? At what point must we pull our baby from circulation and purge those little buggers? Obviously, this is a highly personal choice, but there seem to be two schools of thought on the matter. The first posits that even one mistake is one too many (an unattainably high standard for even the finest publishing houses). The second supposes that a dozen or more typos in a manuscript containing 450,000-some-odd characters represents a miniscule error rate that ought to be forgiven, if not completely overlooked. And when you consider that a typical self-published author cannot afford the cost of professional editing and proofreading (and even if we can afford it, we'll never recoup that investment from the few hundred sales we can expect our titles to garner—if we're lucky!), a measure of clemency certainly seems warranted.

Personally, I fall somewhere between these two extremes, but I do believe that perfection—while elusive—is a goal worth striving for. As writers, we are supposed to be experts at communicating and entertaining via the written word. And like any other type of professional, an occasional, minor mistake is pardonable, because we are human and humans are imperfect creatures. But at a certain point, too many blunders render our work shoddy and unprofessional. Face it, people lay out good money to read what they expect to be nearly pristine prose—it’s what separates the pros from the schlocks. I hate to say that, but it's true. Errors detract from both content and craft. Would you continue to bring your legal work to an attorney who turned out sloppy documents over and over again? Would you patronize an auto mechanic who repeatedly failed to tune your car properly, or a doctor who misdiagnosed your symptoms one time too many? Readers expect us writers to get it just right, and rightfully so.

To my eye, three or four negligible mistakes in a book should be overlooked; anything more than half-a-dozen is too many. I realize I am perhaps in the neurotic minority, but I notice typos; they distract me. And while I can pass over the first few bloopers if I’m enjoying the story and the writer's unique style, if the errors keep on coming, you will start to lose me, no matter how engaging or artfully-worded the tale might otherwise be. Seeing as how a self-published volume can usually be pulled and fixed within 48 hours, I personally feel that we self-publishing authors owe it to the reading public—and to ourselves—to clean up the boo-boos as soon as we are made aware of them. I know it sucks to take down a "live" product page—I’ve done it myself, more than once. And, yes, I realize this might cost us some sales, especially if the "pull" is ill-timed. But for me, losing out on a few royalty dollars and causing a teensy, temporary loss of goodwill is preferable to knowingly permitting more flawed copies of my book to enter the marketplace, thereby causing an even greater, permanent loss of goodwill when readers are disappointed with their purchases.

Though we all know mistakes happen, too many of them can mean the difference between being taken seriously as a writer, and being written off as a pretender. And while each writer must decide when not to cross that invisible line, in literature as in life, errors are almost always worth correcting. At lease thats this righters opinon. (Smile.)

I am planning a trip to New York this summer to visit my two brothers. (For those of you who have read Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, think: Stanley and Jake, only ten times more jaded, negative, and income-challenged). I don’t typically use my blogs to rant, but today, I will make an exception because I am once again dumbfounded by just how low the human race will stoop.

Before I even subject myself and my eleven-year-old daughter to the intrusion, humiliation, and Constitutional violation of a full-body airport scan (because some deranged fiend with an axe to grind might sew a gelatinous bomb in the flap of his underwear), I’ve got to find a place for us to stay. Hotels don’t cut it with me, given my adhesion to a daily food plan that requires shopping and cooking, or my dedication to a 3:00 a.m. writing schedule. I am trying to locate a clean “vacation-rental-by-owner” in a safe neighborhood. In past visits, this has not proven difficult. I’d go on Craigslist, scour the many available options proffered by decent folks with a basement or attic to rent, send my brother to check it out for me beforehand, and we'd be on our way. For three years running, we stayed at the home of a lovely family who, unfortunately, had to sell their house and downscale due to the recession.

Well, the landscape certainly has changed since 2007 (the last time I had to locate vacation housing). Since then, Craigslist has become a lion's den of scam artists posting fake pictures of pristine apartments supposedly corresponding to addresses of properties which, if they exist at all, the poster doesn't happen to own. These crooks demand half the rent and cleaning deposit up-front via Western Union. Then, when I and my daughter show up with luggage in tow, ring the doorbell, and are greeted by a family with no clue who in the hell I am, or what I and my suitcases are doing at their front door interrupting their dinner, well, I guess the joke will be on me. What started out as a free community forum to bring people together to fulfill mutually beneficial goals has become warped by online bandits preying on innocent travelers. And let's not forget the car thieves, rapists and murderers who have posted or answered Craiglist ads. I am truly saddened that the sickest minds among us now utilize Craigslist to lure innocent victims into their felonious traps.

If that were not bad enough, I spoke on the phone with my brother yesterday, whose latest awful story about New York and its denizens concerned a middle-aged, Hispanic woman who was hit by a bus outside the fruit market where he regularly shops. I have been to that market myself while visiting, and can attest that this is not a particularly rough neighborhood where one has to be on guard. Anyway, the woman tumbled onto the asphalt, her handbag and melons went flying in every direction, and not one person attempted to help her, despite her bleeding elbow, swollen ankle or disoriented state. According to him, most fled indoors or simply went about their business. A few gawked. Nobody retrieved her bag or her groceries. He calmed the woman down, called 9-1-1 from his cell phone, and made sure that her purse and parcels made it into the ambulance with her. While I am proud of my brother for stepping up, it also chills me to think that if I am hit by a bus—or befallen by some other calamity—while in New York, it is entirely possible not one Good Samaritan will come to my aid.

What is wrong with people? The leeches among us are sufficiently intelligent to constantly devise new-and-improved ways of ripping us off using the latest technology. Why can’t they use those same smarts to figure out ways to make an honest living? Because, simply stated, they take pleasure in causing harm to fellow humans. This goes beyond the anonymous theft of money, which is bad enough; these scam artists wreak havoc on people’s vacations, leaving them high-and-dry with no place to stay when they arrive at destinations far from home. In the meantime, a random sampling of New Yorkers suggests we have become so apathetic or afraid, we can’t be bothered placing an emergency phone call for—much less offering assistance or comfort to—a woman injured before our very eyes. Please tell me we are not that pathetic.

Until now, I’ve avoided blogging on the touchy topic of abortion, even though it plays a major role in my first novel, Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz. So many troublesome issues come into play in that book, not the least of which is whether it is okay for a too-young mother-to-be to give birth to a child she cannot possibly care for (and which she wants for all the wrong reasons).

My friends know that I am staunchly pro-choice—with one significant reservation. I acknowledge there is a moral issue underpinning each woman’s decision whether to have an abortion—that being the calculated taking of human life, however nascent, and do not appreciate certain people deliberately omitting this fact from the debate, as I feel it is disingenuous. Putting aside Millie Moskowitz’s tender age (she is twelve years old when faced with this harrowing dilemma), I believe if a woman places that moral precept above all else in choosing to have her baby—whether for religious reasons, hormonal ones, or simply to “err on the side of life” when faced with uncertainty, this is a valid and defensible choice that we, as a society, should support.

My husband begs to differ. He feels there is a bigger moral issue at stake—that of bringing an unwanted life into this world. He believes it wrong to do so even if the woman plans to give her baby up for adoption—especially then. He claims there is no greater moral travesty than to give life to unwanted offspring with the intention of turning that child over to strangers—or worse, the “system”—to raise. What about the many loving, stable couples who cannot have children of their own, you ask? No matter, according to my spouse. There are—and will always be—too many children orphaned or otherwise needing homes that we do not need to deliberately bring more unwanted life into this world. He believes this is selfish, short-sighted, and fallacious.

As an unwelcome (and ostracized) product of his mother’s adultery, perhaps my hubby has a unique slant on this issue. But as a man, I am not sure he gets an equal vote on the moral nuances of carrying and birthing another human being (any more than those obdurate, right-wing, male “pro-lifers” among us). Be that as it may, I was shocked to learn that my guy is even more “pro-choice” than I (if by “pro-choice” we mean choosing to terminate a pregnancy vs. continue it when the child is unwanted or cannot be cared for by its own mother)!

We raged on this issue for the better part of an hour, I insisting that it is always justifiable to err in favor of life if a woman so chooses; he adamantly arguing otherwise. In the end, we agreed to disagree.

In a future post, I will tackle another divisive topic: Parental rights. In Later With Myself, twelve-year-old Millie is pressured by her parents to have an abortion she does not want. As the mother of a daughter now Millie’s age, I am particularly conflicted by this facet of an already thorny issue.

According to Wikipedia, nearly 40 years after the events in Later With Myself took place, 35 states require some type of parental involvement in a minor's decision to have an abortion ( 22 require one or both parents’ consent; 11 require notification of one or both parents; and two require both consent and notification before an elective abortion can be performed on a minor—see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minors_and_abortion). Of the remaining 15, only four states require neither parental consent nor notification (the remainder apparently have consent or notification laws on the books that are “enjoined,” which I assume means suspended or not enforced).

What do you think? Please leave a comment. And please check out Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz, available on amazon.com. http://www.amazon.com/Later-With-Myself-Misadventures-Moskowitz/dp/146354118X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1336138105&sr=8-1

As The Floater transforms itself from flat to fabulous, I’ve been pondering my next move. Do I repeat my less-than-fulfilling experience with self-publishing? Or should I query a few (or a few hundred) agents in the hope that one might take me on?

Let’s look at the pros and cons:

On the one hand, as soon as I hit the “send” button and fire off my first query to a faceless agent in New York, I’ve handed over the keys to my fate and signed on for a wild, emotional roller-coaster ride. Literary agents are a busy breed; they get hundreds of unsolicited queries a day and have a plethora of possibilities to choose from. If I’m one of the lucky few who is asked for a copy of my manuscript, I’ve got to be willing to place my project in the agent’s slush pile for God-knows-how long. So, if I embark down this road, I must be willing to see my plans for releasing The Floater this summer derailed. And that's only a small taste of things to come.

If—miracle of miracles—an agent actually brings me on board, then the fun really begins: “Oh, we can’t have Norma doing that. It will offend readers. Oscar can’t say that—it’s too Black. Mainstream publishers won’t like it. Oh no, they’ll never use that cover. It’s not original enough.” Now admittedly, I’ve never progressed far enough down the traditional publishing path to know this for a fact. But as an attorney, I understand how business works: No matter how skillful a writer one might be, you still have to provide a saleable commodity that people will want to buy. The publishing industry is no different. It’s not about an author's creative vision but all about selling books to the masses. If I’m sufficiently talented—and equally lucky—to land on a literary agent’s select roster of clients, I'd better be flexible about my work.

On the other hand, agent representation is a fiction writer’s lone route to the brass ring—that elusive and prized publishing deal. Every novelist understands this. And just about every wannabe craves that benchmark of success, even if it means turning into a hack. It tells the reading public you're a legitimate writer, whereas our self-published books, however praiseworthy they may be, always leave room for doubt. This is why, no matter how much we might try to deny it, we long for an agent's seal of approval somewhere deep within our souls. We're no different than Norma Reyes, who despite having earned her law degree from a fourth-tier school, covets a slot at a top-notch firm. And like Norma, if we’re unwilling to “bend over and spread ‘em” for a shot (however slim) at the big time, then we’d do ourselves and those agents a favor by taking back the reins and giving our self-proclaimed masterpiece to the world one pitiful unit at a time.

I have a confession to make: I’ve queried three agents already. I’m not holding my breath, but I am holding out a glimmer of hope that The Floater is now good enough for the major leagues. We shall see.

A dear friend and fellow writer challenged me to put my manuscript where my mouth is: After she’d asked me to review her manuscript for typos and grammatical errors (and I did my signature Sorrentino slash-and-burn), she dared me to let her stick her nose into to my own, upcoming third novel, The Floater. Well, have I ever been told a thing or two (excuse me, “shown,” not “told”).

Our battle of the pens has gone something like this (I paraphrased a bit for the sake of propriety, yet I quote):

“At first, it's unthinkable. No way, it would hurt too much! It would be toooo painful. It would be . . . unbearable!

But then, you get talked into it. You tell them to take it slow. You're still afraid, but you let them try. It hurts, but you let them keep on. You cry and whine, but they keep going in deeper.

Each time, it gets easier and easier. Then it doesn't hurt so much. Then it doesn't hurt at all. Wait a minute, this is starting to feel good. Wow, that feels really good. It begins to feel so good, you start asking for it. You want it all the time. You don't want it to stop!!”

The irony of my friend’s off-color analogy is that I make two specific references to Norma Reyes going through this very thing in The Floater—one positive (regarding her increasingly intimate relationship with Oscar), and the other not-so-positive (in relation to her “leaning over and taking it” from her racist and lecherous boss). In a similar vein, I was willing to let my friend have at it, but no way was I about to bend over. I accept that “there will be blood” in the quest for literary excellence (meaning, my feelings may get hurt). But no one should tolerate gratuitous nastiness where their work, or anything else, is concerned.

So remember, if you happen to be on the “giving end” of this process, be gentle. My friend has shown me the error of Norma’s (and my) ways—while always remaining kind, encouraging, and positive. (Much more so than I was, I have to admit.) I want to thank her for that. And while Norma might not be quite ready for “prime time” (and I may be just a little worse for the wear), her feedback was masterfully delivered and has proven incredibly worthwhile.

Accepting constructive input, while humbling for sure, can also be enjoyable and enlightening, provided you relax and remain open to it. However brilliant you deem your own work, it probably won't pass the “white glove test.” If you’re lucky enough to have a friend or colleague with a discerning eye, let them give it a brushing off. (Just be sure to break out the Vaseline first.)