Stumbling Toward the Buddha - A Sure-footed Debut

Dawn Downey's memoir, Stumbling Toward the Buddha, Tripping Over my Principles on the Road to Transformation, is a lovely collection of linked essays that explore her search for meaning in her life. What is enlightenment anyway? Dawn asks, as she sits meditation on retreat and struggles with her fears and doubts. Fears of driving and getting lost (a perfect metaphor perhaps). Doubts about who her parents were and whether she can trust her own muddled memories of growing up amid family violence and neglect.

I am proud to have worked with Dawn as she perfected this exquisite memoir.

Anyone who has ever sought to understand him- or herself will find Stumbling Toward the Buddha both familiar and enlightening.

At Avila once again. And thoughts on writing.

It's hard to believe, but my writing buddies and I have been coming to Avila Beach to write every six months for nearly seven years. We are back this week, and it is a time I relish for the quiet, the serenity, the opportunity to get away from my office and client work for a few days and focus on my own writing projects.

It's beautiful up here, as usual. We always come up in April and October. Sometimes it's chilly and foggy; often it's sunny and warm. Today it has been both: chill fog this morning dissipating to warmth and sun this afternoon.

The hotel we stay in is on the ocean, so anytime a walk on the beach beckons, you can have your toes in the sand within minutes.

This is a time to breathe deeply, to ponder, to journal, to figure out a writing problem. I'm working on two book proposals, and also planning to write two book reviews and several blog posts. 

I've been reading Jon Katz's Bedlam Farm Journal recently. He posts several times a day, and even after only a few weeks I feel I know him and his artist wife, Maria. And I feel I am on a first-name basis with his dogs, Frieda, Red and Lenore, the three donkeys, the sheep, and the barn cats Flo and Minnie.

These past few weeks, Jon has shared the drama of Minnie's run-in with a wild animal of some kind.  Her leg was severely injured, broken and mutilated, and Jon and Maria had to decide whether to have Minnie euthanized or have her leg amputated. I've followed the story each day, from their decision to amputate the leg through the surgery and, now, Minnie's recovery back at home.

For the first time in her life, Minnie's in the house, and getting used to the luxuries there. They plan to return her to her life as a barn cat, once she's healed, but I'm wondering if Minnie will choose otherwise. 

Meanwhile, Jon writes about the dogs and the sheep, the donkeys and the vagaries of small-farm life, all the while documenting his posts with his photographs. 

Over the weekend he blogged about his visit to the University of Tulsa, where he taught a workshop on memoir. (He's the author of 12 books, most of them memoirs and most involving dogs.) 

The literary crowd didn't take much to his assertion that he is writing memoir now essentially through his blog. Agents and traditional publishing are things of the past, he told them. 

I can't say I disagree with him. I enjoy writing in my journal every day. From now on, I will share more of my thoughts in this space as well. If you're a writer, you have to write, even if the old formats fall away and a new world of online publishing takes its place. 

The old system of unfettered gatekeepers has crumbled in all genres, which may turn out to be a very good thing. I know it is for readers, who now have unlimited access to writing that previously might not have made the cut. Some of it may be awful, yes, but there will always also be those singular treasures that no one in traditional publishing was willing to take a risk on. I trust this will be as good for writers as it is for readers. I believe it will be. Time will be the judge. Meanwhile, I'm willing to take a chance on the new world order.  

The Editor Gets Edited

When I began to write my memoir six years ago, I did not imagine how long it would take, or how much give and take, and revision, would be involved.

I finished a complete draft of About Face, A Journey to Self, in November 2012. Sent it off to my agent thinking I was done. But I was in for a surprise. I had worked for five years, tinkering, revising, sweating over every verb and noun, not to mention the structure and tone. Buy my agent said, “Why don’t you have a professional editor look it over; there are some repetitive passages, and it’s always good to have another set of eyes on a manuscript.”  

How could I refuse? I had had a handful of trusted colleagues read the manuscript, but I hadn't paid a professional editor to edit it.  Even though I myself edit books, I also know that everyone - everyone - needs to be edited. But who would I choose? I knew many exceptional editors, but I didn’t want to hire someone who knew me and my work.

I thought of the teachers at Antioch University Los Angeles, where I studied for my MFA in creative writing. I didn’t want to hire anyone I had worked with directly, but there was an adjunct professor in fiction – Christine Hale – whose residency workshops were exceptional. I emailed her: “Do you do developmental editing?”

She said no, but her husband did. Mc McIlvoy is a retired creative writing professor and founder of the Warren Wilson low-residency MFA program, where he still teaches. He has been editing books for thirty years.

We talked on the phone, and I realized his philosophy on editing was closely aligned with my own. I hired him the next day.

For the past four months we have worked on my memoir. I sent my original manuscript, which he critiqued. Then we talked for an hour. I went back to revising, and sent it back to him a month later. Overall he read the work three times, and we talked about his suggested changes and my revisions twice more.

Throughout, I was variously encouraged, despairing, exhausted, sick to death of it, and ultimately, thrilled with the result. The book has become the memoir I had envisioned it could be, and I needed Mc’s keen eyes and sensibilities to help me get it there. It is fuller, deeper, longer – and revising it involved copious amounts of wine and tears.

Each time we’d talk, Mc would say, “Now, where can you go a little deeper with your mother … (your dad) … (your surgeon).”

He made structural suggestions that strengthened and bolstered the narrative. He offered precise comments throughout that guided me to specific places that needed attention. He was unerringly supportive and encouraging. I think he walks on water, and I highly recommend him. Moreover, I will return to him with future books. (Here is his website.)

I sent the revision off to my agent last week. We’ll see what he thinks. Meanwhile, wish me luck. And keep writing!

The Publishing Times, They are A-changing

Recently one of my clients read on Facebook that I had gotten an agent for my memoir.

“I’m curious about where you stand today on the subject of self-publishing vs. the traditional route,” he wrote. “Your advice to me a couple of years ago was this: Turn to self-publishing when the other options have been exhausted. It was good, clear advice, and I’m glad I followed it and got an agent rather than self-publishing. But the landscape has changed since then. Would you give the same advice today?”

Hmm. In a word, no.

When I started to write my memoir five years ago, the publishing world was a very different place. Self-publishing was still widely considered the last resort for authors who couldn’t get a legitimate publisher to consider their work. I’ve worked with other writers for all this time as a writing coach and developmental editor, and two years ago I was still telling my clients to try the traditional route first. Today the options are so compelling and vast, I am advising my clients to consider all options, including self-pubbing from the outset.

The publishing industry is as uncertain today as at anytime in recent memory. Certainly debut authors have a harder time of it, particularly novelists. But there are so many new, innovative avenues to successful publication now that I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend self-pubbing first.

Interestingly, a recent study found that “hybrid” authors – those who publish both traditionally and as self-published authors – are making more money than either traditionally pubbed authors or self-pubbed.

Even so, when I finished my memoir, I was determined to try the traditional route first. I know a number of agents, and one in particular had encouraged me to write my story all those years ago. I had little more than a very rough first chapter then, but he read it and said, “Keep writing!” Over the ensuing years I approached the work intermittently, until two years ago I decided to pursue an MFA in creative writing, and I made my memoir my thesis. That was the key for me; just the motivation I needed to stay at it. Last fall I spent a month in Costa Rica rewriting and finishing the book. In January, I sent the manuscript off to my agent friend. And … waited.

And waited some more.

After a month I emailed him and didn’t get a response. Keep in mind a query to an agent typically would not be answered for two to three months. But I knew this agent. So I decided to go ahead and submit the book proposal to other agents. I had a good query letter. I made a list and sent it out to about 15 agents.  And … waited.

It was an exquisite lesson for me in patience and in learning to follow my own advice to my clients: Wait. Send out more queries. Don’t despair.

Man, we do, though, don’t we? Despair? Writers are champions at despair.

I finally got about a half-dozen responses, all of them very positive about the manuscript, but nearly all said they didn’t think they could sell it to a traditional publisher. I’m not a celebrity, and while I’m fairly active on social media, I don’t have the kind of platform they seek (meaning tens of thousands of friends on Facebook and followers on Twitter). Most said the memoir market has become oversaturated. While memoir sales have slowed down, it’s still a pretty robust genre, but that’s the conventional wisdom in the industry right now.

Thank goodness for my agent friend, my original cheerleader. He finally did read it and called me. He loves it. So, I am thrilled, but also going into this process with clear eyes. It’s only a first step. There’s no guarantee that an editor will love it as much as my agent does. We’ll have to discuss strategy and how long to try to sell it to a publisher. If, ultimately, it doesn’t sell, I will have to make a choice. Self-publish then? Absolutely.

Seeing the Unseen

Playa Langosta, Costa Rica

A short break in the rain and I head out for a beach walk. One of the things I’ve learned here is to look closely; you will always see something you didn’t notice before. Corkscrew shells scattered in the sand. Tiny fish darting in tide pools. Lilliputian hermit crabs in multicolored shells on the volcanic rock along the shoreline. They move so slowly as to be almost imperceptible. Yet if you squat down and look, really look, you’ll see their tiny legs sprouting from under the shell, antenna moving this way and that.

When I was at Ecocentro Danaus, I would have missed everything without Olman’s trained eye. Monos in the treetops high above. A slow-moving gorrobos climbing a tree. Sloths sleeping in the tallest branches, even with binoculars appearing as nothing more than brown blobs, perhaps birds’ nests or clusters of decaying foliage. Even when he took my shoulders and pointed me directly at whatever creature he wanted me to see, I still struggled to detect it. The green lizard in the ferns. The tiny bat hanging upside down inside a decaying banana leaf. The sleeping Fleischmann’s glass frog (once I looked, I could see its pale eyelids closed, its wee sides expanding and contracting with each rapid breath). Even the bright orange-and-blue dart frog. At first my eyes just couldn’t find it in the leaves Olman parted with his hands. Then, suddenly, it came into view, and I had to catch my breath with its beauty.

How often do we not see the things so plain to others? I realize I’ve spent most of my life not seeing. Not understanding. Unable to connect the dots. It’s almost as if I’ve spent the past seven years slowly opening my eyes. Watching my life unfold, come into stark relief, colors growing vibrant with each revelation.

It’s been painful. And the journey continues. But, finally, I am moving forward with both eyes - and my heart - wide open.

Costa Rica in the Rain

It’s spring in Costa Rica, and there’s a reason they call it the wet season. It’s been raining almost non-stop for two days. Driving, reverberating downpours. Monsoon-like washings that seem to cleanse the soul as much as the air. I look out at the sea and watch it roil, brown sand billowing up with each crest of wave.

This is a beautiful country. I am in Guanacaste, on the north Pacific coast, and while it’s lush and green now, by February it will be hot, dry and dusty. In almost every case, the only way to get anywhere is to go through San Jose, the capital in the middle of the country. All roads lead from there to every place else for the most part. As a consequence, most travelers fly to and from the major tourist areas through San Jose.

When I arrived, I took a bus from San Jose to Playa Langosta, where I am staying, a six-hour drive. It was a great way to see the countryside. Major roads are paved, for the most part. But many are dirt (or mud) and there doesn’t seem to be any urgency to pave them. In Tamarindo, the small pueblo nearby, the road alternates between dirt and broken pavement, and the dirt road features great maws of pot holes scattered with rocks. Still, the small taxis (mostly some kind of tiny Toyota) blast through at breakneck speed.

Everyone drives all over the road, edging out into traffic without regard for oncoming cars, beeping horns that no one seems to pay any attention to. Small dogs, thin, brown or black, with tall ears and long tails, run freely across the roads and loll in the front yards of tiny haciendas painted bright colors. Horses and cattle graze on the sides of the road between the pavement and the fences, oblivious to traffic.

“In my country, the horses are on the other side of the fence,” I told Olman, my driver, and he laughed.

People are warm and generous. Every taxi driver asks (in varying degrees of comprehensible Ingles) how many children I have and how old they are. Where I am from. How long I am here. Where I’ve been. My Espanol is limited, but somehow we manage to communicate. Olman speaks exceptional Ingles, so when we went to Arenal Volcano, in central Cosa Rica, I got a two-day lesson in Espanol.

“Como se dice, What is the name of this town?” I asked.

“Como se llama, a qui? (How do you call this place?) o Cuantos el nombre esta pueblo? (What is the name of this town?)”

"Como se dice, I went to the Arenal Volcano and was lucky. I saw lots of animals?”

“Yo fue volcan Arenal y tuve mucho suerte. Puede ver mucho animales.”

“Okay, si. Gracias.”

And so it went all the way over and back.

Except for the cook and maid (neither of whom speak more than a few words of Ingles), I’ve been alone for the past five days and I’m feeling a little homesick. Last night I Skyped with my friend, Leah, who is staying at my house, and got to see my dog, Chevella. That cheered me up.

I head home in just eight days, and the best news is my memoir is almost complete. It was the reason I came to Central America, and finishing it feels like reaching a huge milestone after working on it for almost five years, mostly in fits and starts. In December, I graduate from Antioch University, Los Angeles, with a master of fine art degree in creative writing. After all that’s happened since 2005, the past two years seem like a flickering light, a reverie, a bright sliver of reassurance that life can be good, it can be hopeful, indeed, joyful.