I was Googling myself the other day. Actually, it was Good Friday. As an Episcopalian by upbringing (aka Catholic lite), I felt this was the only appropriate way to observe so solemn an occasion.

And what did I find? On the Barnes and Noble listing for Phyllida, an absolute rave review, the kind that an author dares to imagine only in her most narcissistic dreams.

I braced myself for the shattering crack of doom as the earth stood still and all of creation went flying (as in the H.G. Wells story, "The Man Who Could Work Miracles"). Nothing. I then flapped aimlessly around my apartment, unable to sit still in front of my computer, wondering why I was still inhabiting this middle-aged body and had not yet sprouted wings or been teleported into the fifth dimension to sip nectar and be fed ambrosia by beautiful, half-naked, bisexual young men.

When it was clear I wasn't headed for Mount Olympos, I e-mailed everybody in my address book and called those people who might not come over to my apartment and bash me on the head for starting their weekend off with unseemly gloating and boasting. On Monday, I figured, I would be deluged by the alerted media. I'd better get my beauty sleep, wash my hair. Perhaps Botox or a face-lift was in order. And was it possible to get a full set of dental implants over Easter?

But what do you know? Monday came and life went on as before. One thing is different. I can now die happy. I have written the book I wanted to write. I have managed to get it published without having to change it. And I have received a well written rave review from a reviewer who sees the book as I would like it to be seen and expresses her opinion with concise, literate style.

To wish for anything more might be seen as...ungrateful. And so I thank you, Cynthia Johnson, reviewer for Library Journal. I thank everyone at HarperCollins who made this possible. And I thank my friends and coworkers who have endured the ongoing saga of the perils of Phyllida, the trials and tribulations of authorship and publishing, with forbearance and even the remarkable ability to feign interest. Thank you all.

If you'd like to read the complete review, here's the link to the Fiction reviews of the March 15 issue of Library Journal:

http://www.libraryjournal.com/article/CA6541458.ht ml?q=ann+herendeen

It seems fitting that on January 1st of what I hope will be a very good year, I acknowledge my hard-won and new-found identity: a writer.

Some people may say that, having written a book and been lucky enough to find a publisher, I am already a writer. That’s nice, and I’m grateful for the easy acceptance, but coming out, whether in its more familiar form of sexual identity or, in my case, a broader category, is just that: self-definition. And it has taken me many months of introspection to decide that, Yes, I have become a writer.

Why the lapse of time between the actual writing and the adoption of the identity? Mostly it’s to do with why I wrote Phyllida in the first place. I didn’t think of it as “writing,” in the way that so many of the great writers have known from childhood that that’s who they were, that’s what they wanted to do. No, I wrote this story because it was a way to express my innermost self and desires, as I couldn’t by just living or being, and in the form that I enjoy most: an entertaining, absorbing novel. I did want to write it well, because that matters more to me than anything when I read: the author’s style, the way he or she engages me with character and narrative so that I become oblivious to everything else and just experience the story, unaware that what I am doing is reading in the deepest sense and that the person who is giving me this wonderful gift is in fact a writer.

It is frequently said, half humorously (and by me in all seriousness), that there will soon be more writers than readers. What has brought about this change? The computer, of course. Nowadays, in order to put one’s strung-together words out there for others to read, we don’t have to be accepted by a publisher or pass the inspection of an editor. We can blog and keep online journals to our hearts’ content, “self-publish” and subsidy publish and print-on-demand. Please note that I am not criticizing, merely defining. After all, I was one of those subsidy-published POD people myself at this time last year.

Just because I typed words into a computer, words that will soon be “printed” in some way onto paper and bound into books that will be sold, among other places, in bookstores, didn’t immediately make me feel that I had joined the exalted ranks of writers. There is a great deal of typing into computers that does not, in my dictionary, qualify as actual “writing.” Sexy or sensational content alone does not turn boring, badly constructed and unreadable prose into writing. A blog, a journal or memoir is not necessarily writing, although of course there are many excellent ones being written every day, by genuine, gifted writers.

But sometime during the past two months, going through the “refiner’s fire” of copy editing and proofreading, and, most important, writing the essay for the back of the book that will explain the history behind the story, I discovered that I was beginning to feel like a writer. The turning point came when I finished the essay, knew that it was good, and had my opinion confirmed by my editor. Yes, I thought. I can do this. It’s not just what I do—it’s who I am.

I invite all of you who have made it all the way through this New Year’s Day post: please raise a glass of, by this time, Hair-of-the-Dog of your choice and celebrate with me. I am a writer. And I thank you for being my readers. You have given me the greatest gift of all: Confirmation.

Nothing original here. I have encountered two quotations that encapsulate everything that is going on with me, so thought I'd post them.

The first is the famous Epicurean "Riddle of Evil." I heard it on Jonathan Miller's show on Channel 13, A brief History of Disbelief. Epicurus did not consider himself an atheist. But anyone who is an atheist, like me, will surely have gone through this same thought process:

If God is willing to prevent evil, but is not able to / Then He is not omnipotent.
If He is able, but not willing / Then He is malevolent.
If He is both able and willing / Then whence cometh evil?
If He is neither able nor willing / Then why call Him God?

The second quote is from the novelist Reynolds Price, posted in the blog of Theresa Duncan, a video-game designer and filmmaker, who killed herself recently. I read about this in today's New York Times:

"A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo sapiens--second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter."

There are smart people all around us, thinking and saying and writing intelligent things. There's no need to croak ourselves--only connect.

In my last posts I was discussing the idea of “selling myself,” that is, talking about personal issues unrelated to my writing in an attempt to sell my book. After all, a work of fiction by an unknown author just isn’t going to sell, is it? So why not talk about issues unique to me, in an attempt to generate interest in me, the author, since there can be only limited interest in my book?
( Read more... )

In my last entry (some time ago) I expressed vitriolic self-hatred over having discussed my disability/deformity against my better judgment in an attempt to generate interest for my book, "Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander : a bisexual Regency romance." I compared myself, in scathing metaphorical language, to the most degraded kind of prostitute.

Since then, perhaps by coincidence, I have learned that three people I know are in some way involved with outreach to sex workers, or are involved with organizations that support sex workers.

I feel that an apology on my side is on order, and long overdue.
( Read more... )

At the age of 51 I sold myself for the first time. Not sexually—no, much worse than that. In an interview about me and my book, “Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander: a Bisexual Regency Romance,” I answered questions about a deformity/disability of my hands. Yes, I am now officially a member of the club of those who paint with their feet and play the piano with their nose. From now on, my book won't be funny or sexy, exciting, well written, witty or outrageous. Now it’s just “inspirational.” (Pardon me while I puke.) “Isn’t it wonderful, she typed 500-some pages with no fingers!”

But I chose to do this. I could have decided not to discuss it. So I’m a whore, a bisexual-romance-writing, bookselling whore. With no fingers.
How did this happen?
( Read more... )

Cruise control : Why Is It Libelous to Call an Action Actor Gay? by Richard Goldstein. May 9 - 15, 2001 Village Voice

http://www.villagevoice.com/news/0119,goldstein,24573,1.html

I read this article by Richard Goldstein what--5 years ago now? It's been in my head all this time, and despite the exponential growth in verbiage on this and similar subjects since, I still think it captures what's going on with me and my writing better than anything.

"A homo who holds a gun." Sigh. Yeah, that's what I want. I want the queer Russell Crowe, the gay James Bond, the action hero whose idea of action is being the top to some other guy's bottom.

"It's not uncommon for straight women to fantasize about gay men." Uh huh. Even bisexual women. And bisexual men. My fantasy is to have the macho gay guy who's bisexual only with me. What I do apart from him is none of his business, although I can promise this: if he's man enough, it won't be other men.

( Read more... )

OK, if you’re reading this, I finally did it—started my blog.

I know, me and 20 gazillion others, this week. But it’s a big deal for me. It’s the first sustained writing I will have done for over a year, since I finished writing my bisexual Regency romance novel, “Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander.”

“What?” you ask. “What is that—a bisexual Regency romance?” (At least, I hope you’re asking.)

The easy answer is to check out my Web site, where all is made clear: www.annherendeen.com With any luck, this blog will soon be linked to the site anyway, but until then, please, please, please check it out. The site is all about the book, and the book is beautiful, sexy, intelligent and funny, just like Phyllida herself, the heroine of the novel. It’s a romance, so yes, she’s the “heroine,” not simply the “title character” or “protagonist” or some other wimpy literary term. (And btw, her name is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable, like Phyllis, only longer).

Now, back to your question. The Regency is the period in English history from 1811 to 1820 when the future George IV acted as Prince Regent for his father, George III (yes, he was still alive, about 150 years old, sick and incapacitated). You don’t care? So why ask?

Oh, I see, you want to know about the bisexual part. Terrific! That’s exactly what I want to talk about. ( Read more... )