I got my copy today!

It's Here!

As a newly published author, I simply can't put into words( which is a shocker for me) how effing excited I am that my baby debuts tomorrow. 'Seven Days Normal' was a joy to write, and even more of a joy to edit, honing it to make it crisp and clear and the story it was meant to be. But to finally see my work in print, to be able to hold it in my hands, is, as my husband would say, the berries my friends. And in less than four hours,  all the pre orders will be shipped, and hopefully within a couple of business days, as promised by Amazon.com, my book will be in the hot little hands of readers who decided to give a sista a chance. My guts get the bubbles every time I think of that first review popping up on Amazon. Will others like it? Of course, just as no one could ever love my own children as I do, the same holds true for my book, but I do hope it will be a favorite to many. Will readers catch the message it holds? Will they feel Casy's angst? His hope? His love?
Or will they hate it?
Agghh, I cast that thought from me now!
Oh, I know I will get some negative feedback. I'm not that proud. I willingly humble myself to the cruelty of those readers out there who are hard to please. Even literary greats get their share of bad reviews. I will not delude myself into thinking that I am above such negative feedback.
But still, I haven't fully prepared myself to what I may see. Good or bad. I just really don't know how to process any of it right now, because I guess when a dream really does come true, part of you expects it to still be simply that, still just a dream, thinking, 'Did this really happen to me?'
Yes it did. I am a published author. My book debuts tomorrow.
And I truly hope for my fellow writers out there, that one day soon you can feel the same excitement, joy, and surrealism that I'm experiencing right now as your book debuts too!
I will keep you posted on the stats. NY Times Best Sellers List, anyone?
Happy writing!

Networking

I just want to pass along an epiphany I had today while speaking with NY Times best selling and multi-award winning author Jodi Thomas. She was humble enough to sit down with me at Barnes and Noble and pass along some valuable information on marketing. I got to pick her brain for about an hour, and I learned so much, and, seeing as how this blog is meant to educate fellow writers, I shall not withhold my learnings. I shall share.
My first question to her was how she marketed her first novel. It was published in 1988, before social media, or at least as we know it today. Her answer was so simple it was shocking: You put yourself out there in every way you can possibly think.
But how does one do that when you can't reach thousands via Facebook, Twitter, blogs and websites?Another simple answer: You tell everyone you know, and in turn, make sure they tell everyone they know.
In other words, network!
Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that?
I guess I did, but in our society we do that by utilizing the internet. I guess I never stepped back long enough to think it through. Or I thought it through too much, really. Yes, it is an advantage to have the internet to reach people you don't know, but don't underestimate those you do know!
Jodi told me she had friends in different cities. She would travel to each city, telling her friends to gather their friends and meet her at a local bookstore or what have you. Same worked for family. They brought their friends and their friends brought their family, and boom, she would be pleasantly surprised with a crowd, which garnered attention from strangers who were curious about said crowd. The sales of her first novel eventually took off, and bam, she became known.
So the moral of the story: don't underestimate networking through family and friends by word of mouth. Out of all I learned today, that has stuck with me the most. I made a list of towns within traveling distance which are home to friends and family. Next, I plan to contact libraries, bookstores, or even coffee shops(anywhere that will house an author desperate to make her name known), and set up dates and times to do a book signing, or even just a little 'talk' about writing or my novel. Then I will have my friends and family bring every friggin' person they know who has at least read one book in their life, and well, there you have it.
One person essentially equals ten. If I learned anything working in retail, it was that. Don't forget the power of word of mouth.
And thank you Jodi for talking to me. When I'm a big time author like you, I will gladly pass along my knowledge to those who need it, just as you did for me today. Just goes to show, we writers are in this together!

Goodreads.com giveaway

Enter for a chance to win Seven Days Normal at www.goodreads.com! Go to http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/37420-seven-days-normal

'Seven Days Normal'

Seven Days Normal is now available for pre order!!!! Go to Amazon.com or BarnesandNoble.com and search 'Jolee Wilson' and it will pull up my book and how to order it. Below I've posted a few paragraphs from the first chapter for your previewing pleasure! Hope you like. (Just a little side note- This is copyrighted and in print. So be wise and don't plagiarize!)

Detox is torture.

And rehab is the hell that houses that torture. 

It was a barren place, laden with many hideous torments, however small and tolerable compared to the largest of the afflictions- the forced departure from the chemical dependency that the cells of my body so eagerly craved. 

And perhaps always would.

Three months in rehab was my worst nightmare come true. Although, not long before admission, in the back of my anesthetized brain, I knew it was inevitable. I knew I could not go on forever in the addictive bliss heroin created. I knew that because one day it could-no would, eventually kill me. 

So the lot I found myself in, I was due, but I still didn’t want it. And God, I never wanted to go through the scourge I just put myself, or rather the judge put me through, ever again. There was no pain comparable to the pain of detoxification. I couldn’t believe I was still alive after having experienced such physical pain. The nurses didn’t even hold my hand while I puked my guts up for days on end. Some sort of sympathetic gesture would have been nice, like a pat on the back, or a simple nod of the head, wiping my chin...

 But I received none of that. It was one of the smaller torments of rehab, no one seemingly caring, only mechanically performing job duties for a paycheck, not really concerned with how I felt or if I was going to live through the pain. I was just a chart number to the white coated physicians, psychiatrists, and nurses. I wasn’t a human being in severe agony, begging for some form of help. Even death would have been a sweet release.

But alas, it didn’t take me. 

So there I sat, in the bare, spotless lobby, having paid my time, ninety days to be exact, in the Los Angeles Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Clinic. Ninety horrible days had been ripped from my life, and that which I would never get back. And at that moment sitting in the lobby, waiting for my manager to pick me up, I found no reason to will myself to exist any more.

An old man walked through the double glass doors of the clinic, bringing a fresh breeze from outside with him, which I immediately sucked into my stale lungs. The balmy California air smelled wonderful. I had forgotten how the outside world smelled, all green and fresh from the starting summer months. All I could smell anymore was the medicinal reek of the clinic. Even after three months, I hadn’t acclimated to the stench.

Funny, when I hadn’t been any where near any form of medicine. Oh no, the judge wouldn’t have any of that. After the production company filed suit on me for breach of contract, which stated I was not to show up on set under the influence, the judge penalized me with the harshest sentence he could think of: detoxification, without help in the form of medicine. I was to detoxify ‘naturally’, if you could call it that. Was there anything natural in vomiting until your eyes were blood shot? Was there anything natural in not sleeping for days at a time?  Was there anything natural in shivering so violently that your muscles throbbed poignantly?

While some received relief from the hell, I wasn’t warranted that in the judge’s eyes. His words still rung in my ears. “It’s for the best. After natural detoxification, you will never turn back to that mess.”

 But wouldn’t I?

My cells still itched for the vile chemicals. Even detoxing didn’t take the itch, the craving, away. 

Belying his aged body, the old man walked briskly to the front desk,  where a robotic like nurse sat scribbling in a chart, her expression listless. I eyed the man for a second, wondering if he was here to pick someone up, but was soon captured by the sound of the ticking clock. It mocked me.

It echoed through the waiting room, each move of its bronze hand reminding me that time wasn’t on my side, it was my enemy. It and I were in a battle of wills. It screamed at me, saying that it was only a matter of time before I, or rather the demon in me I liked to think, would turn back to its helper, its comforter-drugs. They washed the reality of who and what I was away, helped numb it, albeit temporarily. I wanted to scream back at it that I was strong, I could do it. I could beat the demon who had taken control of my soul. 

The part of me that screamed back was minuscule, infinitesimal. 

Vain to hope, and I knew it. I was losing the battle already. I was losing because I wanted to be dead. I would rather be dead than go through rehab again. I would also rather be dead than walk out of those double doors, to a world that swore it knew me, to a world that watched and analyzed my every move, to a world that held me on a ridiculous apex, a pedestal I could never live up to.  And drugs could give me that death I wanted. 

The old man chuckled at something the nurse said, and my head turned, the atypical sound immediately capturing my attention. I hadn’t heard a laugh in months, and it was almost like music, flowing and echoing through the big, bleak room.  I couldn’t imagine the lifeless nurse behind the counter ever saying anything clever, but the old man laughed again, his smile like sunshine. I felt my lips twitch as if they wanted to smile too. It quickly went away though, as the ticking clock caught my attention again.

It was four on the button. Jackson, my manager and best friend, would arrive any moment, rescuing me from one hell to take me right back to the other. Either way, I was damned.

To my surprise, the old man left the nurse and walked towards me, his old, yet obviously wise eyes on mine. I stiffened reflexively, tensed and ready to run. He took the seat next to mine and stuck out his hand. I stared at it dumbly. Didn’t he recognize me?

 “Mark Delany. The nurse there tells me you’re Casy Devon, just the man I was looking for.”

I took his hand cautiously, gauging his expression. If he knew who I was, he wouldn’t be so calm.  No one was ever this docile, not even the elderly.

“That’s me,” I simply said, waiting for the usual, volatile reaction. All he did was smile, and squeeze my hand before dropping it.

“Dr. Quentin asked me to come talk to you. He usually does so before a patient is released. I’m a little late. Sorry about that. Got caught up in my prayer time. I have a sermon Sunday that needs a lot of preparation.”

Great. A preacher.

I openly grimaced. The last thing I wanted to talk about was God. Where was God when I was in horrendous pain? Where was God now? Why wasn’t He trying to stop the horrible thoughts running through my head? Did He want me to die? Maybe He wasn’t helping me because I wasn’t worth helping, not after the decadent and disgusting life I lived leading up to my imprisonment. Surely He had turned His face from me.

Then again, maybe there wasn’t a God.

The preacher wasn’t effected by my sour facial expression. He held his friendly smile and asked, “Do you feel rehabilitated?”

I almost laughed at the question. It was the same one I had been asked by Dr. Quentin, the house psychiatrist, every day for the past few weeks. 

Rehabilitation. What a silly word. And it was so because I didn’t think I believed in such a thing. How could I when there was no basis for the program they put me through? They let me detoxify, and then I was lectured on how dangerous drugs were to the body, followed by countless teachings regarding my so-called self worth. They also tried to convince me that I had the will power to stay away from them.  And I wanted to believe that, but what was the basis for said ‘will power’? Where did it come from? Did it spring from some magical well within the soul? They never told me where, or how to harvest that will power, or at least not in a way I thought was credible, believable. To say the least, I was not sold on their step by step program.

Therefore, no, I didn’t think I was rehabilitated. Part of me still wanted the chemicals that enslaved me. A very big part.

He took my silence as a no, as he should. But still, he held his warm smile and spoke again. “Son, there is only one source of true freedom, the freedom that you seek, the rehabilitation that you need, and that source is God. Without Him, you will certainly turn back to what put you in here.”

I felt my eyes widen in surprise, not believing my ears. Was he going to preach to me right here in the lobby of hell itself?

“It may sound crazy after what you just went through, but I tell you the absolute truth. He is the only one that can completely free you. All you have to do is ask and believe.”

And just as quickly as he arrived, he left. He gave me one last smile, stood up, and walked through the double doors back to the outside world I detested.

Did I just hear him correctly? God was the key to my freedom? But how, when I was entertaining the thought there was no God, couldn’t be, for what I had gone through? And again, just as I thought earlier, if there was a God, He surely wouldn’t want to be my key, my salvation, not after what He had seen me do and hear me say throughout the last several years of my life.

Was I even worth saving? I surely didn’t think so. Not anymore.

I watched him walk out and again sucked in the outside air. I mulled over his words, growing more acerbic by the second.

 No, I could not depend on God whom I felt cared nothing for me, who had every right not to care. 

 But what if...what if He would humor me just a moment? Just one moment...

I had nothing left to lose.

God, if you are the key, then show me. Give me one reason for not turning back to the stuff that put me in this excuse for an institution. Give me one reason, all I need is one, to go on living when I walk out that door. 

It was the first prayer I had said in ten years, and even though it was embarrassing to whisper to the empty room as if God was really here, I did feel a sense of satisfaction, at least knowing that I gave some sort of attempt at gaining help. 

Jackson burst through the double doors, flustered he was late. He was always tactful, and any deviation usually put him in a foul mood. Instead of frowning though, he smiled as he turned and saw me, his face lighting up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Devon, bro, so good to see you! Man, it’s been too long!”

He took my hand and shook it, while throwing the other around my shoulders for a brief hug, something which he hadn’t done in the seven years I had known him. The gesture was touching, especially since I hadn’t received an iota of human affection in ninety days. I embraced him for a short second and pulled away. He was beaming, openly happy to see me.

I wished this made me happy, but the dread of walking out those doors was ominous, looming. Seeing Jackson in person finally brought that dread down on me like a wrecking ball. Jackson was part of the reality I escaped from daily with the help of chemicals.

“Good to see you dude, I can’t believe it! It feels like an eternity! Man, we have so much to talk about. You hungry?”

The thought of food disgusted me, especially since my ribs were still sore from throwing up for days on end. But to keep his mind at ease, I nodded.

 “Sweet. What are you hungry for?”

I scoffed. Was it like I had a plethora of choices?  No, I had zero. I couldn’t go to the closest fast food joint and indulge in the greasy food. I couldn’t go to a restaurant and ponder the menu while I drank a cup of hot coffee. I couldn’t even go through a drive thru by myself. 

These were all things I ached to do at one time, and that ache had been easily drowned. Heroin did it the best.

“Dude, you okay?”

Jackson’s question pulled me back to the present and I nodded, not wanting him to worry about me. He had done enough, and I knew it from the one and only phone conversation I had with him. I was allowed two phone calls, and I chose to speak to him first. His tone was thick with weariness, wondering how I was faring in the clinic. I hated hearing it in his usually cheerful voice, although it was only a thousandth of the fraction of the worry emanating from my parent’s voices. Now that phone call really made me want to die.

“I’m fine. Let’s just get out of here. I can’t stand the smell any longer.”

He shrugged his shoulders, doubting my well being apparently, and opened the door for me. I hesitated again, fearing what was on the other side. “Where are Broderick and Jason?”

He sensed my concern and tried to console. “It’s cool man, there’s no one outside. Trust me.”

I trusted him immensely, but that trust didn’t keep me from hesitating again. I didn’t want to go back to the other part of hell.

“Casy, let’s go.”

Jackson rarely used my first name, and I cleared my throat, embarrassed. I didn’t want him to think I didn’t trust him. I just didn’t want any of it any more. 

I didn’t want the infamy.

“It’s cool Casy. I promise there’s no one out there. Like I told you on the phone, the media hasn’t caught wind of anything. No one has said a single word. I’ve made sure of that.”

It was hard to believe, with as many people as I angered during my last drug-influenced outburst. But I forced my feet to move forward and through the doors anyways, to an outside world I didn’t care to be apart of anymore. Still, the air smelled wonderful and the bright sun warmed my cold skin. The crisp, breezy spring had transformed into a beautiful green summer while I was imprisoned indoors. 

Jackson pulled out of the parking lot and I gave the clinic one last look, wishing myself some sort of mutant who could make it burn down with a single thought. Jackson saw and chuckled. “I bet you’re glad to get away from that place. I don’t know how you did it dude, but I have to say I’m proud. How do you feel?”

Like death.

“Fine, I guess.”

“I can’t believe the judge threw that sentence on you. I’m still reeling from it. And I can’t believe your lawyer didn’t try any harder to get you out of it.”

“I won’t be using him again, to say the least.”

“I hope not... your eyes look better. You look focused now.”

 I didn’t feel focused. I didn’t feel anything, except the struggle to find the will to go on, and the constant itch that threatened to steal my sanity.

“So we have a lot to go over, and the sooner the better. We’ve got a ton of meetings starting tomorrow, not to mention you resume filming in ten days.”

Meetings. Filming. Would I even make it ten days?

My silence alarmed Jackson, and he nudged me in the arm. I wasn’t usually so short on words. 

“Dude, say something. At least let me know you’re listening.”

“I’m listening.”

It was really all I had to offer. I didn’t feel like putting forth the effort into conversing. I didn’t feel like putting forth effort into anything.

“Good, well hear me out then. Let’s celebrate your escape tonight, shall we? Come with me to Club Jupiter, have a beer or two.”

Was he serious? He wanted to throw me right back into an environment that only perpetuated my previous, and still impending, addictions?

“Don’t be ridiculous Jackson,” I snapped rudely, “I don’t feel like joking around at the moment.”

 “Dude, I’m not joking.  I don’t think a beer would be a bad thing. Plus, it’s time you made an appearance. The papz are starting to get antsy. They aren’t sidetracked easily when it comes to you.”

Surely, he must be doing drugs too. I turned and looked at him, no doubt incredulous. “You expect me to make an appearance in that place?”

He took on his managerial tone, the one he reserved when he wasn’t suggesting. It was the one he used when he ordered. “You are going out with me tonight. I refuse to let you sit around and wallow, which is exactly what you will do. You and I both know you shouldn’t be alone.”

 “Jason and Broderick will keep me company,” I argued, “I can play video games with them or something.”

He raised his blonde eyebrows skeptically. “You play video games? Ha! It’s good to see you kept your sense of humor!”

He thought I was joking, but I wasn’t. I would rather play video games, which I never did, than go to a club, especially that particular club. Besides, I knew my bodyguards would be happy to see me. They weren’t just employees, they were friends. “It’s better than going to that club. Especially if your little girlfriend is going to be there.” I shuddered at the thought of seeing the object of his infatuation. She reminded me entirely too much of a person I didn’t want to think about. Ever again.

“She won’t be there, so cut it out,” he chided, clearly upset I didn’t like the girl any more. Why did I ever like her in the first place? Crazy how drugs skewed perspectives, especially on women.

“I don’t feel like ‘making an appearance’, as you put it. Make a phone call and tell the papz I was spotted in London or something.”

“Too bad, Devon, you’re going. You don’t have to stay long. Just two hours, that’s all I’m asking for. After that, you can go back to your room and play video games, or whatever. You just need to make an appearance. Besides, I’ve already told ‘em that at least four times. They’re on to me.”

He was serious, to my utter dismay. Our contract stated such clauses, that Jackson knew what was best and befitting for my career, and I was to adhere to his demand about such things. Still, I tried to find anything that would free me from another dimension of the hell he was trying to drag me back to. “The judge wouldn’t approve of me going there.”

Jackson didn’t miss a beat, validating he had no intentions of letting me off the hook. “He’ll get over it. Besides, it would be near impossible for you to score a high there. I’m sure you could if you tried hard enough, but the bouncers are cracking down and doing searches now at the doors. That is, unless you’re the right people.”

 I hated being ‘the right people’ as he put it. But he didn’t. He still became giddy at the thought of being famous, simply because he was tied to a famous person- the most famous at the moment. 

At least I was before rehab. I really didn’t know how I fared right now. I guess I would see. 

“Fine, Jackson,” I bit through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to go, but then, I didn’t have the strength to argue with him.

“Good. Let’s start by grabbing a quick bite to eat and going over to your new suite. All your belongings are there now. So are Jason and Broderick.”

“Where am I staying?” I asked mindlessly, watching the palm trees pass by in a blur. It was difficult to see anything through the dark tint of the glass.

“The Beverly Hilton. Landed you the presidential suite, and it wasn’t easy.”

He went on to tell me about the other celebrity they displaced for me to stay there. I only halfway listened. It was just another hotel room, with another bed I wasn’t accustomed to. 

“Dude, you’re being quiet again. Tell me what you want to eat.”

I swallowed back the gag reflex. Food just didn’t sound good at all. “I will just have a soda or something.”

Jackson rolled his dark blue eyes then it quickly changed to a look of concern. “Were you sick a lot?”

I didn’t know how to answer. ‘A lot’ just didn’t cover it. The sickness of my body cleaning itself out, as the nurses told me it was doing, was worse than any flu or food poisoning I’d ever had. I didn’t think it was possible to throw up so much. I cringed just thinking about it. Jackson saw me.

“Bummer, dude.  Do you want a chocolate milkshake?”

Even my favorite food in the world didn’t sound very appetizing, but I nodded. Chocolate was always good, even if I didn’t ever feel like eating, ever, ever again.

“Sweet. I will just go through a drive thru and then we can go back to your place. You need to shave and shower.”

We pulled into the parking garage of the hotel and Jackson took out his phone to summon my two body guards. They were going to attempt to protect me from the torments of my other hell, and they usually did a wonderful job. I felt safe with them, but never at ease. People screaming your name and chasing after you was never relaxing.

My lips twitched with a smile as the two humungous men stepped through the lobby doors of the parking garage. Broderick was all of six foot four and easily cleared two hundred fifty pounds- solid muscle. Jason was just as big, but much younger in years, with multiple tattoos and a piercing right through the septum of his nose. He and Broderick were cousins, their mothers being sisters, but were very different in personalities. Broderick was quiet and astute, where Jason popped his mouth off constantly, never thinking of the consequences. I had seen him in many a fight with the paparazzi, getting sued nearly every time, but that didn’t stop him. He loved to brawl. And I had to admit, I loved to watch him make a mess of a camera man.

Broderick came around and opened my door. I didn’t even get a chance to step out before the monster of a man had me in his arms. I hugged him back, immensely relieved he wasn’t angry for all the lies I fed him on my sorry lifestyle choices.

He let go and passed me to Jason, who also bear hugged me. “Good to see ya Boss. It really is.”

I pulled away and managed to smile at the two men who were loyally devout, and always would be, even if their employment ended.  “Good to see you both. Shall we?”

I couldn’t help the change in my tone. It would always be the same. Being in public, being recognized, being photographed, and then some story written to go along with that photograph, usually untrue. I hated it. But then again, I asked for it. Once upon a time, I fed off the fame, never growing satisfied, happily lusting after it. It made me feel like I could do anything. The money only added to the ravenous appetite. Knowing I could buy anything, do anything because the amount of money I had to my name, was a driving force. I felt like I could say anything, influence anything, with absolutely no repercussions. It had its own high, its own rush that was addictive and tantalizing.

Then slowly the fame turned on me, like some rabid dog turning on its master. It became a black eyed, tyrannical monster, enslaving me in a tiny cage where I had to cater to it, answer to it, instead of the other way around. It captured every minute of my life, and put it on display. Instead of me feeding off of it, it began to feed off of me, and it let millions of spectators to my imprisonment do the same. They took little painful bites, slowly stealing my life, until I didn’t even recognize myself anymore, didn’t see me in the mirror. Instead, I saw an image of a man I could not bare, a man whom I did not want to be. 

A man the fame monster turned me into.

And it hurt badly to look at that man. I needed an outlet for the pain. 

First, I tried alcohol.

It helped, but by the time I was drinking a fifth of whiskey a day, it didn’t help so much anymore. The pain found a way to slither its way back into my heart, like a snake through a cracked stone.

So then I tried cocaine. 

I was introduced to it one night at a party. Every single person in the entire house was partaking in the huge mound of fine, white powder setting on a glass coffee table. It was like watching children stick their hand in a candy bowl.

“Just one line, it won’t hurt.”

That person I never cared to think about again, I prefer to call her ‘that person’, urged me on, until I caved. The high was instant, crippling. It immediately drowned out the reality I was enslaved in. The monster didn’t seem so bad then. The high was only temporary, but fantastic. I craved it constantly.

But that high soon became mundane. I knew exactly what to expect every time I snorted the white powder through my nose- a horrible case of the jitters and a dreadfully haunting paranoia.  So ‘that person’ introduced me to a love of mine, a wretched, life draining, murderous love- heroin.

And I did love it, tremendously. It let me sleep, it relaxed me. It numbed me so much better to the painful bites of reality. I did it so frequently, I soon learned to somewhat function. At first, all I did was sleep, but I soon was able to fight it, and go do whatever I wanted, which was usually party. And at those parties seemed to be a never ending supply of the chemical, among many others. I tried them all.

It wasn’t long before the pain began to slip in again, so to compensate, I had to have more heroin. I did more, and more...and more. Six years passed, and the only thing I lived for was the chemical. I worked under the influence, filming movie upon successful movie while high, while no one knew the difference. I did interviews, photo shoots, and even visited friends and family under the influence. I had nearly everyone fooled. Even myself. 

One day, no different than any other, I was readying to inject, when I realized, surprisingly, that I really didn’t have any veins which weren’t already bruised or too thick to puncture. I searched over my body, until the only place I found that I wasn’t scared to poke myself with a needle was in between my toes. It hurt like bloody hell.

In that moment I realized this substance would kill me if I didn’t stop.  And back then, I did want to live, if only for my family, my loving parents and brothers. I just wanted to live without the monster ruling my life.

And that’s where I got caught between that cursed rock and hard place. The monster dominated, and would indefinitely. There was no escaping it without the drugs, for I was the Casy Devon, famous, talented, award winning movie star adored by millions, a celebrity worth obsessing over.

 It was either live with the pain the monster forced upon me, or live in a constant state of numbness... 

So I chose the latter of the two. That mistake put me in the predicament I was just taken from...

“Here boss.”

Broderick handed me sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt, and I put them on, hoping they would disguise. It usually worked, but it seemed some people spent their entire lives staring at pictures of me, because sometimes, even covered, I was spotted. I hoped it wouldn’t be like that today. It had been a while since I coped with that kind of pain. I wasn’t sure if I could do it sober. 

I was quickly tested.

“Casy, I love you!”

“Answer some questions for us, Mr. Devon!”

“Where have you been the last three months, Mr. Devon!”

“Casy, who’s the lucky lady in your life now!”

“Casy, can you comment on the success of your last film!”

If hell were a sound, this was it, the manipulative, methodical questionings and vain adorations of people who coveted pieces of my life, as if it were scraps to be thrown out. To me they were merely scavengers, roaming pathetically to grab any morsel they could, gobbling it up ravenously, only to vomit it up into some new form, transforming whatever I say and do into something grotesquely putrescent. I detested them as much as the fame monster, for they were only its minions sent to torment me and test my already, weak, waning will power. How I wished they would all disappear, and never think of me again.

Copyright 2012 Jolee Wilson



Seven Days Normal

Pre Order!

Seven Days Normal is now available for pre order on Amazon.com and the Barnes and Noble websites! Search 'Jolee Wilson'

I just wanted to post a poem I wrote for my mom's memorial. She passed away in August, and I was originally going to do the eulogy, but decided I wasn't going to be able to get an intelligible word out if I had to speak in front of anyone. So instead, I did what I think I do best:write. Well, actually poetry is not my thing, but these words came from the heart( I hammered it out in about five minutes). Enjoy. And rest in peace Mom.

Selfless

To You, what is a mother?

Is it to birth a child, feed it, hold it?

Well, to me, it is to selflessly and without complaint, care for another...

Katherine Blackburn blamelessly fit this part. 

Yes, she was a woman whose children carried her heart.

From a boy with lashes long and eyes blue, to another whom she was proud, in all that his talent allowed him to do. 

Then there was number three, a boy as well, whom swelled her with pride, for the fact that he was her baby boy, she would not hide.

Then number four; while a daddy’s girl, this mother taught everything, all her wisdom, which I consider a priceless pearl.

Did this mother ever demand payment or reward? Did she ever once complain?

No, she did everything she did, regardless of the pain.

For motherhood is not an easy task, but for my mother, not one thing in return, did she ask. 

She disciplined, cleaned and cooked, and when times were quiet, she would sew or read a book.

But the little enjoyments she would quickly put aside, for a mother’s work never ends, never subsides.

Yet still, she did it with abundant pride.

Does she deserve a great reward for her selfless giving?

Yes, indeed, yet earthly things would never be fitting. 

But do not fret. Her legacy lives on, in four, now grown children, who will lovingly and forever, call her mom.

So when Katherine Blackburn stood before God, and by Him, was of her life asked to describe, 

she answered ‘I was a selfless mother,’ with head held firmly high. 

And she was sure, by that truthful account, not all the gold in the world could ,or would, ever amount.

So God smiled, and nodded His head. ‘Yes Katherine Blackburn, you were. A mother you were called, and a mother you became. The world where you lived will never be the same. You were honored, loved and cherished. Your family, they were surely blessed. 

‘They call their time with you priceless...

‘Yes, Katherine Blackburn, indeed you were exactly what I called you to be:

Honestly, blamelessly, and perfectly...

Selfless.

So Let's Begin...

I'm back! Thank God for my six year old. She has turned out to be the best babysitter, giving me at least ten minutes here and there to get some things done, like working on my much neglected blog. 


Long ago, and many posts far away, I promised that I would share with you lessons learned in working to get my first novel published. Well, I'm making good on that promise now, and I want to begin at the beginning, at least what I thought was the beginning: finding out who to send your manuscript to. 


The obvious thing to do in today's technological savvy world is to look on the internet,  'googling' anything you need to find out. Well, don't get your hopes up, thinking I went about it some other, more creative, more fulfilling, more scholarly way, because I didn't. I'm guilty. I googled. 


And it gave me about a billion ways to get my manuscript into someone's hands.


I'm going to save you some time, because I know you looked here before anywhere else, right?  Well, the first bit of crucial knowledge I'm going to pass down to you will save you oodles of time, but will cost you about 20 or 30 bucks, albeit money well spent, I assure you. 


YOU NEED A COPY OF 'THE WRITER'S MARKET GUIDE.'


Or, if you specifically want Christian publishers, then you need 'The Christians Writers' Market Guide.'


Fellow writers, this book should be your bible if you're looking for a publisher. There truly is, in my opinion, no better way to research who your manuscript should go to. Listed within are hundreds of publishers, with exactly what they are looking for, whether or not they're accepting manuscripts, if you need an agent to do it for you, even how many pages they're wanting. Each year a new edition is published with updated information.  I tell you the truth, this is the book to get. After days of surfing the web making sure I indeed should buy said book, I went to Barnes & Noble and picked up the latest edition of both the regular guide and the Christian one. 


Before you begin, you should know the topic/genre/classification of the book, how many pages it is, who your target audience is(some publishers listed within the book are audience specific, i.e. children, young adult, African American), and if you have an agent(again, some publishers will not take unsolicited manuscripts, meaning if you don't have an agent, don't waste their time).


In edition to having book publishers, the guide contains consumer magazine listings, Canadian and International book publishers, trade journals, and listings for awards and contests and even literary agents. You will need to find the section for book publishers, which has both fiction and non-fiction publishers.  


I started by reading the 'How to use the Writer's Market guide in the beginning of the book. It had lots of nifty info, and I can truly say I learned quite a bit, especially how to do research within the guide. 


Next, I looked up some publishers I knew by name, simply because they're popular, like Harlequin and Little and Brown, just to name a few. The publishers are in alphabetical order, by the way. 


When I realized that the big time publishers either wanted an agent to submit my work, or their guidelines just didn't suit me for various reasons, then I started at the beginning(this is not to say you shouldn't seek out the popular publishers first, even if you are a first time author. Do whatever you think you should do concerning your work). What do I mean by I started at the beginning? Well, just that. I started at A and ended with Z. I read through every publisher's requirements listed, and if my work could be a possible fit, I highlighted them. I came out with about a dozen publishers I felt my novel could be submitted to. Why only a dozen out of hundreds? Because some of the publishers listed are so specific as to what they're looking for, that it left no room for me to even wonder whether or not I  should submit to them. For instance, does my novel have any curse words? If so, don't bother submitting. Or, does my novel empower a certain social group to think beyond their current circumstances? No? Then don't bother submitting.
You get the idea.


If you have an easier method than going through each listing, then go for it. I simply wanted to make sure all possibilities were exhausted. This was my first novel, my baby so to speak, and I was chomping at the bit to get it into print. It was my dream, and I couldn't afford to let one sentence go unread. I didn't want a single publisher to slip by my radar because of hastiness. And, since I knew nothing of the publishing world, except what I googled of course, I felt I needed to educate myself. 


I will stop there for now, because getting my list of publishers I wanted to submit to was really the first important step in getting my book in print. And it's bottle/nap time. I will detail my next step in the next post.

I'm Still Alive

Barely, but I am. Sleep Deprivation does odd things to the mind, one being creativity-challenged. As much as I want to write, I simply don't have the brain power to do it right now, at least not on any of my new stuff. I have, however, been approving edits on 'Seven Days Normal.' It has been tedious to say the least, but the end product will be awesome. So I just wanted to give a little update to let everyone know I'm still here, if only in body. Maybe one day this baby will lose her super-human ability to evade sleep and I will be able to have a normal life once again. Until then, keep writing!

Temporary Hiatus

Kudos to all the women out there who can juggle jobs, the domestic stuff, and new babies. Oh, and blogs. Sorry to say, I'm not to be lumped in with that awesome group! The last trimester of my pregnancy was hellish, and now that I've had my baby, I'm going on about three hours of sleep at night, so my poor blog has been neglected, but definitely not forgotten. My mind has been inundated with all things baby since November, but as I get this kid on some semblance of a routine, I will start posting again, and that's a promise.