Two-year-olds in the early 1950s were given vaccines by glass syringe for the bacterial diseases diphtheria, tetanus (commonly, lockjaw), pertussis (whooping cough), and for the viral disease smallpox. There were no other vaccines available.

Parents in the early 1950s gave their children dimes destined for the March of Dimes drive to develop a polio vaccine. Generations of parents worried and waited anxiously for the summers—the time of highest infection rate—to pass. The peak of the polio epidemic in the U.S. lasted from 1916-1955, with the highest mortality rate in 1952. For the Great Depression-World War II generations, President Franklin Roosevelt, in office from 1933 to his death in 1945, was a living reminder of the permanent paralysis left by polio (although it is postulated now that he actually suffered from a severe form of Guillain-Barré syndrome, an autoimmune disease of the nerves with polio-like symptoms, for which there was no cure during his lifetime).

Finally, in 1955, Jonas Salk’s vaccine, one made from killed virus, was approved. Americans were vaccinated, but some of the children afflicted during the 1930s, 1940s, and early 1950s are still living now with the effects of polio.

As the march to eradicate polio proceeded (succeeding in this country only in 1979), children of my generation were still susceptible to a succession of the viral diseases for which there were no vaccines: measles, rubella, mumps, and chickenpox. Penicillin became widely available near the end of WWII, and so bacterial diseases pandemic through the early 20th century such as scarlet fever dropped in prevalence and mortality.

Unless my blood was drawn today to detect and measure the level of the antibodies I produced against these viruses, I can’t be sure that I experienced all of them. One exception is chickenpox, which reappeared as shingles at age fifty. However, I’m fairly certain that I was sick with measles and/or rubella (so-called German measles), mumps for sure—unforgettable because it was so weird—and as noted, chickenpox. 

More than one caused fevers so high that I hallucinated. Vases rose up and down in the air, my mother’s head became the size of an orange (she didn’t seem to notice). Describing these imaginary events alarmed the adults in the room, but the hallucinations were the one interesting thing about enduring illnesses that brought excruciating rashes and painfully swollen glands; days as miserable as they were long. 

Luckily, all of the illnesses passed, leaving me an energetic little kid again, but they often started the same way, too. Waking with a painfully parched throat, I’d ask my father, who always rose very early, “Daddy, could I have a glass of water?” He brought the glass of cool water to me and both the act and the water brought some comfort.

That childhood memory brings home how awful it is to have a viral illness and to be alone, as so many around the world are now. So many sick enough with Covid-19 to be hospitalized, sick enough that their families can’t be near them, sick enough to be unable to swallow water. A high number are sick enough to die alone, or with strangers, however caring the nurses and doctors, inadequately protected and succumbing to the disease themselves.

Waves of Covid-19 will continue to wreck lives for some time, until the vaccine and treatment are available, until immunity is established. Covid-19 has ripped off the slipping mask underneath which lies our country’s inequality. Health care access, access to jobs able to provide homes, food, education, safety and security: there are the very rich and the rest of us fall into some level of relative poverty and dependence on a Swiss cheese social net.

The Covid-19 viral outbreak has knocked many Americans off their perches, ones they may never recover. We all hope that many, many lessons will be learned from this pandemic, which caught the U.S. absolutely flat-footed; we always hope in a crisis.

I was lucky to have vaccines available at age two, penicillin to treat scarlet fever, the polio vaccine a few years later, and relevant vaccines available later in life. In those years, talented researchers and a supportive government insisted upon vaccine and drug development. In recent years though, an anti-science surge has become seriously embedded in our culture, especially with supporters and members of the current administration, allowing a pandemic the time to pull us fully into its maw.

There are people in this country who believe that vaccines are harmful, who insist on causal relationships between vaccines and certain medical conditions, no matter how many studies prove otherwise. They ignore the fact that Americans suffer little or not at all from measles, rubella or mumps—serious illnesses in many children and most adults—thanks to vaccines.

The lessons of the earlier centuries are unknown to the anti-science crowd, the anti-vaccinators, even as we all live through a very hard lesson now. 

Be well, dear reader.

 

Use of the word “unprecedented” is in overdrive these days, as many have complained, including the journalists who lean heavily on it when describing the Coronavirus Covid-19 pandemic. A quick turn around Roget’s Thesaurus doesn’t offer good alternatives. Phrases like “not seen before” and “unheard-of” are awkward, and using the word “novel” brings the writer or speaker up against the description of the virus modern humans had never experienced until now.

The amount of anxiety, danger, and suffering in the world now is not unprecedented: there are people still alive who suffered terribly during the last world war and the last viral plagues, as had so many throughout human history. Nevertheless, Covid-19 brings the spectre of ruin, illness, and imminent death to everyone on earth right now, including those whose jobs include researching, treating, preventing, ameliorating, interpreting, and reporting on the dire effects of the virus.

Many of us don’t fit into any of those categories, and we are doing our bit only by staying home and keeping ourselves to ourselves. The glimpse we are now allowed into journalists’ private lives—along with those of experts, pundits, officials, and politicians—as viewed on MSNBC, CNN, and the networks is unprecedented. Fox News studios are operating in a pre-coronavirus-three-anchors-one-foot-apart-on-a-sofa mode, but those who appear on MSNBC are interviewed and interviewing from home via Zoom or Skype, and while asking or answering, the television or live-streaming audience is checking out their home decor.

The civilian self-isolator has become a voyeur—a viewer in every sense; the professionals the spied upon. Mostly we see their home offices, situated in dens, basements or attics. Often we see their living rooms. Rarely do we see other rooms, although we now know that former Senator (D, MO) Claire McCaskill enjoys a cheerful and well-appointed kitchen. New York (D) Governor Cuomo makes frequent televised/streamed updates from the Executive Mansion, but not the private quarters. However, we have learned through these updates that he lives alone and has become annoyed with his dog in their isolation, but this page tells a different story: https://www.governor.ny.gov/news/governor-cuomo-wishes-first-dog-captain-happy-second-birthday (it is worth noting that every self-isolation order in the U.S., UK, Europe, and Japan allows time outdoors for dog walking).

Matching the color schemes or decor to now-familiar journalists’ homes would have been no easy feat, but now we can. Journalist Heidi Przybyla’s muted and elegant gray living room suits her perfectly, both her cool beauty and her sardonic undertone. Maryland (D) Senator Ben Cardin’s bookshelf is full of trinkets and dolls—a surprise. The bold colors of the paintings and pillows in journalist Kimberly Atkins’ living room suit her sparkle. Journalist Peter Baker, former VP Joe Biden, historian Jon Meacham, and many others are interviewed in front of large, overstuffed bookshelves in home studies or libraries.

We see their potted plants and flowers in vases. We hear their dogs bark (Atlanta Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms did not crack), and the shushing of an unseen human.

The ear plugs and microphones used at home vary interestingly also. There are white and black versions planted in ears like the children of a marriage between an earring and a sci-fi hearing aid. Lower tech versions are embedded in the home computer, limiting the users mobility. Still others use lanyard combos of ear plugs and microphones that dangle and distract (users can’t keep their hands off of them).

MSNBC political show hosts are self-isolating too, but they have taken some token of the studio decor with them. Nicolle Wallace (full disclosure: we watch her late afternoon Deadline: White House, after spending part of the mornings plowing through 5 newspapers between us online) claims to sit in her home basement for the broadcasts, behind a desk and in front of a White House wallpaper backdrop. Chuck Todd (MTP Daily) also sits in front of Washington wallpaper, one sporting flowering cherry trees. Everyone, including Andrea Mitchell https://www.constancegemmett.com/what-would-andrea-mitchell-do/, broadcasts in front of a world map highlighting the Covid-19 hot spots in red and orange circles, large and small.

Still, there are reporters out and about, putting themselves at great risk: last week MSNBC’s Garrett Haake continued to roam the corridors of the Capital Building, as did members of Congress called to an in-person Coronavirus Relief Bill vote by Thomas Massie’s (R, KY) objection to safe distance voting. White House correspondent Yamiche Alcindor presses forward with her questions, despite the president’s constant and abusive silencing—his unprecedented abuse of the media. Rehema Ellis shows us the worst coronavirus stories in New York City to highlight the high mortality rate and the danger to healthcare and funeral workers operating without adequate protective gear (nurses at Manhattan’s Mt. Sinai Hospital have taken to making gowns out of Hefty garbage bags—an unprecedented situation). She’s out in the streets showing us the truth of the situation, in stark contrast to the daily smoke of the happy version of events blown by the White House.

Reporters televised at home, in the streets, and in the halls of power seem to reveal more of their humanity during this plague time. It may be the viewer who imagines it (dogs barking and potted plants help), or that the vulnerability they feel is palpable and shared by us. The health care and emergency workers, now accused by President Trump of selling face masks to a “black market,” are the shining heroes, but we should be grateful to the “fake media,” our beleaguered doctors, governors, and mayors for telling the truth on a daily basis. 

While quietly sitting alone in his room, Pascal wrote: “Truth is so obscure in these times, and falsehood so established, that unless we love the truth, we cannot know it.” 

 

 

Appearing in the February 2020 Historical Novel Review, Historical Fiction Market News:

Constance Emmett’s debut novel, Heroine of Her Own Life (Next Chapter, Aug. 29, 2019) offers a powerful story set in early 20th-century Belfast, Northern Ireland, where working class Meg Preston and Lillian Watson forge a lasting love against the tide of society’s intolerance, sectarian violence, and the looming world war that threatens to tear everything apart.

Last month’s next step: publisher Next Chapter announced completion of imprinting—Heroine Of Her Own Life now officially part of the Next Chapter catalog!

Paperback, Kindle and Large Print versions available on Amazon.com:

http://mybook.to/heroineoholpb

http://mybook.to/heroineohollp

Also available on Amazon.co.uk (VAT included) and Amazon.de.

When I was a child, February was a cheery month, one filled with holidays and reprieve from school routine. Celebration of George Washington’s February 22nd birthday included cherry cakes and trips to The Miller House where he stayed while planning the 1776 Battle of White Plains. On display in the stone house: Revolutionary War era-looking boots, a uniform that looked like a general’s, the table where he ate, and the bed where he slept (I fell for it hook, line and sinker). Cherry cake symbolized the teaching moment of his confessing to chopping down his father’s cherry tree with a hatchet: “For I cannot tell a lie, Father,”—all was forgiven for telling the truth (not in my house it wouldn’t have been).

We celebrated Lincoln’s birthday on February 12th with tales of his hardscrabble childhood, splitting wood with an axe, the Civil War, Mary Todd, the poor son Willie dead at 11, and his assassination. We did not enjoy cakes or field trips for Lincoln, alas, but it provided a break from memorizing:

Thirty days hath September, 
April, June, and November, 
February has twenty-eight alone, 
All the rest have thirty-one; 
Excepting leap year, that's the time 
When February's days are twenty-nine.

Washington and Lincoln had axe-wielding childhoods far from my experience and nevertheless, or consequentially, fascinating. Washington’s birthday is a Federal holiday, celebrated in the 21st c. on the third Monday of the month (his actual birthday was February 11, 1731, but with the British 1752 switch from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar, it was recalculated to February 22, 1732) and is referred to as Presidents’ Day. Very few states celebrate Lincoln’s February 12th birthday now, including my home states of New York and Massachusetts, and it is marked only by inclusion in Presidents’ Day.

In between the two birthdays, elementary schools celebrated Valentine’s Day with little cards distributed in class by secret admirers. The card distribution allowed some level of running around the little wooden desks from the ink well era, a rare event. The teachers made sure everyone received some admiration—I hope—along with the sweets they provided (or it may have been that the mothers—assumed to have been at home in their aprons—were pressed into baking for the occasion).

With adolescence and early adulthood, February fell down a peg or two in cheer, plummeting to what it is: the absolute dead of winter. Presidents’ Day sometimes was a day off from work, a weekend to make the rounds of car dealers for many. The 12th was noted only in passing, with little reverence paid to the great man. Valentine’s Day was fraught or not, depending upon one’s love life—secret admirers were low on the ground but once revealed, often a disappointment.

According to the poetry of my childhood, February brings blooming daffodils, newborn lambs, and a heavy hint of spring in the air (Anne Brontë wrote that her “…bosom glowed…” in February!). These poems were written with temperate British Isles or the Mediterranean as a backdrop. In New York and certainly in New England, the month seems more Shakespearean; from Much Ado About Nothing:

Why, what's the
matter,
That you have such
a February face,
So full of frost, of
storm and
cloudiness?

Certainly in New England, as Joseph Wood Krutch observed, “The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism but February.”

Fast forward to, ahem, well past middle age, and my reactions to February have changed again: I now treasure it as a time of privacy, comparative inaction, and a chance to experience delayed gratification in the modern world. To quote William Blake, “In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.” From a gardener’s perspective, the benefit of winter in general, and arguably February in particular, is captured eloquently by gardener/writer Ruth Stout in How to Have a Green Thumb without an Aching Back: “There is a privacy about winter which no other season gives you…Only in winter…can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.”

From a writer’s perspective, February is a wonderful time to hunker and write—nothing’s calling you outside for very long, nobody’s demanding much of you, as long as the heat is on, the wood stacked next to the woodstove, the larder stocked, and you add to the feeling of general coziness in your household—what the Danes and Norwegians call hygge.

In her poem, “February,” Margaret Atwood describes her -30 F degree, wind-blasted Canadian version of surviving February, which as it does in my milder winter life, includes eating accordingly:

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It's his
way of telling whether or not I'm dead. 
[...]
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
[...]

“In the pewter mornings…” How perfect is that? The entire version (not copied here) of this wonderful poem is posted on www.poetryfoundation.org and is published in Atwood’s Morning in the Burned House (1995, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt).

For the delayed gratification that may be found in February, turn to William Cullen Bryant, renowned and influential (before there were influencers) 19th c. poet, journalist, liberal, editor, and late of the parish next door in Western Massachusetts: “The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.”

The orbit/tilt is shifting toward spring in February, noticeable only by the slow crawl of the earlier sunrise this month. The tinted buds and swelling leaves are hidden. Unlike March, the shift this month is so subtle that even the avid looker, the trained seer, must trust that the plants and animals are changing, shifting toward spring. In my youth I willed February, the shortest month, to end, but now I dread its ending. I dread losing the promise held by the dead of winter and the loss of breathtaking moments like this, so beautifully described by Sara Teasdale in her poem, “February Twilight”:

I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow,
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.
There was not other creature
That saw what I could see,
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.

Our town in Western Massachusetts is a place of great natural beauty. The hills, forests, rivers, and changing skies are all in plain sight for us to enjoy. One of Hawley’s landmarks, hidden from our routine lives, is unique and even exotic, and that is the Hawley Bog.

Just off East Hawley Road, the parking area for the bog and the Old Town Common—another hidden gem—is well-marked, thanks to the placement of a kiosk, picnic table, and bike rack by the historical society, Sons and Daughters of Hawley, with the support of the bog owner-manager The Nature Conservancy and grants from MassHumanities. The kiosk displays maps of the trails for the bog and the Old Town Common. Walk left to the bog and you will arrive at a second kiosk and the visitors’ log, managed by the Five College Consortium (Amherst, Hampshire, Mount Holyoke, Smith, and UMass/Amherst), which co-owns the bog and uses it as an outdoor classroom and research center.

The narrow passage through to the open expanse of the Hawley Bog is an assembly of largely unfamiliar plant life and a summer riot of green, pink, white, and yellow, turning red-gold and purple in autumn. Follow the 700-foot boardwalk built by The Nature Conservancy and town volunteers into the open area to see the tops of white pines sunk into the bog, and red maple saplings, flaming scarlet in October. The stunted pines and maple forever saplings have adapted to the bog’s highly specialized environment, as have the unfamiliar plants popping through the mossy mat that moves under your feet. What is the bog environment exactly, how did it form, and when?

Thousands of years ago, the glacier that covered the Northeast in the last ice age receded, as Earth’s orbit, tilt, and rotational axis orientation changed (Milankovitch cycles describe the varying of orbiting, tilt, and rotational axis orientation of the Earth every 41,000 years). The Pocumtuc people (ancestors of the Abenaki) followed the receding glacier 9,000 -12,000 years ago to the confluence of three rivers—the Green, the Deerfield, and the Quinnitikut (modern spelling: Connecticut)—to settle where fish and game were abundant. About twenty miles west and up a steep hill, that same receding glacier left a kettle-shaped depression and eventual lake that evolved into the Hawley Bog.

With no stream running through it to add nutrients or wash vegetation away, decaying matter accumulated and the lake became acidic and nutritionally vacant—the lake became a bog. Rain and snow provided the only nutrients, creating an environment where specially adapted plants grew. The primary bog plant, sphagnum (peat) moss, is adapted to living in acidic water with little or no flow. New growth remains at the surface and older portions continually sink and die, releasing the tannins and enhancing the acids that give the water a brownish color and further slow decay. The dead material accumulated and, at the margins, the Hawley Bog sphagnum mat is over 30 feet thick. But, as you walk out on the boardwalk toward the open expanse, the mat thins and moves under your feet.  Rain and snow continue to provide the only sources of potassium and phosphorous. Nitrogen is introduced by the ammonia in urine and feces of birds, insects, mammals, and also by combustion engine exhaust. Some plants adapted by becoming carnivorous in order to increase their access to essential nutrients.

Specialized plants growing on the sphagnum moss surface, such as pitcher plants and sundews, are able to photosynthesize for energy, but can only thrive in the low level of essential nutrition and highly acidic environment because of their carnivorous habits. They have evolved ways to use Hawley’s hordes of black flies and mosquitos. Pitchers drown them, sundews trap them on sticky tendrils, then roll them up in the leaves. Bladderwort, living in the dark water, display trigger hairs on trap-like bladders. All have evolved to digest insects with special enzymes.

Non-carnivorous plants grow to their best ability in and around the bog where conditions allow: rhododendron, leatherleaf, laurels, bog rosemary, Labrador tea, high-bush blueberry, low-growing large cranberry, and other stunted trees like tamarack and black spruce. Purple wild iris, the tiny orchid rose pogonia, delicate grass pinks shaped like upside-down orchids, and other orchids and flowering plants also grow in and among the hummocks of the mat.

Winged and terrestrial creatures visit and inhabit the bog: flycatchers, red-winged blackbirds, white-throated sparrows, moose, deer, bears, small mammals, dragonflies, and bees all make use of the bog fauna and flora.

The low-oxygen, acidic, and low-nutrient conditions do not support fish, reptiles, or amphibians. In fact, those conditions are preservative rather than supportive of life generally, hence the discovery of humans who entered the Northern European bogs in the Bronze and Iron Ages by ancient winter ritual or accident, and now grace museum cases in remarkably well-preserved states (see Tollund Man, et al.).

Isolation over millennia, followed by local respect for the natural world, has left the Hawley Bog largely unaffected by humans, except in an inescapable global manner. Pitcher plants, which can live 50 years, serve as measures of air pollution. As the nitrogen from combustion engine exhaust increases in the bog, pitcher plants are growing larger leaves and smaller pitchers, their reliance on catching insects less important for essential nutrients.

So, whether a local or a visitor to the many gems in this area, drive up and enjoy this gem in our midst; or make it a destination and return during different seasons. It doesn’t take long to enjoy the Hawley Bog and you’ll be glad you stopped (please note and respect the posted rules, and note that the boardwalk—the only means of entering the bog—is not highly accessible, nor are dogs allowed).

Before you get back in the car though, head toward the kiosk and then enter the self-guided tour of the Old Town Common and its cellar holes. Start at the plaque on the rock marking the site of the first church built in 1793, and you’ll soon be lost in the history of our town, as you follow the researched text and drawings on the placards (note: the cellar holes are not highly accessible either—basically a walk in the woods—but dogs are welcome).

Andrea Mitchell has been a journalist since she graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1967. Working continuously on radio and TV news shows, she worked her way up to Chief Congressional, Chief White House, and Chief Foreign Affairs correspondent for NBC news, covering stories like the 1979 Three Mile Island nuclear power plant disaster along the way. These achievements came at times when women journalists had to fight even harder than they do now for jobs, recognition, and promotion.

As she grew in professional stature, she is reported to have been generous and kind to younger women journalists, which is not always a given. Now with her own show on MSNBC weekdays at noon, for which she does her own reporting, she also has the best upper arms on television—defined and trim at age 73. Remarkably, she races to the front lines to interview candidates and beats much younger reporters, appears on numerous other news shows, and writes for her own show. All on four hours of sleep.

For these reasons, when I am feeling down or lazy—self-indulgent—I ask myself, what would Andrea Mitchell do?

My question is answered easily when it comes to motivating my own exercise regimen, minuscule compared to hers, because AM obviously puts her time in lifting weights—I’ve read that she squeezes time to work with a trainer, à la another inspiration, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. With larger questions in life, AM is a guiding light for me too. During the long period when I could not publish my novel, I looked to her long career and the tenacity it must have taken to remain in the newsroom and rise in the ranks. I admire her elegance, grace, and cool, even while asking the tough questions with her no-nonsense approach.

Andrea Mitchell presents as a low-key persona on television, one that can be interpreted as humble. She is a Nationals baseball fan, a Democrat (I assume), an anchor, pundit, and journalist. Whatever else she is, her choice in a mate is baffling: Alan Greenspan, member of Ayn Rand’s circle in the 1950s and as Federal Reserve Chair, promoter of the easy money legacy, which many think led directly to the subprime mortgage and credit crisis of 2007 (however incomprehensible, there are many mixed-politics couples).

Why do I ask what Andrea Mitchell would do, and not Eleanor Roosevelt, Nancy Pelosi, RBG, Nurse Edith Cavell, or Greta Thunberg? Andrea Mitchell is alive and a member of my generation, plus I find her calm demeanor, her speech—flawed often by hesitation—comforting. However courageous AM is, Nancy Pelosi and RBG—both alive and fit—are too fearless, too brave and outspoken to be comforting mentors—too much the warrior icons, and thank goodness for them. Triple that for Greta. I am too much in awe of their courage and certainty to even wonder what they would do in any situation. Of course Nancy would not have a second drink! Greta’s never had one, let alone a second chocolate chip cookie—or a moment’s inaction against the tide of horrors I find defeating.

Once the impeachment trial is over, and the weight of the verdict presses heavily upon us, I will need Andrea Mitchell more than ever. Soon, when it’s noon on some days and time for my low-key weight lifting (once my hand heals from surgery last month)—I’ll turn on the Andrea Mitchell news show—her upper arms beckon.

DEC 13, 2019 by Constance Emmett
published in Community

Congratulations! You’ve published your book—now what? You worked very hard to get here—sitting on your own, writing, rewriting, and submitting for publication—surviving rejection and persisting. It’s time to buckle up again though, because post-publication may be bumpy, even overwhelming at times. Here are five tips to help smooth your way. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Scroll through DIY MFA for information and inspiration—both are here to be found!

1) Savor the moment

First, enjoy your accomplishment. You’ve worked hard for a long time, and you’ve succeeded. Not everyone persists and succeeds, but you did! Tell everyone and enjoy a party—you’ve been writing for a while, alone, so break out a little. Take the time to truly savor your accomplishment.

2) Mind the gap!

Mind the gap between what you expect and what you experience. If this is your first publication, you’re in a new world (and if this is not, you’ll know the drill, but it’s good to be reminded). The serious subject of sales will quickly overshadow publication joy—it’s a fact of your new life—but you can help promote your sales by working through steps 3 and 4.

Friends and family will be congratulatory and really pleased for you…except the ones that seem, well, jealous, and either ignore your feat or say weird things about it. It really isn’t you, don’t worry, but don’t be surprised if you hear things like, “You know I’ve written a book, too,” or “Maybe I’ll write a novel,” instead of a simple, “Good for you!” I never thought post-publication would hold social terrors, but once news of my publication spread, a few acquaintances and friends were at best tone deaf and at worst downright weird toward me. Most have been supportive and even excited for me, but here’s an exchange that illustrates one type of weirdness encountered:

She: I just bought your book!

Me: Thank you! Enjoy it!

She (at the top of her lungs at a party): So-and-so told me it’s hard to get into, but once you get past the beginning, it’s good.

Me: Speechless.

Chalk it up to whatever and appreciate your new understanding of these people—it’s information. You’ll be able to tell who has actually read your book and appreciated it versus those who did neither, whatever they say. Better to accept the fact that not everyone will enjoy what you wrote—after all, you don’t read every genre and haven’t liked every book you’ve ever read either. The people who tell you they loved your book with feeling and detail will make you unimaginably happy.

 3) Hit social media hard

With fanfare, post the steps of your publication on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, your blog, and website. Use all of your online social media platforms, but don’t neglect your local newspaper or your book club, library and writers’ groups.

Post the photo of the cover art, your author’s photo and the release dates for each version: paperback, hardback, Kindle/device, and audio. When the book is released—online or in brick stores—post photos of book signings, the bookstore window, the blurb on Amazon. Keep hitting your social media hard. Ask your readers to post reviews and ratings on Amazon and Goodreads—give them a chance to read it, but don’t be shy—keep asking.

4) Dig in, dig deeper

Unless you scored a traditional publishing house with deep pockets, you’ll be responsible for the book’s promotion—that’s certainly true of indie/hybrid and self-publishing. If you are lucky enough to have an agent, the agency will help promote the book, but in the modern world, you’re responsible for your own promotion at least to some degree.

If you don’t have an agent, start pitching again to agents with your book already reviewed and selling. By this time, you know how to choose agents with whom you have the best chance of a successful submission, but for a quick reminder, see this article, Query Tracker, Guide to Literary Agents 2019, Writer’s Market 2019, and other sources.  Remember that reputable agents will never ask for upfront fees. If you are thinking about exploring book marketing consultants or book marketing courses, both can be expensive, so only consider those endorsed and offered by reputable organizations like Writer’s Digest and diyMFA.

Meanwhile, if your book is available on Amazon, set up the “Follow the Author” page and the author page on Goodreads, and those on the online writers’ and readers’ groups to which you belong. Follow the prompts given such as “ask the author a question,” etc.—refresh and add to those sections regularly.

Contact the book reviewer for your local newspaper and suggest an interview and review of your book. If your publisher does not supply review copies, buy them yourself and send to appropriate journalists, bookstore owners, and writers for review magazines.

Do your homework—if you belong to a genre organization (and you should belong to as many as possible), check out their review system and submit your book for a published review. Plan to attend book fairs and writers’ conferences with copies of your book to sell— hit the road. The conferences also will provide the opportunity to pitch to agents in person and network with other writers—all worth the expense of the fee and travel because the exposure is priceless.

Think about the living writers whose work you admire the most. Send each a copy of your book (via their agent or publisher) with a note of praise for their work and thanks for their inspiration. All writers are busy, but all writers read, and it’s a worth a try. Imagine a writer you admire liking your book and telling her friends—at the very least it will provide an opportunity—a conversational gambit—to connect with them at conferences and book signings.

 5) Write

Go back to your roots: sit down and start a new book, write blog posts, or short pieces for publication. Remind yourself that you wanted to write, that you are a writer—so write! Work on tips 3-4, think creatively about how to help sales, then sit down and write something new. Writing will help you thrive while promoting your book, and will build your craft, your reputation, and your oeuvre. You are a writer first and foremost, that’s clear—enjoy yourself and write. Do it for your readers, the ones who loved your book and miss the world you created for them—they’ll love you for it.

---

Constance Emmett’s debut historical/LGBT+novel, Heroine Of Her Own Life, published by Next Chapter, begins shipping at the end of August. She writes in an aerie-like office in the beautiful foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires. Her non-fiction is posted on her blog, or connect with her on Twitte

My publisher, Next Chapter, has expanded their book marketing platforms to include Prolific Works (formerly InstaFreebie). The above link takes the curious to the HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE page, access to a preview of the novel, the author’s page and book page. Check it out!

https://claims.prolificworks.com/free/ZG8ntYbe

If you’ve read HEROINE OF HER OWN LIFE and have a few minutes, please rate and review it on Amazon (linked to the book’s page) and on Goodreads (ditto). Don’t be shy and visit my author pages on each. I’d appreciate more reviews very much, and thank you, dear friends and readers.

At two a.m. I wake as a three-legged woman (no need to veil your maiden eyes—this will not be obscene). Three kneecaps are impossible to arrange comfortably, three ankles threaten to bend at odd angles, and all three feet find the bedclothes intolerable. Any stretching or writhing invites excruciating cramping—nothing works. No sleep resumes.

When did this begin? I’m certain that Baby Constance enjoyed the correct number of stumpy legs and arms attached to a solid little torso, and they never interfered with her comfort. As a young woman, I was never three-legged—nothing bothered me in that direction (except for affairs of the heart or constant destitution, little bothered me, full stop). Whenever it began, I fear it’s here to stay. I am coming to accept that from two to five a.m., I will be fitfully awake and uncomfortable—a three-legged woman.

I should get up and read, or better, write, during those hours, but I’ve never been able to leave a warm bed for a chilly chair in the living room or chillier, my desk upstairs. So what to do?

Three legs and their inherent discomfort set me on a three-legged path mentally: I wonder, I worry, I think-write as the bedside clock crawls toward daybreak.

I wonder about things large and small. I wonder if I’ll see the bobcat strolling down the driveway this fall, as I did last year. I wonder about the Chinese lady who calls from myriad phone numbers and leaves messages. I’ve read that she represents a scam, purporting to be the Chinese Embassy, warning of expired visas and no doubt discussing the cash payment to revive them. I wonder whether Trump will be reelected, which leads me to the next phase.

Wide-ranging worry sets in, impossible as it is to see the bright side during the wee hours. Climate change is feast for a three-legged woman’s worry, and while hard to see in the beautiful place in which we live, it’s evident in Siberia, where the permafrost has melted, towns have vanished into middle earth, and flooded rivers remove all trace. Climate change(d) is obvious too in Greenland, where the loss of ice means loss of hunting for humans and polar bears, now starving. Unbearable lists of vanishing animal and plant species cause pain even in broad daylight.

I worry about the tattered state of the nation and the world, reliving the vicious and mendacious statements and actions of the so-called leaders. The children incarcerated at our border, Syria, Trump, the Kurds. Worrying about my health and our future are top on the list, although knock-on-wood, I’m fine, we’re both fine. I tell myself and my three legs that these are two a.m. thoughts, nothing more, but at least I don’t worry about anything trivial.

I think-write, which is not at all actually writing, not slogging through words on a page, but it can result in some planning for writing. I’ve extricated plots and characters from stuck mode more than once between two and four a.m. Likewise, new characters and new plots have come to me, as have words and names to use, and pictures to paint in my fiction. It’s a good use of time not asleep, and as long as I can keep the worrying to a minimum and the think-writing to a maximum, I won’t keep myself awake with the resentment that insomnia brings.

Eventually, long before autumnal dawn’s twilight, I fall peacefully asleep and wake refreshed before dawn, two legs restored—there, that wasn’t so bad.