On Family

Seven years ago today, I wrote about family, about finding it and losing it and recreating it. 
Seven years later, these words are still true.

*    *    * I've been resting and talking and reading and trying to work through the fallout that inevitably happens when you try to go home again. In one sense, what I did was so easy. I flew on a plane to my mom's house several months after she died, cleaned it up, packed much, donated more, and drove home.

In another sense, it couldn't have been harder. I flew to the house where my mom suffered and died, slept in the same room where nurses and aids and family and friends cared for her in her last weeks, sat in the same chair I'd sat in months earlier while stroking her still-warm body, only seconds after she'd left it behind on her journey. I relived every moment of our trip in December '08 and again in April/May '09, discovering priceless information about this very complex and very convoluted family that would throw me into a deep and sudden awe and compassion upon finding one treasure, anger and betrayal at the next discovery.

But that's what family is for, is it not? To leave future generations with enough burning questions and obsessions that neither genealogy researchers nor therapists will ever have to worry about job security.

In my family, in that house, with those memories, I'm still confused. Information I discovered that had never been shared with me before, information that made me see my parents with part-awe and part betrayal, not knowing in that moment if I loved them or hated them, but only knowing I couldn't walk away.

My brother and I, who could barely be trusted to be left alone when we were kids, lest one of us injure the other seriously enough to require medical attention, went through 65 years of collected possessions, including possessions my mom had inherited from her mom and dad and from her mother-in-law. We opened every box, unwrapped every piece cushioned by well-worn newspaper or paper towel. It was a life autopsy of possessions and we, the examiners, separated and examined and weighed and tested every piece.

Numerous times, most notably when I was eyeing the growing stack of boxes for me to take back home and then visualizing the interior of a minivan and trying to figure out how it would all fit, I would wonder why I had come to do this in the first place.

Why?

It seems instantly an easy enough answer. I wanted some remnants of my childhood, as did my brother. I wanted some mementos of my parents, ones that focused on the happy times. I didn't want my brother to have to do this all by himself. And I wanted to get the place cleaned out so it could be rented. Another family, new life, new dreams. I think Mom would have liked that.

But was that really it? Digging through boxes and papers and clothing and endless amounts of plastic utensils and wet wipes and matches, the detritus of a life lived and loved and suffered and lost, what did I really find?

I found that family is a need, not a noun. Family could have been brutal and unforgiving, it could have meant growing up battered in mind, body, and spirit, and it also could have been children's laughter on the swingset, a surprise trip to the zoo to put the blue elephant key in the box and hear the narrator tell you about what animal you're viewing. Family is the need to always display some photographs and never others, never quite explaining if the hidden ones are being sequestered away to be forgotten or in need of more precious protection than hanging openly on a wall.

Family is a beginning and often, an end. Family is where we came from, that lifeline to who we were and how we came to be this way. Family is our excuse, our answered prayer, our legacy, our mark on the world. We love it and hate it, run to it and rebel from it.

Spending one week immersed in this family, in these memories, in this house, I was nearly ready to walk away. But I didn't, and now I'm home in the midst of these memory-filled items, not sure whether to mourn or rejoice, whether to use these objects as jumping-off points for discussions about the great-great-grands and how their lives were similar or different, or whether to pack them away until I can look at them without feeling such a hollow sense of loss.

I sorted and cleaned my way through a person's life, learning as I went, and found a woman I hadn't completely gotten to know, and now never will. Then I spent a week trying to return to my family, my mind ever on the challenges of the road I was taking. And then when I got home, I buried myself in a collection of political thrillers, looking, as the characters are, for order within chaos, duty within impossible moral choices, fleeing a past that may never be gone, and in fact parts of which are sitting in my living room.

I went for family, I stayed for family. And yet I feel like I'm leaving with a different sense of family. Gone is the omnipotence; what remains behind is the shattered life that found comfort in collections. And after picking up the pieces, I moved toward a family that I want simply to be honest and decent and caring.

You can't go home again, but you can define home and family for yourself and build it, out of the tools you inherited from your family, or the creative adaptations you learned because the only tools left to you were so morally broken they weren't worth using.

I did it for family. Which one—then or now?  Neither, actually. I did it for what family means to my heart and soul, where family means the most.

Originally posted on Interstate Insanity
Reprinted with permission
Copyright ©2010 by Sheyna Galyan

Triggers, Critics, and Rosh Hashanah

It is two days before my newest novel, Strength to Stand, is released to the public, and I would have expected myself to be ecstatic. The book and I have both overcome so many odds to get to this point that the very fact some interested reader can hold it in his or her hand is nothing short of a miracle. Emotions swirl around inside me: gratitude, pride, humility, joy.

Yet there are others there, uninvited guests who have taken up residence in the party room, scaring away the fun with their chilly presence: pain, despair, hopelessness, depression. I was certain I hadn't invited them, certain my focus was on the guests I wanted. I had every intention of getting autographs from hope, opportunity, and love. So why the downer?

Because pistol triggers aren't the only kind of triggers that can leave a gaping, bloody hole in one's life.

If you've spent some time on this blog, you know that I've come out about battling depression, among other things. I've also written a little about what life was like in my family, growing up. Over time, I finally learned that I have worth, that my opinion counts, and that the Torah actually commands us to love ourselves (though not in a narcissistic way). These are life lessons that we need to learn experientially, not intellectually. And for those of us who grew up with a lot of criticism or shame or violence, learning these life lessons may well be the thing that keeps us alive.

But what these lessons do not do, unfortunately, is erase the pain or the shame or the scars left on our bodies and souls. And when something similar to those original assaults comes along, it can rip off the scabs, tear open the scars, and leave us hurting and weakened, right back in the center of hell.

There's some interesting psychology around what are now called Adverse Childhood Events (ACEs). There are a total of ten (defined) ACEs, events occurring before a child turns 18, including but not limited to physical and sexual abuse, physical or emotional neglect, mental illness or addiction in the family, and divorce, violence, or death in the family. The ACE study has linked these adverse childhood events with later (decades later) physical and emotional health issues. The higher you score on the ACE Questionnaire, the greater the likelihood you'll have one or more of the health issues commonly associated with ACEs.

Is it causal or correlational? The brain science behind the study does seem to show that it's causal. Long-term stress caused by these ACEs has a physiological effect on the development of the brain, thus leaving individuals at greater risk for health problems and reduced longevity. But it's not a death sentence. Science also shows that there are things we can do to help heal our brains.

Nowhere on that list, though, is finding ourselves, willingly or not, in the middle of situations that resemble the original assaults we endured.

We call those situations triggers, though that seems like a relatively innocuous word to describe all that scab-ripping, soul-tearing pain. Avoiding triggers is good. Becoming strong enough in ourselves that the triggers lose their power is even better.

I'm not there yet. I will be. But not today.

I got triggered this past week, which is probably what sent out the party invitations to the chilly, downer guests. Here's what happened, in a nutshell.

• I received a mean-spirited, snarky review of Strength to Stand from a review journal infamous for mean-spirited, snarky reviews. They described my characters in caricatures, wrote in hyperbole, and then accused me of writing stereotypes.
• Everyone else said that this was one (anonymous) person's opinion, and meant nothing amidst the sea of overwhelmingly positive reviews. One supporter thought my book was "too Jewish" for this reviewer. Another wondered to what extent there might have been an undercurrent of antisemitism. My favorite comment, by far, was from one reader who asked, "Who peed in [their] Wheaties this morning?"
• My brain didn't—couldn't—go there, as much as I tried. I tried doing the whole I-have-worth, I-am-loved, I-am-not-defined-by-one-review thing and no matter how much I practiced measured breathing and positive thoughts, they could not break through the Door of Shame that locked me inside with all my trigger emotions.
• Locked behind that door, I was a child again, harshly and undeservedly tongue-lashed by an adult who held my physical and emotional safety, indeed my entire survival, in their hands.
• My brain processed this criticism as "Not only did you do something bad, but by creating this and putting it out into the world, you have irreparably harmed the universe."
• My brain, honed by forty years of well-placed, well-timed barbs meant to cut, maim, and destroy, followed this train of thought: I did bad = I am bad = I am not worthy of living.

The negative critic in my head has been busy too. "If you're going to be an author, you're going to need thicker skin than that. Maybe you're not cut out to do this author thing." No judgment there.

Intellectually, I get it. All authors get bad reviews. No author's books are for everyone, and clearly, the snarky reviewer is not the intended demographic for my book. The greatest authors of all time get bad reviews. The book I'm reading right now and love has received bad reviews. It's one person's opinion and nothing more. I get it. I really do.

Emotionally, the child-me has associated that review with a parent's authority, tossed it onto the mountain of evidence that I don't measure up, and tried to convince me to find another career. Or at least stop writing Jewishly-themed books.

In related news, I've finally gotten around to watching the last half of Glee Season 5. The episode in which Rachel reads every negative review ever written about her performance in Funny Girl, of course, hit home. It begged the question, "Am I going to let the bullies, the haters, the trolls keep me from my passion?" Am I really going to give them power over me? Over my life?

Clearly, critics and bullies and haters (or those who comprise all three) are in abundance these days, especially on the Internet. Responses to them have made their way into popular songs, as well as television shows, evidenced by lyrics like, "Done looking for the critics 'cause they're everywhere / They don't like my jeans, they don't get my hair" (P!nk, "Perfect," 2010). 

Taylor Swift, in an interview about the song-you-either-love-or-hate, "Shake It Off," said, "The message [in 'Shake It Off'] is a problem we all deal with on a daily basis. [. . .] We live in a takedown culture. People will find anything about you and twist it to where it’s weird or wrong or annoying or strange or bad. You have to not only live your life in spite of people who don’t understand you — you have to have more fun than they do."

So as we head into the Jewish New year, as I ponder the year ahead and what I want it to look like, what G-d may want it to look like for me, words from the Unetanah Tokef—a thousand-year-old religious poem—come to mind: "Who will be safe and who will be torn? Who will be calm and who will be tormented?"

It is said, during Rosh Hashanah in general and during this poem specifically, that teshuvah (return [also translated as "repentance"]), tefilah (prayer), and tzedakah (justice [also meaning to act in a just or charitable manner]) can "avert the severity of the decree." While some interpret this to mean they must confess their sins, pray more (or go to shul more), and donate more money to charity, here's my interpretation:

Teshuvah (return): I return from what others think of me to knowing who I really am. I am Sheyna. I am created b'tselem Elokim, in the image of G-d. Through G-d, I am loved and accepted completely and unconditionally. Without need of caveat or disclaimer, I am enough, just as I am.

Tefilah (prayer): I internalize my intention to return, and I ask for G-d's love and support in my process and at all times. I seek out time for prayer and meditation, time to Connect. I seek out people who are loving and supportive, and situations in which I feel safe and supported.

Tzedakah (justice): My actions toward myself and others come from a place of justice. I treat my body, mind, and soul with care, compassion, and love, for I and others are created in the image of G-d, and how I treat myself and others is how I treat G-d. I do not expect perfection, but I do expect myself to show up and do all I can.

I know that this is not an all-done!-check-it-off sort of deal. We do have Rosh Hashanah every year, after all. We have every day to make a change. Every morning when I wake, up I can choose whether I want to keep my power or give it to the critics. In every moment, I can choose whether to see myself as I fear others may see me, or I can be who I am.

I may not be able to avoid the triggers, nor the wounds they leave. Yet. But I may have found the key to get out of that locked room of shame, and the exit door to show to my chilly guests.

Because damn it, I worked really freaking hard to get this book out into the world, and it's time to party!

Putting together the pieces

I hope that I am perhaps climbing out of this funk. I was able to get up and do a few things around the house today, though only for about an hour and now I am trembly and exhausted and overwhelmed again. But it is progress.

I have a very big week coming up. Initially I thought I would be lucky if I had any time to myself at all, and now I am realizing that I need to take time for myself. Taking a few minutes to blog might wind up saving my sanity.

Image: Valentin.Ottone/Flickr

See, I have a [censored] load of work to do. It's only when I'm hurting and vulnerable and unsure of myself that I really feel it. I need to finish (still) the re-writes on Strength to Stand, which I've been promising for four years will come out "soon," and then I work on other people's books instead. I need to create my new website, now that I've built the new company website and learned how to create a truly custom site. I need to create a mailing list (and a newsletter—Gaak!) and find people who might write blurbs and honestly, I need to take a little bit of my brain and really start thinking of myself as an author.

I was an author. And then I became a publisher, and the author part kept getting pushed aside. If I can integrate myself and Rivka, I can certainly integrate my publisher self and my author self into my workday. Can't I?

People have no idea what goes into being a publisher, which is something that I'll write more about on the Yotzeret blog sometime soon. I'm very much a one-woman shop. I read queries and consider possible acquisitions. I read manuscripts for possible contract offers. I negotiate contracts. I am editor (though when sales are good enough, I will contract out for editing, to free up my time to do other writerly or publisherly things). I am book designer, cover designer, web designer, publicist, pre-press editor. I will drive 200 miles one way to pick up a print run of books, schlepping them into my van, then into the (small) warehouse I rent for inventory. I pick and pack books to fulfill orders. I am office manager, shipping manager, customer relations, collections, and accountant. Among other things.

People depend on me for all of the above. Authors' royalty checks are determined in part by how well I do my job. As a somewhat-recovering people-pleaser, this is both a source of pride and stress. (Guess what the number one cause of fibromyalgia flares is? Stress! Ah, but I digress.)

I am also a mom, chef, chauffeur, house manager,  gardener, repair woman, school volunteer, etc., etc. All those things that go into why an at-home mom should be paid some $113K a year.

Somewhere in there, I need to reclaim myself as an author too. Because everyone needs at least three full-time jobs, right? Writing is the one thing that makes me feel fully alive. Writing is one of the key things that makes me feel Jewish. Writing helps me discover who I am, how I relate to the world, and how I relate to G-d. Writing takes me out of my body; it takes the dis out of disability. And writing is the one thing that I've been willing to give up in order to tend to all of my other jobs.

And now I realize why. Because all my other jobs, whether they benefit me tangentially or not, are primarily for other people. Writing is the only job that is just for me.

This morning I woke up to the critical voice in my head saying, "Okay, enough with all the whining all over your blog. Two posts is probably two too many. Way to alienate your readers, girl."

That's when I realized: I was no longer writing what I thought others wanted to hear. I was now writing what I wanted to write. I was writing what most needed to come out. I am writing for me.

That said, I hope you'll come along for the journey.

For every action

. . . there is an equal and opposite reaction. —Newton's Third Law of Motion

I'm waiting for it to come. Because it always comes. My history has proven that.

The depression causes extreme fatigue, somewhat similar to the fatigue I experience with fibromyalgia, but much longer-lasting, going for weeks or even months at its worst. It's not currently at its worst. I've been way, way worse than this. But I'm still sleeping as much as 15 hours a day, when I can sleep and I'm not up with a depression-induced insomnia.

Image: Kaitrosebd-Stock

And so it was that I woke at nearly noon, having missed shul again. But that was kind of okay, because although I posted my "coming out" late on Erev Shabbat, and I knew that most of the people I would see in shul wouldn't have seen it, or read it, I still harbored this fear that I would walk into shul and get verbally attacked by people hissing, "How could you say that about us?!"

That's always been my fear: that I would tell the truth, or the truth as I experienced it, without embellishment, without judgement, and it would be followed by retribution.

That's the reason I kept all of the really personal stuff on my Rivka blog and kept the happy, interesting, writerly stuff here. I figured people wanted happy. And I didn't want a backlash. But the result is that I split myself as well.

The writer part of me couldn't also be the publisher part of me because then I'd be labelled "self-published" and in 2003, that was a dirty word. Eleven years later, I've built a company with global ties, published five award-winning books, and proven (I think) that I know what I'm doing. I can be both writer and publisher now.

I could admit that I have fibromyalgia, and that it was most likely triggered in 2007 (the same year as my worst depression in years) during the incredibly difficult pregnancy that ended in stillbirth. Physical and emotional trauma is nearly always the trigger for fibromyalgia, though why that is, no one knows quite yet. It's fantastic that science has now found that it's caused by a neurovascular disorder in the hands and feet.

I even admitted, albeit offhandedly, to having depression, anxiety, OCD, and PTSD. But reconciling my writer/publisher self with Rivka was harder, because as Rivka, I was completely, brutally truthful. I never named names (and still won't). I was extremely careful about lashon hara (gossip). I wrote about my experience, my truth, without embellishment, without judgment. And I exposed how things were not working, how congregants were getting marginalized, how I could be in the middle of a crowd of people who had known me for over a decade and still be invisible.

And that is where the fear comes in. Because I've had some very positive experiences in shul, and some very negative ones. I wrote each one truthfully, as I experienced it. No holds barred (a wrestling term, even though I hate wrestling). Now that people know who I am, what I've experienced, what my experience has been like in my Jewish community, will they be angry that not every experience was positive? That I exposed hurtful words and actions, brought some of the shul's closet skeletons out into the light, and dared identify them as problems?

What will they do about it? Will they make sure it doesn't happen again, to anyone else (which is hard work and takes commitment)? Or will they attack me (which is easy and often makes others feel better about themselves, even as their target retreats, broken and bleeding)?

I guess I will find out.

I am Rivka

I've been thinking about posting this for two days. Actually, that's not entirely true. I've been thinking on and off about posting this since 2011.

There's a piece going around Facebook about "10 Ways to Show Love to Someone With Depression" and the timing was impeccable. Because I'm intimately familiar with depression. In fact, I wrote a list from the other side in 2007: "What not to say to someone who is depressed." I joked (only in part) that it should be a chapter in a book titled The Care and Feeding of Your Bipolar/Depressed Friend.

For those who click that second link, you might be confused. Wait, you might say, this is another blog. By someone named Rivka."

Yes. It is. I am Rivka.

My Hebrew name is SheynaRivka. I blogged about depression and Judaism for five years, between 2007 and 2011. It's taken me seven years to lose enough of my fear of being cast out, rejected, shunned, blacklisted, or whatever else might happen to "come out" as Rivka. I'm not going public on that blog. It stands well on its own, giving voice to so many who feel they don't have a voice, so many whose circumstances make it too dangerous for them to speak up.

I was first diagnosed with major clinical depression and anxiety when I was 15, but that was only after it got so bad that I couldn't hide it anymore. After child protective services stepped in and made therapy a requirement to avoid foster care. I can't say exactly when it started, but I remember the feelings as far back as age 12.

My mother had it. Her mother had it. There's some indication that her father had it too. And so when my youngest told me a few months ago, "There is no use for me in the world" after a couple weeks of low energy, low appetite, zero motivation, and bouts of crying, there were huge red flags waving in front of me. I was able to get him in to the doctor the next day to be seen.

Because depression isn't something to mess with. I'm not going to risk my child's life by saying, "He's a tween; it's hormonal."

Today I'm realizing that my own unrelenting fatigue and growing withdrawal and increasing sadness that's been going on for a couple weeks now is not my usual fibromyalgia-related depression, which comes with the pain and goes just as quickly. No, this has a different flavor. This is dark and heavy and makes even the smallest daily tasks nearly impossible. This is the real thing. And it followed a couple weeks of high anxiety and near obsession with finishing and perfecting the website for work. My depression is back, and while I know it will pass, I have no idea how long it will take me to climb out of the hole this time.

Seven years ago, I got through one of the worst depressions of my life (and the subsequent death of my unborn daughter) by writing about it. Maybe it will work again this time.

Seven years ago, as Rivka, I wrote about viewing my depression as an adversary. As the adversary—the yetser hara. I wrote:

it breaks me down and consumes me and spits out what's left, and

I have this black cloud over my head or in my head and I can't see (both from here)

[it] takes that and twists it all around, that I don't deserve success, that my faults are too many, that I'm simply not good enough (from here)

I'm ... under the influence of my unstable emotions (from here)

It left me questioning my contribution to my marriage, my contribution to anyone, my value to the world (from here)

It's that I just feel less. Less everything that is meaningful to me, and

It diminishes everything important. It corrodes what makes my life meaningful and powerful and profound. It eats away at what makes me me (both from here)

Today, as I sit here, unable to come up with the strength to bake challah, or contemplate going downstairs to light candles, or even to reheat my coffee, all I can think of is that I'm letting my family down, that I'm letting down my child fighting depression because he loves lighting candles, that somehow I'm betraying my Judaism.

I know that's the depression talking. I know that giving in to it will only sap my strength further. I know that I need to tell it, "Stop! Enough!" even as I'm yelling it from the bottom of this pit. Someday soon (please, G-d) I will see my lifeline again.

Blogging on TC Jewfolk

My first blog post on TC Jewfolk is naturally about . . . writing. And vulnerability. And the impact on a writer's self-esteem. Here's how it starts:

PAPER CHILDREN

I think I was born a writer. I was not, however, born with the thick skin that any successful writer needs. “You’re too sensitive,” my parents would tell me. But shouldn't I be? Isn't sensitivity to other people and one’s environment part of what makes one a good writer?

Read the rest on TC Jewfolk.

Jewish Book Carnival - August edition

For those who don't know, there's a Jewish Book Carnival in the blogosphere, and this month it's hosted by Needle in the Bookstacks, a blog from the HUC-JIR librarians (go librarians!). Please check out the August Jewish Book Carnival post there and support Jewish books.

Life's Too Short

I was nowhere to be found
Locked up so tight never making a sound
The answer stuck in my head
A thousand words always thought never said
Gonna make it clear, this is me here, gonna let it go

—Marie Wilson, Making It Up As I Go Along, 1999.

I just scheduled my next haircut and noticed we're less than eight weeks from Rosh Hashanah. *sigh* I have really neglected my blog, my Facebook author page, my writing. And at the same time, I've been working full-time this past year, publishing other authors' books.

And that's where I was comfortable. Safe. Behind the scenes, working my magic, away from the spotlight. Sure, I had my opinions—strong ones at that—but I feared expressing them. I feared the Beat Down.

You know what I've learned? Decisions based on fear are rarely wise.

I went to a women's gathering once, a few years ago, despite my very introverted tendencies. I was trying to stretch my comfort zone, which, I'm told, is a good thing. I was very self-conscious, and for anyone who knows me personally, being self-conscious means that I rarely—and barely—speak.

At the gathering, we all were to have a large group discussion about our relationship to Conservative Judaism. Some women spoke extensively; others passed. I spoke briefly about generally identifying as Conservative, but sometimes finding myself drawn to both Reform and feminist Orthodoxy.

The woman who spoke after me looked directly at me and prefaced her discussion comments with, “Without taking thirty sentences to answer…”

Okay, first? Rude. No one called her on it. I was insulted. Second, I used maybe five sentences, and I certainly wasn't the most talkative in that discussion. And third, and saddest, I never went to another get-together with that group. There was no question her comment was directed at me. It was the Beat Down. And she won, for a while.

I refrained from blogging, or posting anything potentially controversial on Facebook, because I was expecting another Beat Down. And it's taken me nearly forty-four years to realize that this fear is a universal one. And life's too short to let the beaters like that woman win any more. It's time to speak up.

Apologetics

Apologetics (Greek): to defend, explain, or justify a position, sometimes religious, often through writing.

I've been on hiatus for a year. It wasn't exactly planned, but the longer I went without writing, the more it seemed like I should be 100% behind my decision to return, if I did. (I am, by the way, returning. Just in case you wondered.)

One of the questions bloggers struggle with is "how much do I say?" When you're blogging anonymously, there's some more leeway you can take, as long as you're not giving away personally identifying information. When you're writing under your own name, everyone knows it's you. I've had people I know, who never comment on the blog, come up to me in person and say, "You know, I totally agree with what you wrote."

Um . . . what? What I wrote? Where? When? Ah . . . the blog.

I've gotten a lot of support over the years, for which I'm grateful. I've also gotten some nasty comments. I've been verbally attacked, on a very personal level, for what I've written. That's where I really had to take some time and figure out how much I was willing to say and how much I respected my own opinion.

Yup. That last part bears repeating. I needed to figure out how much I respected my own opinion. Sounds like a weird thing for a writer to say, but often we're a sensitive bunch, and even more often, until we're toughened up by editors and publishers and reviewers and critics and readers (if we ever are), we doubt ourselves.

For reasons I'm not going to go into here, it was only in this past year that I finally, really "got it" that I have an opinion, and that my opinion matters. Wow. It was a big revelation, believe me. It took a long time for me to go from "my critics are always right and I'm always wrong" to "I don't have to listen to them, or accept what they say. And further, they might be full of shit."

Oh yeah, I'm also learning how to swear.

So, I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to write about, but it'll be my take on life and Judaism and books and writing and anything else that strikes my fancy. And I reserve the right to delete comments that take aim at me. After all, it's my blog. And I count. (Yippee!)

New Jewish Book Carnival

Review Jewish books? Write Jewish books? Love Jewish books? There's a new carnival for you!

The Association of Jewish Libraries has just started a Jewish Book Carnival that will run monthly, building community among blog writers and readers and sharing information on Jewish books.

The inaugural edition can be found at http://jewishlibraries.org/blog/?p=366.

Still Active...Just Not Here (except now, and in the near future)

Guess what? I'm on Facebook. Yep, me and like five billion other souls all looking to connect over pokes and tweets and catching up while raising virtual livestock and growing cartoon plants. I've been very active out there in FB-land with my own author page, publisher page, and of course my profile where I can get caught up on the lives of my friends without ever having to talk to them.

In fact, I'd love it if you'd go to my author page (http://artist.to/sheynagalyan ) and click to "like" it. That way you can stay even more in touch with the book goings on, like a delightful review left just today that has me all happy inside and ready to tackle the next round of editing on Strength to Stand.

That doesn't mean I won't be back here. Despite my occasionally lengthy absences, I do consider this blog a sort of friend, and I treasure all four regular readers out there. I have some plans for this blog, too, like how does a fiction writer, with a niche genre, go about getting a publishing contract without, 1. Spending their own money to some person or company that may not know--or care--what they're doing; 2. Spending months or years looking for an agent (who may or may not know what they're doing) who will then spend months or years shopping your manuscript around to publishers who may wonder if the author knew what he or she was doing when writing the book. How does the new world of ebooks and Kindles and Nooks and book downloads and Just-in-Time manufacturing and Ingram's new "Espresso Book Machine" affect us as writers and readers. How can we best get what we want to say to those who want to hear it?

(If you figure out  the answer to that last question, let me know.)

Or topics like, What's scary about going with a small press? What's scary about going with a great big New York publisher? Is it ever okay to friend your publisher/editor/author/cover artist on Facebook? Why is the book business looking more like the music business and why does that bother a lot of book people?

It's just me and my opinions and observations, with a Jewish twist. Because that's what I do.

Write on...

Staying in Sync

I'm speaking tomorrow (Friday, August 14) at the MIPA/IBPA Regional Publishing University. In addition to working on my presentations, I'm setting it up so that right before I get up to speak, I can text a note from my phone and have it update here, as well as on Facebook and LinkedIn, among others. More to make a point than because I want to blast my status around the known universe.

So, we'll see if it works. Stay tuned!

Reading Jewish

I read a lot, although admittedly, my recreational reading time is generally about thirty minutes before I fall asleep each night. Something like a year (or more?) ago, I was going to write reviews of the books I was reading anyway. In fact, a publicist I know started sending me some of the books that crossed his desk, so I could have many from which to choose. Alas, I dropped that ball.

I read two of the books, The Godfile: 10 Approaches to Personalizing Prayer by Aryeh Ben David, and Getting Our Groove Back: How to Energize American Jewry by Scott A. Shay. I really liked them both and had things I wanted to say. But life has a way of happening and I never got around to writing them. I plan to change that. My apologies, Stuart!

I enjoy reading suspense/thriller/mysteries with even occasional Jewish references, and lately have been devouring books by Linda Fairstein and Paul Levine.

Then, by chance, I found The Shiksa Syndrome by Laurie Graff. I just finished it last night, wanting terribly to take the main character aside and give her a good talking-to. It was like a Jewish Grease gone wrong (for her), and a good read, about a Jewish woman pretending to be Not (eg: Not Jewish) in order to catch the attention of a Jewish man who is looking "outside the tribe." I'll write a full review shortly.

Tonight, I'm starting on a new book, both new to me and new to the world: The New Jew: An Unexpected Conversion by Sally Srok Friedes. There is actually a strong tie between finishing The Shiksa Syndrome and starting The New Jew: the idea that Judaism is big enough and strong enough (and similarly, that G-d is big enough and strong enough) to accommodate Jews with a wide variety of practices and beliefs.

Now I'm going to stop blogging so I can get to reading.

Warning: Cute Kid Story

Wow, I guess it's hasn't been as long as I thought since I posted last. I was on another blog that I've badly neglected and that kind of inspired me to write something, just to let my two readers know I'm still alive. So I thought I'd share a comment from Younger Son today. We were talking about a birthday party Older and Younger Sons will be attending tomorrow and how the invitation said to bring the "water weapon of your choice."

Younger Son: I can use my new water pump squirter at the party tomorrow.

Me: Yes, you can.

YS: Cool! I just hope it doesn't rain.

Me: It might; we could get a few showers tomorrow.

YS: I guess G-d has a water weapon too. And G-d will win. G-d always wins.


And for a relative change of subject, my best friend in high school also has two boys and has the awesome-est way to refer to them: Son the Elder and Son the Younger. I love this! So much that I think I may use it here in place of my less creative descriptions. So very First Century, the time of my favorite rabbis. Gotta love the history.

The REAL Me

Along the lines of my previous post about being on Facebook, I've decided to stop hiding behind my avatar. Don't get me wrong -- I love my avatar. I even went so far as to take a printout of my avatar to my hair stylist and say, "My hair is really close to this, but what can you do so that it can look exactly like this?"

My stylist said she's had a lot of people bring a lot of different photographs in before and say, "I want my hair to look like that," but no one had ever before brought her a cartoon...

But I have decided that if I'm going to bare my face to the world on my Facebook page, I can afford to do it here, too. And so, a fond farewell to the avatar that served me so well.

This is the real me.

Not now, honey, I'm Facebooking

I've done it. I am now socially networked. And there must be something wrong, because I am having WAY too much fun with it.

Whoever thought that throwing a sheep at a shul friend or sending flair to Husby when I'm sitting four feet away could be so fun? Okay, more to the point, this takes the term "global community" to a whole new level.

I'm pretty much an introvert. This is why I write instead of the myriad other things I could be doing that would actually make money (that, and the voices in my head won't leave me alone). So putting myself "out there" seemed a little scary at first. I'm okay with it now. No stalkers have appeared outside my home, at least 50% of the email I get is still junk (I'm not interested in cheap meds, fake handbags, or lengthening my organ), and all of the readers who have identified themselves to me seem to be nice, stable folks.

I have a full profile for people whom I know (more or less); I have a page for those I don't. And if you're on Facebook, I'd love it if you'd swing by and become a fan. (Because we all need fans and it looks really sad otherwise.)

Meanwhile, I'll work really hard on my part and keep up with the blogging again. Deal?

Back to Work

The kids are off to day camp on Monday (for three weeks), which means I can get back to work! Ergo, also back to the blog.

I have such ambitious, noble intentions.

Strength to Stand is in the hands of my editor. It's progressing more slowly than I'd have liked, but it's still progressing and I can't complain about that.

I've been working on the business end of things for a while now and my creative side is yearning to come out. This balance thing, it's so hard.

Strength to Blog

With thanks, Haveil Havalim #149 is up at Life in Israel. Many, many thanks are also due to SoccerDad, who started HH and is handing over the reins to Jack.

Now that the important stuff is out of the way, let's get to the real reason I'm here.

I need more feedback, people!

Those who've written, thank you! Your opinions are quite valuable since I am, after all, writing for an audience. (The books, that is. Well, the blog is for an audience, too, but I'm not selling the blog. Who would want it anyway?)

With the help of those who have commented and emailed, I've been able to narrow down the choices. Here's what didn't make the cut, and why:

1. Anger Avenged - nice alliteration, but negative overall; closely related to the plot but not clearly so
2. Broken Pact - not as related to the story as other titles; too close to Jodi Picoult's The Pact
3. For the Miracles - taken from the Chanukah liturgy and known to many Jews, it's an unclear title for non-Jewish readers and has more to do with the timing of the plot, not the story itself
4. In Your Midst - taken from the beginning of the Haftarah portion read on the first Shabbat of Chanukah, it's actually very much related to the plot as well. However, not quite intriguing enough
5. Payback - a great title, which explains why there are at least 20 other books out there with the same title. I'm sure I can be a little more original than that.
6. Rededication - related to the meaning of Chanukah (and its definition), it's too ho-hum (as opposed to ho-ho-ho, which would be a book titled "Christmas")
7. Rewards of Vengeance - again, negative sounding and perhaps not quite the value readers would go for
8. Faith and Fear - too similar to other titles, sounds like "Tales from the Inquisition," still negative
9. Chosen by Faith - suggested by Steve (thank you Steve!). I like the thematic connection and choice is something we all face every day. When it came down to it, though, I had to rule it out because Judaism is far more about action than faith. Plus, I don't want Barnes & Noble to shelve it in the Christian Fiction section like they did with Destined!

Now the short(er) list:

1. As in Days of Old - taken from part of the Shabbat liturgy, it originally had a great deal to do with the plot, but, as often happens when a book is being written, the characters take over and go in other directions. Such is the case here and I'm not sure it targets the plot well enough; also kind of ho-hum
2. Safety From Within - taken from the book text, it is both descriptive and ironic, but I'm not sure how well it really captures "suspense"
3. Strength to Strength - a common Jewish phrase, a wishing of wellness, can't say it isn't "strong" but is it descriptive enough?
4. Strength to Stand - also taken from the book text, it has everything to do with Chanukah, the plot, and gives an image (to me anyway) of a battled hero finding a way to continue on; probably one of the finalists
5. Strength to Prevail - similar to Strength to Stand, but less alliterative, suggests the ability to win the war, not just the battle, definitely conjures up a struggle (good)

Meanwhile, as I'm being all self-absorbed with getting this book ready to launch and doing my other wifely and motherly duties and fighting off a bad case of bronchitis, many of those around me are probably not happy with my timing. A whole bunch - and I mean a really... lot of people... are having major life cycle events lately. B'nai mitzvah, births, deaths, moving, changing schools.

I'd planned this for a relatively quiet time of year (no one wants to beta-read a novel a week before Passover, for instance), and now lots of folks have lots going on. Well, lots of people have lots going on a lot of the time. I have a lot of things going on a lot of the time, which is why I'm having to make some hard choices about going to the lots of things that lots of others have going on.

So that's the update. Keep your feedback coming!

The Moving Finger Writes, and Having Writ, Moves On

aka "Yay! No More Rosh Hashana Video!"


I am buried in books, folks. I've got quite a few I'm wading through for reviews (coming soon), an author interview with Tsvi Bisk (coming very soon), and stuff even I wrote (what a novel concept).

Spent Motzei Shabbat last night as the featured/guest author for a synagogue book group. I love audiences like this - warm, generous, genuinely interested. I was a little surprised when they said, "Okay, enough about the book. We're going to buy the book. We want to know more about you!"

My life is just so... well... my life. But some people find it interesting, which I find interesting. Maybe there's a book in there somewhere.

So what IS going on in my life? Some of the usual: kids, Husby, house, pets, vehicular challenges, winter in Minnesota (we're entering a warming trend, they said on the news: temperatures might get [up] close to freezing).

I moved my office from upstairs to dowstairs, which is actually a move up in the figurative sense though down in the literal sense. I have windows now and space. And boxes full of... uh... stuff, yeah, stuff from the former office, which is now a child's bedroom.

As for the writin', As in Days of Old is going through the first major editing and the cover art is starting to take shape. Beta readers ought to be getting their copies within a week or two. I'm hoping for a summer release; we'll see!

Some of you might remember my (very) short story "Saturdays," which was published on Elster's Storytellers blog a [ahem] year ago August. I've decided to give protagonist Coby his own book. Maybe not a series; I'm not sure. But I've got the perfect stand alone novel for him, and yes, folks, this one's a real honest-to-goodness murder mystery. Jewish perspective, yes, but not religiously so. If you've read "Saturdays," it's Coby post-police academy but without the encounter with Mike and Dan. (I have to take some writer's license, right?)

Meanwhile, I've been writing articles and shorter pieces (though obviously not blogging recently. Sorry about that!). One well-researched piece that I'm particularly fond of on the mitzvah of welcoming guests will be published in early January 2008; I should be able to either reprint it here or put in the link as soon as it's out.

I gave a 1-hour multi-media lecture last month on electronic marketing, or as I like to call it, "Book Marketing for Introverts." Due to responses to the lecture, I'm compiling my info along with other resources I've found for a small book. No release date for certain yet, but those who've read my articles on e-marketing (see my many posts on the MIPA blog) have said if the book were out now, they'd buy it sight unseen.

Pretty cool. I like hearing that.

I hope everyone had a meaningful and heroic Chanuka (or at least a nice time), and I'll be back soon. (Bug me if you don't hear from me at least once a week!)

OMIGOSH! I'm in the NEW YORK TIMES?!

YES!

I just received an email from Lisa Hamilton, a fellow author interested in both books and beliefs, asking about my blog here, and mentioning that she read a reference to Books and Beliefs in yesterday's New York Times.

She WHAT? My blog is WHERE?

She is right. Sunday, September 2, the New York Times ran an article about author Amy Cohen's blog tour for The Late Bloomer's Revolution, in which I'd participated not long ago. The full article is titled "The Author Will Take Q.'s Now" by Kara Jesella. And there it is, paragraph six.

Wow.

Well, that totally made my day, and I owe big thanks to Lisa Hamilton, without whom I wouldn't have known it was out there. Her book, I should mention, is due out later this month, and called Wisdom From the Middle Ages for Middle-aged Women and Amazon.com classifies it as Christian (Anglican) fiction.

Thanks, Lisa! And wheeeeee!