The Writing Life is full of musings, observations, and reflections of a 40-year veteran of the craft. Bobbi Linkemer loves to write, to teach writing, and, most of all, to help other writers write. This is a great way to make a living and a life!
You’re going along doing whatever it is that you do—in my case, writing—and suddenly your world blows up (or so it seems). You get hit in the head with a chunk of debris and end up on your rear end, wondering what happened. There you sit, trying to make sense of the senseless and becoming more immobilized by the minute.
It could be anything—an illness or accident, a family crisis, or a major loss—but whatever it is, it turns you into a zombie. If you are a writer, you simply stop writing. Words don’t come; what’s worse, you don’t ever care. That’s bad. No doubt about it.
In my own writing life, when this has happened, I have experienced a kind of miracle: I have somehow been able to convert the negative energy of the most stressful circumstances into the creative energy that fuels my writing process. I admit it has not worked 100 percent of the time, but in the past forty-plus years, it has happened. This never ceases to amaze me.
The next paragraph should be how to do it, but that’s the thing about miracles: they defy explanation. No matter how insane the situation in which I found myself, I usually wrote right through it. Sometimes, I cried or coughed or ran a fever or swore a blue streak while I was writing, but those things just seemed to intensify the process.
I have been teaching for many years and have yet to find a way to transmit this bit of alchemy. Perhaps in the beginning it was simply that I had a deadline, and it was unthinkable to miss it; so I sat down at my little Smith-Corona electric portable and just did what I had to do. Later, it was an ingrained habit. I had done it before; I could do it again. Maybe for each of us, there is a different trigger. I found mine by accident; I don’t know how you will find yours.
The important thing to know is that it can be done. You too can turn lead into gold. You just have to unravel the mystery in your own way. Please let me know if you do!
As you know, if you have been reading The Writing Life, I teach and coach six steps that take a nonfiction book from concept to completion. It is a huge topic, with much to cover, and there are always questions. I hope to answer as many of them as I can in the upcoming series of blog posts.
What are the three most important questions an author must answer before he or she starts writing?
What is my book about (in one sentence)? Why one sentence? Because if you can't clearly and succinctly explain what your book is about in a way that anyone will understand, you don't know. If you don't know, you can't write it.
What is my book's purpose? Why are you writing this book? What do you want it to achieve? A book needs a mission, a reason for being. The purpose might be to entertain, to educate, or to inspire. Whatever it is, the mission must include providing a benefit to the reader.
Who is my ideal reader? Think about this. "Everyone" or "every woman" is too broad. if you were having a conversation with your reader, who would that person be? To whom are you delivering the benefit you promise?
How do I know if my idea for a book is viable?
If you write a book proposal for an agent or publisher, your job is to prove that your book will sell. You do that by answering these ten questions (three of them may look familiar):
Why are you writing this book?
What is your book about?
How are you qualified to write this book?
Why is this an appropriate and timely topic?
Who are your target readers?
How will they benefit?
How will you reach them?
How big is the market? How many potential readers are there?
What else is out there on this subject? How is this book unique/special/important?
How will you help to promote your book?
Why do I need a proposal if I’m self-publishing my book?
A proposal is your plan. if you can answer the ten questions above, you have the basis for your proposal. If you don't intend to pursue traditional publishing, this may be all you need. Proposals may be organized in various ways, but they must address the basics. When you reread your answers you will know if your book is viable. You will also use all of this information as you write and promote your book.
Life takes the most unexpected twists and turns. So many times over the years, I was heading down a path when I came to a bend in the road. The question was always the same: Should I turn or keep on going straight? There is no right answer, which was probably what inspired Robert Frost to write “The Road Not Taken.” So many times, as Frost suggested, I took the road less traveled, and that made all the difference.
The path I was on in 2005 was teaching, polishing my little 36-page workbook, and looking for freelance work. My luck was changing, and I was landing well-paying projects at last. One of the most interesting assignments came from a client who had just been promoted. There was a search on for her replacement as director of communications at a catholic health care system of hospitals. This was my dream job, and even though I had not considered full-time work for years, I submitted my resume. As an outsider, I had already observed the intensity of the place. Everyone juggled multiple responsibilities and worked long hours. I wondered if I could maintain that pace at my age and state of health. The CEO was a year older than I but seemed indefatigable, setting a daunting standard for the entire staff. Nonetheless, I was definitely in the running for the position when an “internal candidate” surfaced. Since this was an organization that promoted from within, the opportunity evaporated. I was both disappointed and relieved.
There’s an old saying about one door closing and another one opening. Before I could even feel discouraged about not getting the job, I was standing at one of those open doors. The CEO was thinking of writing a book. Well, to be honest, she was being urged to write a book by her senior communications staff. Convincing her took some doing. While she was a powerhouse of a leader and a great speaker, she was, by her own admission, an introvert. She didn’t want to do it, but her staff prevailed and asked me if I would like to be considered as a ghostwriter.
I was at the proverbial bend in the road, and the impulse to turn in a new direction was too strong to resist. I said yes. The competition was stiff. The other candidate was an experienced ghostwriter, a referral from someone with influence, and Catholic. His proposed fee was much too high. I was hired.
This was a watershed moment in my career. I promised to complete the book within six months without having a true understanding of what was involved. In 2001, the entire system of nineteen hospitals had won the Malcolm Baldrige National Quality Award, becoming the first health care institution in the country to be so honored.
When I began, I knew nothing about this hospital system; its twenty-year quest for quality; the Baldrige award; or the CEO, a nun, who was to be the author. I had six months to learn everything and write the book. Until that moment, the most challenging projects I had undertaken were corporate annual reports and books about subjects with which I was already familiar. This was a whole new ball game.
I would need many more chapters to describe the scope of the research, the hours of interviews, the organizational challenge, the editing process, and the amazing education I received. I had been insane to think it could be researched and written in six months. Nine would have been more realistic, twelve even better. The process was, on one hand, grueling and, on the other, exhilarating. I made the deadline, but we all realized the book needed more—more stories, more humor, more institutional memory. Essentially, I had built the foundation; those who had been there from the beginning would have to build the house.
As always, when a big project ended, I felt like a deflated hot air balloon. I thrived on the writing; having written was a letdown. I knew that from my own books. Much like running a race and stopping with no cool-down period, my mental muscles cramped.
Around this time, I met a young woman who would come to play a major role in the development of my business. Bobette was a marketing guru who had been a panelist at the St. Louis Publishers Association meeting. She looked at my Web site and asked, “What is it you do? You can’t possibly do everything.” During all the years I had been in business, I had been a generalist—someone who could write about anything for anyone in any format. No wonder no one knew what I did. I had positioned myself as a writer who did whatever a company needed. Now, I had to commit myself to one, possibly two, areas of specialization. She suggested I scrap my entire site and start over.
Finding someone to design and develop a Web site had proven to be an expensive nightmare over the years, and this time was no exception. I finally decided to do it myself, an interesting decision since I didn’t understand HTML code or Web design. Undaunted, I plunged in anyway. Fortunately, Bobette did know HTML and worked behind the scenes to correct my mistakes.
I bought her basic marketing package, which forced me to clarify my overall business goal and the three strategies I would pursue to achieve it. Based on my single experience as a ghostwriter, that was the area I chose. Then, I set about becoming one. To that strategy, I added book-writing coach and editor. My Web site now had a focus, and I had a new job description.
Despite getting a late start, with Bobette’s guidance, I tried to become Web savvy. What a truly eye-opening experience that effort turned out to be. Where had I been all this time while others were surfing and communicating and creating their Internet presence? Cyberspace was the best of all possible worlds; I was instantly hooked. I launched my new site, became listed in directories and search engines, wrote articles, and let the world know where to find me.
Sidebar
“Ghostwriting is not a career for the faint of heart. When I decided to become a ghostwriter, I was quite naive. I had been writing professionally for close to four decades and freelancing for most of that time. I had written 12 nonfiction books on a range of topics. I had developed a workbook and taught many people how to write nonfiction books. I had even written the first edition of this book, So, You Want To Be A Ghostwriter? I thought I knew the score. Boy, was I wrong.”
2008 • The Invisible Author
More as a result of a personal referral than my sparkling presence on the Internet, I received another request to ghostwrite a book. This one was on a topic I knew something about, which augured well for success. The author presented training programs to executives and thought nothing of dropping in from across the country for a daylong meeting. We drew up a contract, created a plan, and began.
My second attempt at ghostwriting was almost enough to make me change my game plan. The number of drafts per chapter grew beyond reason; the agreed-upon schedule flew out the window; six months turned into nine. The client paid me the amended fee for services, and I sent him the book files. To my knowledge, he neither read the completed manuscript nor did anything with it. As far as I could discern, he just abandoned the whole idea. Our agreement was, if he ever published the book, my name had to be on the cover. From time to time, I checked his Web site and found no evidence of a book.
Walking away from a finished book is not as unusual as one might believe. At least, that client paid me. Another one walked away from the bill, as well as the book. A contract means little if it can’t be enforced. Small claims court is frustrating and costly. First, you have to pay the sheriff to serve the summons. Then, the sheriff has to find the defendant. That doesn’t always happen. Next, the plaintiff and the defendant both have to appear in court. That doesn’t always happen, either. I was shocked to learn, even if I won the case, the court had no means of enforcing its own verdict. the injured party is responsible collecting the money. One thing I know: I will never again sue someone in small claims court.
Ghostwriting is expensive. Most individuals can’t afford to hire a ghostwriter; and I had not yet returned to the corporate well. So, much of my new identity was as a book coach and editor. Editing frequently turned into a total rewrite, which more accurately fit in the ghostwriting category. I leaned the hard way to determine up front whether a manuscript needs a bandage or major surgery.
In between learning all of these valuable lessons, I was still teaching and finding that several students needed help after the six-week continuing education class. If they hired me as a coach or editor, I gave them a hefty discount because they had been my students. It was a perfect win-win situation. The more I taught and coached, the more material I added to my workbook, which was shrinking in dimensions but growing in the number of pages. The most recent edition, the fifth, is up to 119.
Sidebar
“Marketing is a frequently misunderstood term because it has so many totally different interpretations. I checked six online and print sources, and found six different definitions. Most of them were wordy and overly complicated, yet still managed to miss the point. OK. I'll admit it; that's harsh. But nothing I found was of much help in terms of marketing my business. So, here is my definition:
Marketing is identifying a need in the market I serve and communicating to potential clients or customers how my products or services will meet that need.”
2009 • News & Views
For all the years I had been on my own, successful entrepreneurs had counseled me to market, market, market. I knew they were right. I knew marketing spelled the difference between filling the pipeline and running out of work. I knew I should be marketing regularly, but I had a thousand excuses for not doing it at all. Though I could instruct my clients on how to market their businesses, I didn’t seem to know how to market my own.
Having a knowledgeable professional to advise me on the subject made all the difference. My Web site and the other activities I engaged in to augment it—social networking, a newsletter, online articles, Amazon, and two blogs—were producing results. People found me online and e-mailed. They subscribed to my newsletter, commented on my blogs, connected to me on FaceBook and LinkedIn, signed up for my classes, bought my books, and, best of all, hired me.
Such is the power of Web 2.0—the name for how tech-savvy people connect and relate to each other in the twenty-first century. I was a late adopter but an enthusiastic one. Technology just keeps on changing, and I have to keep on changing right along with it or I will become a dinosaur.
What goes up must come down. The high I had been on since the beginning of 1989 proved that Newton’s law of gravity applied to business as well as heavenly bodies in space. In 1998 when my favorite and most dependable client found itself in a corporate merger situation. As my former colleagues were picking up the pieces of their shattered plans, I was very much on the outside looking in. I knew they were grieving for a vision that would never be realized and a president who was about to be replaced. I was also grieving—for the same president, whom I liked and respected, for my best source of income, and for the feeling of being part of something meaningful and important.
The process took six months. When the dust settled, the VP of communications invited me back to work on a project. What I found was a changed organization. If an entire executive management team could be in state of depression, this one was. I would say the entire company, but most people had no idea of what had transpired. Even the next level of management was in the dark. The program we had been about to unveil was never announced. While most people knew the company was joining ranks with another industry giant, that’s all they knew. When two corporations merge, one set of executives has to go. Along with the president, who had spent many years working his way up through the organization, many other veterans of the business became casualties of the closed-door negotiations.
There’s an old saying, “It’s not personal; it’s business.” But when the lives and careers of good people are upended in a business deal, it feels very personal to them. I was devastated, but I was also wiser. I had been living in a kind of la-la land where everybody loved me and appreciated my work. I thought this mutual admiration society would go on forever. This experience taught me that nothing goes on forever.
My status with the company became much less secure. I had worked with three prior presidents who shared many leadership characteristics and with whom I felt a real connection. The new president had a different management style. Suffice to say, we didn’t connect. In such situation, the freelancer is the one who leaves.
The permanent loss of this client would have been bad enough if it had been an isolated event. But at the beginning of 2001, the economy experienced a serious downturn, and the bottom fell out of my little business. It was as if all of my clients assessed the situation, pushed the panic button, and fired all of their consultants (as freelancers had come to be called). There was no warning, at least in my case. One day I was working; the next day I was not. In addition to the client that had morphed into a new company, another one I had been associated with for sixteen years simply stopped calling. No goodbye. No announcement. No explanation.
To say 2001 had begun badly would be an understatement. The year was so bad, I don’t remember most of it … until September 11. If I was in a trance before, the events of September 11 threw me into a tailspin of shock and depression. Everywhere I looked, people were in the same shape. Americans were the walking wounded. In 1941, when Pearl Harbor was attacked, I was four years old. So, nothing in my memory was as horrifying as the images that assailed me day after day on TV. It seemed a tragedy without end.
The world as we knew it began to change immediately. I cannot think of any area of life or the economy unaffected by the events of that day. Nine years later, we are still feeling the reverberations. For me, everything came to a screeching halt. I had no work, no clients, and no plan. It would be months before I emerged from the haze long enough to realize the seriousness of my situation. I was not alone. I knew others who were in the same boat, but that was hardly comforting.
Sidebar
“As in any new relationship, we begin by learning. We want to know about your business, your people, and, especially, your vision. You want to know how creative, yet pragmatic, and how experienced, yet innovative, we are. We both want to know how well we would work together, how responsive we will be to each other’s ideas, ad how we can be certain that the ultimate product satisfies and delights you. Our job is to identify the problem and work toward a solution. The better we can define the problem, the better our solution will be. But we cannot do that alone. We need you.”
2001 • Corporate Brochure
What does one do when her only source of income ceases to exist? For almost a year, I had seen the demand for my services dry up, and the situation was not likely to change in the present economic climate. I was in trouble. Back in 1989, when I began this little venture, I told myself, if it didn't work out, I could always get a job. Thirteen years had passed. Somehow, I doubted I could simply update my resume and find a position as director of communications somewhere is corporate America. I had only one option: I would have to start over, from scratch.
I don’t want to give the impression that I immediately sat down and mapped out a brilliant plan for my future. I did sit down but mostly stared into space. It is one thing to know I had to start over; it was quite another to do it. To be honest, I don’t remember the process except it took a long time to get from point A to point B. My only nonnegotiable criterion was that whatever I did had to involve writing.
An opportunity presented itself (am I lucky, or what?), though I had no idea how it might fit into my new life. A friend of mine, who had been teaching a noncredit course at the community college for years, decided to retire. He suggested I take over his class on how to write and publish a book. The school was delighted, since it didn’t have a handy replacement; I was delighted since I was immobilized by indecision. My friend sent me all of his teaching materials and handouts, most of which were filled with information I didn’t feel qualified to teach. Since I was already committed, I redesigned the course and with great trepidation taught my first class.
In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess I was not magnificent. But I was hooked. I loved teaching! I remember two things vividly: I was so nervous, I read most of my lesson plans aloud, instead of just talking to the class; and I had such a terrible cold, I could barely speak above a whisper. Neither seemed to matter. My students were satisfied, and I was euphoric.
The class needed improvement and some serious marketing if I wanted to make any money. The community college paid $20 a teaching hour or $240 for six classes. I had spent so many hours planning and preparing for each class, I ended up losing money. And I still had no other source of income. Essentially, I was living on air (otherwise known as meager savings). I thought I could market the program to professional speakers and offered two of my friends a deal. I would help them write their books if they would help me polish my course. We both learned a lot. I learned that speakers don’t think like writers, so most of the time we were talking in two different languages. They learned that they didn’t want to write the books they thought they wanted to write and changed course in midstream.
Sidebar
“Professional speakers are often asked if they will be selling their books in the back of the room after their presentations. A product — be it a book or CD — enhances their credibility and commands higher speaking fees. Business leaders, subject-matter experts, humorists, psychologists, and diet gurus are all expected to share their knowledge in book form. High-profile CEOs often write books to pass along their business philosophies and practices to the next generation of leaders in their organizations; to articulate to significant stakeholders their personal visions for their companies; or to apply the hard-won lessons of their lives to the broader context of business, society, academia, or government. Whoever you are and whatever your motivation, when you are asked whether you have a book out or in the works, if the answer is “No, not yet,” what’s holding you back?
2004 • How to Write a Nonfiction Book:
From Concept to Completion in 6 Months
Despite the bumpy road, somehow I emerged with a much-improved plan; and they wrote two great books. I would love to take credit for their finished products, but I don’t feel I played that big a role in their achievement. Somewhere along the way, both of my friends went off on their own while I continued to polish my program. I finally decided I needed a workbook to bring it all together. How to Write a Nonfiction Book: From Concept to Completion in 6 Months was published in 2004.
The next phase of my personal reinvention was off to a great start.
There are many wonderful quotes about plans that don’t work out. My favorite is "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley" by Robert Burns. (It was written in Scottish.) But I also like my mother’s bit of homespun wisdom: “Man plans; God laughs.” That about sums it up.
I’m waxing philosophical because, once again, due to forces way beyond my humble control, my class in “Writing, Publishing, & Promoting Your Nonfiction Book” has been cancelled, just days before it was scheduled to begin. Apparently, the community college has spent the last couple of days informing eager teachers that too few students registered to make the classes worthwhile.
On one hand, that’s probably good news because it’s hard to adequately prepare for a class with no confirmation that it’s going to be held. Thus, I wasn’t as ready as I would have been under different circumstances.
On the other hand, it’s bad news because I have to tell the wonderful speakers I had booked that I don’t need them. My lineup was the best ever and I’m really disappointed.
I guess it’s both good and bad news because, when I counted up the number of remaining copies of my book, which I planned to give to every student, my stock was running dangerously low. So now, I am several hundred dollars poorer but fifty books richer because I had to order more from the printer.
I could continue to go back and forth with why it’s good news—I’m swamped and this will free up time for my projects, or bad news—teaching is the highlight of each season and I will truly miss it. But why give myself a headache over the vicissitudes of life?
This is merely further proof that everything in life is interconnected. Something happens somewhere (the economy tanks, for example), and many months later, the community college has to cancel classes. People who might have wanted to take those classes are disappointed; speakers who had probably begun to prepare are told to stop; class plans already in the works are shelved; teachers who had new things to say turn their attention to other things; and the community college, which is certainly in need of money, loses out on anticipated revenue.
But it is what it is, a saying I hear frequently and have really come to dislike. Somehow, it just lacks the poetry of "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.”
I’ve been teaching a class in how to write, publish and promote your nonfiction book for several years. I have taught it to individuals and groups, for the University of Missouri-St. Louis, the Lindbergh School District’s Adult Education Program, and the St. Louis Community College. Every class is unique, of course. The students are adults of all ages and backgrounds. They have lived lives before they walked into what could be “just another noncredit course.” It might be fun, or it might be a complete waste of time. They don’t know, but I think I do. By the end of the first two hours, I hope I have convinced them that this is going to be a different kind of class, not what they expected, and perhaps even a life-changing event.
I hope that doesn’t sounds arrogant. I say it because I have experienced the incredible dynamics and personal transformations that take place in these classes, year after year. It is difficult to describe the synergy that occurs within a group of strangers who mesh in some inexplicable way. Someone has a question; two people offer answers. One person is stumped on which direction to take; another responds with compassion and insight. And I stand at the front of this high school classroom, transfixed, yet again.
My new class met last night — the class I had wondered whether to teach at all because of the low enrollment. Ultimately, I decided to “trust the process” (see sweatshirt on my last blog) and am so grateful for that decision. The process worked (it always does). Somehow, we ended up with 10 amazing people. I do not use the word “amazing” lightly. It is a wonderful group of individuals who are writing about subjects as diverse and substantive as I could ever hope for.
Some had their sentences nailed: “My book is about _________________.” Others were not so sure, torn between two good ideas and trying to get in touch with their real passion for one of them. This is the exciting part — when everyone is turned on by the possibilities. It is my job to keep them turned on and moving forward toward their completed books. I have no illusions that anyone will write a book in six weeks, unless he or she works on it every waking hour, but I do know they can learn what it takes and get a good start on actually doing it.
I emerge from each of these classes greatly enriched by the people I’ve met and the things I've learned from them. This semester promises to be one of the best ever!
My class at the community college used to be filled to overflowing. The maximum was 15 students, and there was usually a waiting list. The Economy (with a capital E) has changed all that. Belt tightening is no longer just a good idea; it’s a reality. Enrollment is down on all three campuses, but whether to teach or not to teach is completely up to me. Last semester, I decided not to.
Even though we had enough students for the college to break even financially, I reasoned that if anyone dropped out, and people always do, the group would be too small to be effective. The result was that I missed teaching, and the students I never met missed out on what could have been a great experience. This semester, the same choice has presented itself: teach or cancel the class.
This time, I am going to teach.
What is the worst thing that could happen? Well, the class could turn into the world’s smallest writing group. Actually, it couldn’t be any smaller than the time we started with six people, instantly dropped to four, and ended up with two. Those two showed up every week of a frigid winter semester, and one of them turned out to be a close friend.
It could be group made up of introverts in which no one talks. Of course, in all my years of teaching, that has never happened. While it’s true that more than one true introvert in a tiny group can put a lot of pressure on the others to carry the ball, how likely is a room full of people who don’t participate? Not very.
I guess I could go on with all the “worst things,” but that seems a pointless exercise. A better approach would be to wear my favorite sweatshirt on the first night of class and let the Fates take care of the rest.
My father used to dislike the word “bored.” So, just to be contrary, I had my boyfriend paint a sign that said in huge, mock-typewriter letters, “I am bored.” Today, as I was going on and on about my latest project — a PowerPoint presentation — my sister remarked, “Well, at least you’ll never be bored.” I guess as long as there are new subjects to write and new ways to write about them, she is right. I won’t be.
I fall into bed at night, or rather escape into it, just to stop working. Not that all those words on my computer screen are necessarily work related. Many of them are just busy-ness that pass for work but are really play. If I billed for every hour I sit there, hunched over my keyboard until my muscles scream, I would be a wealthy woman. The question is what do I actually write?
Well, there are e-mails; blog posts; “tweets” and postings to various other social networking sites; responses to comments on my blogs or website; articles for online article sites; other marketing-related “stuff”; replies to requests for information on coaching, editing, and ghostwriting; plans and handouts for teaching; some volunteer efforts; and notes to go with mailing labels for my books. Of course, none of that includes anything to do with my other life (what other life?). If there is time left over, I do actual work.
There is something amiss here. Once upon a time in another life, my husband walked in the front door of our apartment and was bowled over by a blaring stereo. “Bobbi,” he remarked (at the top of his lungs), “don’t you think the background music is a little too loud?” Well, yes, it was, and it is. All the things I spend prime time on (did I mention addictive reading?), added together, comprise the background music of my life. And they are taking a considerable chunk out of my waking hours.
Of course, they are not all a waste of time. One must market, and many of those activities are part of marketing. But many are not. If I can design something, even if it’s totally unnecessary, I’ll spend hours designing it. I will play on Photoshop. I will illustrate things that could well remain un-illustrated. You get the idea.
This begs the question: Why? I’ve been pondering the answer all evening, and I think I have figured it out. If I don’t keep my fingers and mind occupied every single moment, I’m afraid I’ll be bored.
I wonder if I should send this to my sister, who is unlikely to stumble on it if I don’t. But, first I have to proof it; then, I have to find some clip art to illustrate it; then, I have to post it on my blog; then, I have to send it. Whoops!
It’s September — one of my favorite months. September is the start of so many things, including school. In recent years I’ve discovered how much I love teaching, which is somewhat ironic. Fifty years ago, when I walked into my first classroom, I was ready to run for my life. What had I been thinking, majoring in elementary education? I didn’t belong there, staring at 20 little eight-year-olds and trying to keep them from swinging from the chandeliers. That year was an endurance contest; I survived, but barely.
Traumatized, I didn’t walk into a classroom again for decades. When I finally did it was my love of the subject matter and the conviction that I could actually teach it that broke the barrier. I was teaching writing to adults, adults who were eager to learn, eager to write.
For the last five or six years I’ve been sharing what I know about how to write, publish, and promote a nonfiction book. I wrote a workbook, which keeps getting fatter with each edition, and used it as a text in several different continuing education programs in St. Louis. With each class I hope I become a better teacher. The classes are never the same. The students are different; their subject matter is unique; the dynamics of the group change every time,
I throw my heart into these little six-week sessions, and my money as well, trying to devise the perfect way to provide helpful handouts that don’t break the community college’s budget. I am often able to line up terrific speakers who are experts in their respective fields. At the last session we always have a party, and the students (by now, budding authors) often stay together to form writing groups. Of all the things I do, teaching has become my passion.
I am ready for my next class, which is supposed to start Monday. But something is amiss. Apparently, enrollment at the all three campuses of the community college is down — way down. No one knows precisely why. Perhaps it’s the price of gas or the upcoming election, though how an election that is two months away could influence whether people sign up for night school is beyond me. More likely it is the belt tightening brought on by a sagging economy. Whatever the reason, my class, which often has to be closed when registration hits the maximum, has barely made the minimum.
I received a call yesterday informing me that, though there are only six people in the class, the school is willing to go ahead with it. “It’s up to you,” the caller said. I struggled with what to do for about it for a minute before I reluctantly cancelled. Classes always shrink for a variety of reasons, starting out with 15 and usually ending up with 12 committed students. I taught a class with six people a few years ago and watched it dwindle in size from six to two. Miraculously, we persevered through the six weeks and beyond. The two writers came to class every week and actually wrote their books. One illustrated hers, and the other is waiting to hear from a publisher.
Still, it was not an ideal situation. One of the strengths of these classes is the rapport and support that develops among the students. To establish that rapport you need critical mass, strange as that seems,
I’m disappointed, and the few people I know who e-mailed me to tell me they were taking the class are probably disappointed, as well. Perhaps they will sign up for the next session in chilly February. In light of what is going on in the country and the world right now, a cancelled class is a small thing. But for most of us, it is the small things that compose our lives: habits, routines, aspirations, plans.
But as Robert Burns once wrote, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men / Gang aft a-gley.” My cancelled class is just one more example of the that piece of wisdom.
I have been in business for close to 20 years, and I must admit that for most of that time I have led with my heart instead of my head. I often give away the company store, so to speak — advice, information, time. All of that equates to money, money I never see because I don’t bill for it.
I trust people. I believe they are sincere and well intentioned. When they ask me what a project will cost I tend to underestimate and over deliver. It’s the perfectionist gene I guess. Everything I do must be the absolute best it can be. I never seem to figure that into my estimates.
I am never prepared for the instances when clients simply don’t pay. In fact, I am blown away when it happens. I have actually taken people to small claims court, only to discover that, even if I win the case, there is no enforcement of the verdict. Sometimes, the client is so illusive that the process server can’t find him. (The next day of course he is seen at Starbucks having a grand old time)
Teaching at the community colleges is not a get-rich-quick scheme, either. They pay $20 an hour — a teaching hour. That does not include preparation, materials above and beyond what the school will copy, gifts or meals for speakers who generously donate their time and talent, custom-made bookmarks, and parties at the end of each session. Money is obviously not the motivation for teaching.
I have friends who are sharp business people — right brained, practical, cautious. I promise myself that I will become more hard nosed and tough. Then, someone calls (who knows a friend or found me on Google or is on my website that very minute), and I cave in, forgetting all my promises. I answer their questions, share my knowledge, and get cauliflower ear from holding the phone. When I hang up I wonder if there is some deep psychological reason beneath my inability to say, “You know, the clock is running” or “This is what I charge for consulting.”
It may be as simple as having a mission, which, in my case, is to help writers write. On the other hand, many successful people have a mission and still manage to charge people for their expertise. Generosity is a lovely trait; being foolish is not. I think it was Einstein who said "If you keep doing what you've always done, you're going to keep getting the same result." (If he didn't say it, he should have.)
I think it's time to do things differently and see what the new result might be.
Bobbi Linkemer is a ghostwriter, book coach, editor, and the author of 14 books. Her articles on all aspects of writing appear on more than 25 article sites on the Web, including top-ranked EzineArticles.com. Bobbi has been a professional writer for 40 years, a magazine editor and journalist, and a writing teacher. She has written about thousands of subjects over the years. With Musings, for the first time, Bobbi is sharing her thoughts on a wide array of topics, from serious to satirical and philosophical to factual.
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