Back to Life

"When the place that you were born is not where you belong.

Tell me baby, what stops you from wearing a crown"

This is how my birthday kicked off this year.

In NYC. At 4am. In the sidewalk shadows before sunrise.

With these soulful lyrics by Ms. Alicia Keys that almost made me cry.

Because (vulnerable moment alert):  This. Is Me.

The place where I was born, is not where I belong. 

(And trust. No one mentioned anything 'bout any crown.)

So, how do become your own queen? The empress of your own kingdom? Especially when there's roadblocks at every turn? Easy (in concept):  Learn to love your damn self. Fiercely. Passionately. Above anything else. In spite of everything else. With wild reckless abandon.

And while it's a simple concept, the journey to get there isn't.

That path is incredibly hard. And so rocky most don't even try to scale it. Often times it's littered with the broken dreams of others and their truths (read: falses) for themselves, and you.

But you can, and need to claw your way beyond the negative voices. The ones that put down your choices. The ones that say that you're not good enough. The ones that say that you don't matter.

Because, dammit, dear girl. You do!

You deserve to wear that crown, polished to a blinding brilliance, with your head held high. You deserve to stride away from any negativity that binds you to the past. From the hurtful lies that kept you from growing. And achieving. And owning the fearless one of a kind Y-O-U.

You deserve to shine. Brighter than any damn diamond.

Years after embarking on this journey, here I was, in the darkness right before the dawn. On the Today Show Plaza:  Whole. Healed. Happy. Proud as hell of who I am now, and what I've already accomplished. But more importantly, who I have the potential of becoming. 'Cause that chick? She got mad untapped potential.

And then, that song, ironically called 'Back To Life'. A truly beautiful birthday blessing.

A reminder that not only am I wearing that sparkly crown that I designed myself.

I'm working it like a boss.

#MakeItStop

Enough with the thoughts and prayers.

Enough with the rainbow memes.

Enough with the #LoveIsLove. And virtual hugs. Or whatever bullshit gesture you've done, over the past few days that has allowed you to feel like a good person, pausing for a second before you ease back into your own busy life, with an overwhelming relief that this tragedy did not happen to you.

Trust. I get it. I've lived it. Not because I didn't care. Not because I wasn't heartbroken thinking about anyone going through that type of mind-blowing trauma. Not because tears wouldn't run down my face watching the news coverage. Not because I didn't want things to change.

Because I. Didn't. Know. What. To Do.

But then I woke up super angry Sunday morning, especially on the heels on the senseless murder of Christina Grimmie Friday night. And while I was deeply saddened, once again, about the loss of beautiful life, I was also super sick of feeling powerless. And that's when I realized that I not only needed to figure out what to do, I needed to pass along my knowledge, for others who also don't know what to do.

Let's go.

As hopefully you're aware, yesterday, Senator Chris Murphy from Connecticut, stood up on the Senate floor for 15 hours--that's two full work days-- in an impromptu filibuster, to force the Republican lead Senate to agree to consider to vote for tighter gun restrictions. We're not talking abolishing the second amendment people. We're talking a ban on weapons of war. Maybe tighter purchase restrictions for people on terror watch lists. Reasonable stuff, right?

But here's the important part. YOU'VE got to step up to the plate.

Like NOW.

In a super easy, non-governmental analogy that anyone can understand, here's what just happened:  You and Senator Murphy (as your wingman) just walked into a bar. He breaks the ice with the hot chick that you were scoping out, but were too afraid to approach. A date appears to be on the horizon. Maybe even a long term romance. No one even rules out marriage.

Clearly, the first date depends on your ability to be brave and ask for one. If you're scared or believe that you are not worthy of a love connection or think she'd never go out with you and you're going to be alone forever, then not only are you right, but you're the one to blame. 

Same goes for gun control. We need to move forth with the unwavering belief that WE THE PEOPLE not only have the power to affect the situation, but there will be a positive outcome. Too many citizens (myself included) haven't been speaking up because they believe their voices don't matter. Or we don't deserve better. Or this is how it is always going to be, so why bother. 

Pass me a bullet proof vest.

No more. Be brave. Own your powerful voice. Speak. The. Fuck. Up! 

Know that you can make a difference!

Today, the Boston Globe has made it super easy, going all beautiful social justice Spotlight days on you, showcasing a powerful editorial, along with an interactive app, complete with tweets already addressed to the, if we're gong to continue that bar analogy, Senators usually guilty of cock blocking the issue.

Go here. Read, then tweet. 

Not your state senator? Who gives a fuck. Tweet 'em anyway. I sure did. Also, use #TwitterFilibuster, so we can break the internet with something much more valuable and meaningful than an oiled-up Armenian American ass.

Let's #MakeItStop together!

An Author Calls Bullsh** on Book Reviews

In the past three years I have:

• Wrote, proofed, designed, published and marketed a full length novel.
• Lost 40 pounds.
• Learned how to salsa well.
• And bachata barely.
• Finished 6 rounds of Brazil Butt Lift. (Yup. I'd pass the quarter test.)
• Completely changed my diet to include yummies like black bean brownies.
• Went to the Super Bowl. 
• Traveled to the Dominican Republic. 
• Survived a carbon monoxide scare. And all the firefighters that went along with it.
• Survived an attempted break-in. Three days in a row.
• Ran a successful eBay operation.
• Found a stylist who finally got my hair game In check. (I love him. And my hair.)
• Geared up to move to a new city, funded by the mad real estate desirability of our 'hood.
• Nurtured the hell out of my marriage, so my husband and I can slay as individuals. And more importantly, as a team.

And that my friend, is just the highlight reel.

Then what the hell is the problem?

Two words:  Book Blogger.

Ah, okay, not completely.

Maybe:  Book Self-Promotion. 

Whatever it is, it's just a symbol of my frustrations, uncovered by Josi Denise. She jumpstarted my mojo with her epic rant, which is required reading (although she keeps breaking the internet). Which is ironic, because the bottom line is the internet has done a mad disservice to writers, just starting with the fact that it has christened everyone with a keyboard AS a writer.

(And if you're not a writer, you probably don't give a shit.)

Add to that hot mess, a promotional machine -- you pick the subset: From mommy blogs, to books, to reviews of basically anything, all simply caught up in the advertising's supremely smart business model of getting the most bang for the least amount of money. Hello, Yelp.

And where you are in the process, determines how you feel (or don't) about it--or the fact that journalistic objectivity can't live there.

Before I launched Settling Down, book bloggers were shouted out as the saviors of the self-publishing set. The yellow brick path to finding readers. Along with reviews. Because:  "You need reviews. Plenty of them. Amazon will only start taking you seriously at 50 reviews."

Now how hard could that possibly be? I mean, I had twice as many people at my wedding. So I researched the hell out of it. Made rounds of blogger lists. Sent out my very professional (and well written) media kit. And, outside of this gem from the generous folks at Chick Lit Central, crickets.

Please don't think I'm picking on the book bloggers of the world. I understand for many dedicated souls, this is strictly a passion project. And there's only so much time to read in our busy lives. Never mind post, design and promote for free. You lovelies who got into the business to share your love of book, and ferret out the reads that no one knows about--much appreciation.

I guess, I'm actually calling out the publishing industry, maybe for nothing else other than your marketing brilliance. You've taken this seemingly indy blogging platform, put your cash-ola into the rock stars, but yet made it continue to look like everyone is rolling independently.

But in actuality, everyone is reading the same book.

At the same time.

Author or not, that bores the hell out of me.

Whatever. I get it. You gotta do you. And you should do you. And the rest of us have to do us. While at the same time remembering what makes us, us in the first place.

And that's where I went completely off the rails.

My epic fail? During my non-stop squealing of: 'Please give me a review. Any review. Amazon says I need reviews. I NEED A REVIEW!!!! GIMMMMMMMMMEEEEEE REVIEW!', like some sort of addict josin' for a fix, I lost myself. Worse, instead of looking objectively at my overall accomplishments, I started to judge my entire reason for existing on this planet based on my perceived failures of not getting a review.

Yeah. Don't go there.

But even bigger than that, I started to disregard the very fact that I'm a writer damn it, and the incredible power that wields all by itself. The one thing always at my disposal ARE my words. Yet, instead of using MY words, I banked my success on continuing to beg and beg and beg complete strangers for validation with theirs.

No mas. 'Cause, I'm not some sort of needy bitch who needs your love.

I am a survivor. A thriver. A do-er. A WRITER! (See above.)

The irony of this whole situation? Not only do I vehemently not believe in book reviews, but I've never written one, outside of my Trixie Belden shoutout for Goodreads. I know, right? To me, reviews are like that dress that looks fantastic on you, but is five inches too short for me. Books, like skirts, all comes down to individual tastes. And style. And how much leg you wanna show in the first place.

So how do I pick my reads? Simple. By cracking open the spine (virtual or otherwise) and start reading. Foolproof? Nope. But it definitely gives you an idea for someone's writing style. And storytelling ability. And how their words affect you. 

And as a writer, isn't that the only marketing you ever really need?

Why I Stopped Checking My Book Numbers Every Ten Minutes, er, Seconds

My deepest author confession? I haven't checked my book sales numbers in ten days. 

Or explained in a way everyone can understand:  I haven't checked Facebook for likes. 

Since a week ago Tuesday.

Ah, now I got your attention.

Hey, listen, as a fellow member of Social Media Beast Nation. I understand the compulsion of checking. And checking. And checking. 'Cause it feels good to ride high on that virtual wave of likes. And follows.

And book sales.

Only problem? We always want more.

So instead of patting ourselves on the back and saying, fantastic job! Or damn girl, good for you patiently building this up slow and steady like, our brains are on the hunt for additional instant gratification. And when that doesn't come soon enough, like twelve seconds ago, we start focusing on all the things we don't have:  Like why nobody liked that photo. Or why only ten retweets. Or why hasn't anyone bought my book. 

In the last 8 hours?

I know you feel me.

And I'm not even saying that the numbers aren't valuable. Clearly, they work as a hard indicator of sales. They show you've got a good product on your hands, and indirectly, because people continue to purchase said product, that you're a relatively good writer. All true. But don't you think you should know this already anyway, especially if you've gotten this far in the process?

Trust. I'm not anti-sales. Indeed, I'd love to sell so many books I could purchase the New York Times Best Seller List. But if I haven't sold a bazillion books in the last ten minutes, will that alter my original marketing plan? Will I stop working any harder to get there? Does it mean that I'm lazy? Someone who hasn't accomplished anything?

Like, ever in life?

Hell no. So why even give yourself the opportunity to go there?

Honestly, I didn't become a writer for the money. I became one because it made me happy. Because I can't imagine doing anything else. Because I want to affect change with my words. To encourage people. To make them think. To make them understand that they are not alone. 

And truth is, I'm already doing that. 

You're here right now, aren't you?

So kiss off metrics. From here on out, we're gonna be monthly friends. Henceforth (best writer word ever), I'm committed to measuring my worth, in the kind of life that I lead every day. How I treat people. And the amount of books sold between 10am and 3pm on a Wednesday don't fit anywhere in that equation.

Permission to Read, Granted.

Oh, hey, old friend. 

Where have I been?

Well, writing a book for starters. Maybe you've heard about it? Settling Down A Novel. It's good stuff. In fact please read the following review. That I may (or may not) have just made up.

"It's really funny,"  André M. Brown, professional husband, NFL watcher and reader of exactly one book for women. (Disclaimer:  He read it at least 5 times. Maybe 10. He is an expert.)

Actually just writing doesn't even begin to encompass the massive amount of work I've been in the midst of. Yup, I dreamed up the story in my head, then sat on my ass for the better part of several years to write the words. But in addition, and more powerfully,  I've been creating a vision for my voice that's way bigger than a book.

A movement if you will. A revolution even.

A call not to settle. 

Not in love. Not in life. Not in happiness.

Not at your job. Or within your family. Not in your health.

Not in your clothes. Where you're supposed to live. How many kids you're supposed to have. The age that you're supposed to be married. Or stop wearing a bikini. Or give yourself a sensible bob haircut.

Do NOT settle. For anything!

Here's the thing in this life. We spend so much time asking for permission. Permission to be ourselves. Permission for our opinions to exist in the world. Permission to be validated. To be seen. To be heard. 

Permission to live.

Why? I dunno. The best I can figure out is we feel less scared when there are rules to follow. Markers to gauge our lives. Things that we're supposed to cross off our cosmic to-do-list in order to feel like we're making progress. Or that we're doing things correctly. 

We just blindly go along with tradition. Because you're supposed to. And that's how it's always been done. And because they say so. 

Whoever the hell 'they' are.

But what if there are no rules. No right way to do things. What if you started asking:  Who makes you the expert of everything, especially me?

I think you'd find the answers change. And if you're brave enough to shake things up, you will be better than okay. You'll learn that you can survive, and hell yeah, thrive,  just being true to you.

So welcome. Or welcome back.

Let's do this. How 'bout we #DontSettle together.