Career Curveballs, Disguised Blessings, and Staying Optimistic When Your Publisher Closes

Note: I hope you're reading this out of sheer morbid curiosity, and not because a panicked search for "MY PUBLISHER IS CLOSING! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENS NOW?" brought you here.

Early in January, a small publisher that published ebooks and paperbacks made me an offer of publication.

Self-portrait: January 9, 2014

My immediate reaction was. “YAAAAAAYYY!” Which was followed almost immediately by hyperventilation and a search for a small paper bag.

Though I was thrilled to be offered publication -- that great golden ring that often feels so elusive to those of us writing in the spec trenches -- I didn't want to sign a contract in haste. Book publishing is a business. I wanted to make sure I was making a good business decision.

So I did what any sensible writer would do. I drank a pot of coffee. Then I did my research.

First, I read the contract I was offered. I made sure I understood the terms, the royalty structure, the rights I'd be granting, the termination clauses, and the duration of the contract. I compared the contract with contracts from other publishers. And I sought some professional legal advice. No red flags waved in front of me.

Next, I looked up the publisher to see if it was mentioned in Writer Beware, Preditors and Editors, or any other forum that warns writers away from sharks. No alarm bells rang.

This is not a Totoro. It is a cat wearing cut paper.
Things are not always as they seem.

Afterwards, I went to the publisher's website and nosed about a bit. I saw a site that had a few kinks in it, but nothing that couldn't be worked out. (I've worked as social media consultant for small presses in the past. I know what growing pains look like.) I liked that they had more than just a stable of two or three authors. I liked that their cover designs showed progressive improvement. I liked that their website was constructed to appeal to buyers. (Publishers' sites that try to lure would-be authors are a sure sign of sharks in the water.)

I also went to Amazon to see how their books showed up in the world's largest bookstore. I looked at their editing, proofreading, formatting, cover design, and overall presentation.

Then, I emailed the publisher, requesting a few days to consider and asking some questions about plans for marketing, distribution, and promotion. I asked if I could speak with a few of their leading authors. They responded promptly, with answers that made sense to me, and kindly provided me with contact information of several authors.

My next step was to ask advice from World's Coolest Literary Agent (not mine. yet.) who has a different manuscript of mine under consideration. I told her what I'd been offered and shared the results of my research. She generously made time to make observations and gave some sage "off the record" advice, for which I will be eternally grateful.

Finally, I contacted some authors currently publishing with this publisher and asked about their experiences. I asked about things like marketing, distribution, and editing practices. I asked what they liked and what they would improve. I also asked about their experiences with other publishers.

Iz time to celebrate, yes?

I weighed all the pros against the cons. In the end, I determined that -- for me -- the strengths outweighed any weaknesses of the offer. So I signed.

I diligently edited and sent the manuscript. A kickass cover was designed. I started spreading the word of the book's imminent release. I even found an awesomely talented director to do the book trailer.

And then... I noticed that the publisher had gone dark. Silent. No Twitter updates. No response to email. Nothing.

Now, don't get me wrong. I know that the publishing world is one that often turns very slowly. One manuscript spent the better part of a year in the hands of an agent before she made a decision (one that required near-catastrophic self-medication with caffeine and chocolate. I may never be the same...). So I'm not one to panic if a publishing pro is incommunicado for a few weeks.

And yet -- as the initial publication date rapidly approached, and still no contact, I grew concerned. Something didn't feel right. I contacted some of the publisher's other authors and discovered that my fears were true: last Friday, the publisher announced (to them -- not to me. STILL not to me) that it is closing, due to health reasons, effective May 1. Contracts are void. Authors are left high and dry. Don't let the door flap our fannies on the way out.

I felt as if I had been left at the altar. Wait. What? But... we had plans! You... You told me you loved me!

I am luckier than some. My book never actually got printed. It's still virginal and pristine. At least two authors whose books are already published are wondering how, when, and if they will receive the thousands of dollars in royalties owed them.

I understand that small publishers are often only one- or two-person operations. I wish the owner of my former publisher all the best and hope her health improves. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm hitting the query mines again when I'd hoped to soon be celebrating my publication day.

And yet... writers are by nature optimistic. If we weren't optimists -- committed to our work, believing in our stories, and stubbornly convinced that others exist who will love what we write as much as we love writing it -- the sheer volume of rejection that inevitably accompanies a writer's career would chew us into dust and spit us out in a graveyard of broken dreams.

Perhaps I am deluding myself, but the career curveball of my publisher closing may be a blessing in disguise. God has a strange sense of humor. I have a little experience with such things.

I present Exhibit A: The Case of the Missing MRIs:

In 2005, while I was under contract and on deadline for Geoff Teall's book, WunderGuy was working in Los Angeles when he developed serious medical issues. Along with uncontrollable seizures, he had a complete break with reality, vivid hallucinations, forgot he had a child... the whole 9 yards. UCLA examined him and determined he needed brain surgery. Again.

Since his insurance was an HMO in California, we found a surgeon at UCSF and came home to Michigan to let him recover, to regroup, and to plan a trip out West. I mailed all of his MRI films to the neurosurgeon in San Francisco. And the films promptly got lost.

As in LOST.
 
The Post Office had delivery confirmation, but to UCSF, not to a person.

The films were lost for over a month! (Some of them were ten-year old originals. This was before DVD MRI's were common.)

Finally, after a month (during which time WunderGuy stabilized and we got his seizures under control -- and he remembered our daughter existed), we learned the films had been found.

So... we geared up and went out west, expecting to undergo surgery.

When we got there, they spent an entire day prepping him, examining him, shaving his head in a few places and sticking these green Lifesaver-like things to his scalp, so they'd know where to drill. Then they told us to get a good night's sleep. As if.

On our way to the hotel, with less than 8 hours to go before the procedure, the doc called. He'd looked at the scans again, with another neurosurgeon, and both of them agreed -- the "tumor" wasn't what UCLA thought it was. It was scar tissue from WG's earlier surgery (10 years before). No new surgery warranted.

And I'm like: !!?!?!

Turns out, one of the things that tipped the neurosurgeon off was the fact that WunderGuy had stabilized for several weeks. Had the scans not been lost, he wouldn't have had time to stabilize, and they would have happily opened his head up.

We later discovered the real reason for his troubles wasn't a tumor recurrence. It was an extreme allergic reaction to new meds, which took nine months to work their way out of his system.

Now, I happen to think those lost files was God making sure WunderGuy didn't have unnecessary surgery. He moves in mysterious ways. (Feel free to disagree with me. You won't change my mind.)

Oh -- and the missing files? They were *literally* down the hall in another department -- Epileptology. Where, oddly, we had to go, since he didn't have surgery.

How does this have ANYTHING to do with my publisher closing (or yours, for that matter)?

First, I can console myself that, as bad as this is, it's nothing compared to brain surgery.

And finally, the optimist in me is confident that -- just as with the Case of the Missing MRIs -- this may be a mighty blessing in disguise. If it is, then better things are just around the corner. It would be foolish of me to complain...

Onward and upward!

A Short Lesson: From Script To Screen With No Budget in Three Days

"No education is ever wasted," is one of my mother's favorite mantras. Nothing is truer when it comes to writing. Every script I write -- no matter how small -- teaches me something. Case in point:

Last November, my friend Paul Martin, a director (and occasional script collaborator), was one of five filmmakers chosen to participate in the Sony 4K Challenge as part of the Napa Valley Film Festival. Every participant was provided with a brand-spanking-new Sony 4K camera, assigned a genre, and allotted 72 hours to make a five-minute film, from start to final edit.

Ready? Set? SHOOT!

The rules included:

1.) Genre (Western, Noir/Thriller, Rom-Com, Comedy, and Drama) would not be assigned until the clock started on the challenge.

2.) Each genre included a required location, though additional locations could be used.

3.) All footage had to be shot on locations within Napa Valley.

4.) In addition to the assigned genre and location, each film must include a required catch-phrase ("There's something a little off about that guy."), feature a shot of the Sony equipment, and incorporate an assigned prop.

5.) Only Sony equipment could be used for filming and post-production. Editing must be done on Sone Vegas.

So, when Paul called and told me, "I need a script! Like, now!" a few days before the Challenge began, we started brainstorming a story that:

* was readily adaptable to multiple genres,
* wasn't reliant upon a single location,
* required minimal actors, lighting, set-up, and SFX,
* could be made with no budget,
* was visually interesting.

We came up with a romp in which a time-traveling documentarian discovers love when a colleague accidentally joins him on a botched trip to the past.

The script was readily adaptable for pure comedy, romantic comedy, or drama, if we got assigned those genres. It featured a scene set in the "Wild West" and one set in the 1929, either of which could be expanded for either a Western or Noir.

It made use of the locations we thought we knew we could count on: a castle, a saloon, and a train. Plus, we knew we had access to horses and riders.

It also took into account that Paul is a huge fan of Mel Brooks, so whenever possible, he gravitates toward oddball physical humor (Hence, the Lackeys).

The first version of the script was very straightforward. It included an in-text note that shouted "I HATE THIS APPROACH! CONSIDER THIS ALTERNATIVE" in reference to a section Paul suggested and it wasn't nearly oddball enough to make him smile. In it, each "time change" was marked by a flash of bright light and a "wub-wub-wub" sound effect -- something Paul hated even more than the scene meriting my in-text note.

Eight hours and four rewrites later, we had come up with this, the original jumping-off script (reformatted for blog purposes):

VALENTIMES DAY

FADE IN

INT. TIME TRAVEL ROOM - FUTURE - DAY
Sterile lab-like area. GREG, 20’s, our hero in futuristic goggles, inspects a video camera with all the intensity of a skydiver checking his safety harness.

KARIUS, a goggled technician monitors the situation through a window.

Greg psyches himself up... Gives a thumbs up.

KARIUS: Copy. Initializing outgoing sequence.

The door opens. LACKEY 1, wearing swim goggles, escorts goggle-wearing TESS (20-something) into the room.

LACKEY 1: Parka yu butt.

Lackey 1 leaves. Slams door behind him.

KARIUS: She can’t be in there.

GREG: You can’t be in here.

TESS: This isn’t the restroom.

She runs for the door. Her goggles flash red. She smacks into the door. It doesn’t open.

Karius worriedly checks monitors. Situation not good. LACKEY 2, wearing a rubber diving mask, plays swimmer in the window.

KARIUS: Coding is not calibrated for two.

GREG: You heard her. Get out.

Goggles flashing, Tess body slams the door. Nothing. Greg drops his camera and helps her.

KARIUS: It won’t abort! I’m losing con--

Greg and Tess both lunge for the door.


INT. MEDIEVAL CASTLE - 1350 - DAY
Greg and Tess burst through into a gorgeously frescoed dining hall. Greg takes off his goggles.
Tess walks smack into a wall. She checks her unlit goggles.

GREG: Might as well take ‘em off. They don’t work here.

TESS: We’re lost in time AND WE’RE DISCONNECTED?

GREG: They’re working to bring us back. I’m sure it won’t be long.


INT. TIME TRAVEL CONTROL ROOM - FUTURE - DAY
Chaos reigns. Alarms sound. Monitors flash dire warnings. Lights flash. Karius frantically punches buttons.

Lackey 2 wears a fire helmet and knocks periodically on it. Lackey 1 shoots off a fire extinguisher.

LACKEY 1: Bee-do! Bee-do! Baa-hahahaha!

POOF! Smoke! Situation deteriorating!


INT. MEDIEVAL CASTLE - 1350 - DAY
GREG: Rule number one -- don’t interact with anyone.

TESS: Stealth mode. I. Am. Invisible.

She freezes in front of a fresco of a woman in the same pose.

GREG: No. You’re in the way. Ooo, if we were connected, I’d tell you EXACTLY what you are--

He turns around--

And discovers a spear point at his throat.

A club smashes him to the ground. Lights out.


INT. TORTURE ROOM - LATER
Tess, wearing a steel helmet, holding a mace, sneaks in.

GREG (O.S.): Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Tess taps her mace. It BOOMS like a drum. She does it again -- adding a cool back beat to Greg’s Ow’s. She smiles. Gets into it. This is fun!

GREG: WILL YOU KNOCK IT OFF!

Tess hurries over. Greg is in an iron maiden. He’s seen better days. Tess fiddles with the latch.

TESS: You were about to tell me what I am?

GREG: You’re late. What took you so long?

TESS: Promise you won’t get mad?

The latch won’t open. Tess smacks on it with the mace handle.

GREG: Stop it! Someone’s going to hear!

Tess spins her mace meaningfully. Shakes her head.

TESS: We interacted.

She springs the latch. The iron maiden flings open, toppling Greg to the ground.

GREG: Ow.

TESS: You’re mad, aren’t you?

Greg reaches out and grabs Tess’s hand for help up. Tess screams and jerks away, repulsed.

TESS: Think of the pathogens! Uh-oh.

Sounds of clanging metal and pounding feet. An angry horde of medieval men outside. The door shudders. There is no way out. They’re trapped.

The door flies open--


INT. WESTERN BAR - 1849 - DAY
A gold rush saloon in full swing. Spittoons. Gambling men. The great unwashed. A PATRON pulls a floozy into his lap.

Tess and Greg materialize in a dark corner of the bar.

PATRON: I got me a snort of oh-be-joyful. Now how ‘bout a Valentine’s kiss?

The floozy squeals with laughter. She snuggles the man. Tess stares, riveted.

She pulls her goggles from her pocket-- They don’t work. She makes goggles with her hands and focusses on the couple.

Greg picks a hat up off the bar and places it on Tess’ head.

CLINK. CLINK. CLINK. Spurs rattle as footsteps of an angry TOUGH GUY approach.

TESS: What are they doing?

GREG (to Tough Guy): We don’t want any trouble.

TOUGH GUY: Only women in here’s working girls. You ain’t working. Girl.

Tough Guy reaches for Tess. Greg stands and gets in his way.

Tough Guy spits. Grins evilly. Pulls his gun. The bar falls silent. Patrons scoot out of the way.

PATRON: What’s that!?

A red laser light appears on a wall. Bar patrons scramble over themselves to get it. (Cats after a light.) The light disappears.

ALL: Awwwww.

Tess and Greg are gone -- running through a swinging door.

TOUGH GUY: Git em!


EXT. WESTERN SCRUBLAND - MOMENTS LATER
Greg and Tess hide in a bush near a railroad track. Tess picks up dirt and runs it through her fingers.
Tough Guy passes them on horseback.

TRAIN WHISTLE blows.

GREG: He’ll be back. Let’s go.


INT. WESTERN TRAIN CAR - MOMENTS LATER
Greg and Tess collapse, exhausted. The car is empty.

TESS: I’m starving.

Greg digs in his pocket and produces a tiny box full of teeny pills. Tess brightens. She happily eats one.

TESS: You brought enough for a week. What were you researching?

GREG: The Great Disconnect. How, and when, we stepped away from reality. Stopped letting things touch us.

Tess makes goggles of her hands again.

TESS: What are you talking about?


INT. DINING CAR - 1929 - DAY
The train car transforms into a sumptuous 1920’s dining car, packed with people, wine, and a sumptuous, elegant buffet. (Include props: wine bottle, corkscrew, olive oil & cupcakes)

TESS: What is that?

She points to a fruit plate. 

GREG: I have no idea. And we just ate.

Tess ignores him. She samples some of the food. It’s heaven.

TESS: Oh, this is good... And this is--better!

A CONDUCTOR approaches, punching tickets.

Tess holds a decadent cupcake toward Greg.

CONDUCTOR: Your tickets.

Tess offers the conductor a bite.


EXT. SPEAKEASY - 1929 - MOMENTS LATER
The train rolls away, as Tess and Greg hit the ground.  A MUG lurking outside watches them suspiciously.

Tess surveys the sad remains of a smashed cupcake.

TESS: Well, that’s just criminal.

MUG: Who you calling names, Dame? What do you know?

GREG: Nothing.

TESS: I know it’s Valentine’s Day.

She licks crumbs from her fingers. Greg cringes.

MUG: You know too much.

Mug reaches for them. Tess and Greg scuttle backwards to evade him. Mug herds them inside--


INT. SPEAKEASY - MOMENTS LATER
A big BOSS sits in a corner. Mug pulls a gun and looms over Greg and Tess.

MUG: Spats told me to peel an eye for ‘spicious characters. That’d be these two crumbs.

Boss nods. A violin case sits on the table in front of him.

TESS: Is that real?

BOSS: No.

GREG: No.

TESS: Can you play it?

Greg hides his face in his hands.

BOSS: Rub ‘em out.

Mug laughs evilly. Starts to pull the trigger.

Tess and Greg instinctively grab each other. They close their eyes.

EXT. CLASSY HOTEL - 2015 - EVENING
Tess and Greg hugging. People all around them walk and stare at their electronic devices. A SECURITY GUARD walks by and smiles.

SECURITY GUARD: That’s what it’s all about. Happy Valentine’s Day, folks.

The activity around Tess and Greg stills. As one, the people put their electronic devices and look at the couple.

Slowly, the people connect with one another, reacting to Tess and Greg. Some high-five. Some hug.
One couple kisses. Tess and Greg watch, curious.

INT. TIME TRAVEL ROOM - FUTURE - DAY
Tess and Greg materialize kissing.

Karius smiles with relief. She’s no longer wearing her goggles and drinking a glass of wine.

Lackey 1 puckers up and comes toward Karius. Karius becomes instantly serious.

KARIUS: No.

Tess and Greg come up for air.

GREG: We may have changed a few things while we were gone.

TESS: Yeah. Well, I still need to pee.

They kiss again.

Lackey 1 and Lackey 2 pucker up and head toward the camera.

FADE OUT


The process of making a movie in less than three days could fill up a month's worth of blog posts.

Twenty-four hours before the challenge, our lead actor pulled out and Paul had to recast. The day of challenge, Paul learned that he'd been assigned a Western genre, with olive oil as the required prop, and had lost access to both the required location and the saloon. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

Here is the result of on-the-fly filming, taking a basic script and making it work within the parameters of what is possible at the moment: (Note that the flashes and SFX to designate time changes were added back in. I stood vindicated.):



Participating in the challenge as the "offsite midwestern writer" was great fun. I learned about how very fluid a script needs to be when presented with challenges of the trenches. The tighter the budget and the schedule, the more the script will change to meet immediate demands. That's why the original premise must be clear -- so the inevitable changes don't derail the story.

The cool thing is: "Valentimes Day" is an official selection of The Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival, this weekend. And it was chosen without the selection committee knowing that it was filmed in three days on no budget -- and edited on Vegas, for heaven's sake!

From the Vault of Favored Poems: Dickinson's "The Master" (#PoemMo)

Between 1858 and 1861 or 1862, when Emily Dickinson was in her late twenties and early thirties, she wrote several intimate letters to someone known only as "the Master." Drafts of three of the letters survive. Though rich in imagery, poetic language, and emotional nuance, there is no way of knowing whether they were ever mailed. (Dickinson asked at least one person to burn all correspondence after her death...)

To this day, the Master's identity remains a mystery.

I didn't know any of this backstory when, in university, I was introduced to a poem of Dickinson's sometimes called "the Master." (She did not title it so.) I just knew that I liked it far more than her poems about death. It spoke to me then in a way that still resonates:

The Master
by Emily Dickinson

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys,
Before they drop full Music on --
He stuns you by degrees --

Prepares your brittle substance
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers -- further heard --
Then nearer -- then so - slow -

Your Breath has time to straighten,
Your Brain -- to bubble cool --
Deals one imperial Thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.


The poem was written in 1862 and appears in Fascicle 22. Thanks to the internet, one can view the handwritten original.

April: Get Your Poetry On #PoemMo

Eighteen years ago, thanks to the Academy of American Poets, April was designated National Poetry Month. According to the Academy, National Poetry Month is now the largest literary celebration in the world.

I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I envision throngs of people surrounded by stacks of books, imbibing massive quantities of coffee and alcohol, waving their hands while they talk, passionately discussing a word, phrase, or concept that moved them. Of course there is music. And -- since this is *my* fantasy -- chocolate.

Poetry isn't something reserved for the literati. It's not removed from reality. On the contrary, it interprets the world around us in a way that mere prose and conversation cannot. Poetry powers our songs. It connects the dots between disparate things, linking them in ways we'd never previously considered so completely that we can never completely see them as separate them again.

What's your favorite poem? Is it a song lyric that speaks to you? What turn of phrase calls your name?

In honor of National Poetry Month, during the month of April, share with the world the poetry that moves you. Why not brighten other lives with something that enriches yours?

The Snap-On Man vs. Shameless Spam

Or: Why Advertising Trumps Spam

A few years ago, in a two-day Fencing Extravaganza, we put up a new fence around several acres of pasture. During construction, we had a little glitch. The main hydraulic hose blew in the Al-the-Fencing-Guy's skid loader (which he used to do everything from pound 8 inch posts directly into our concrete-like clay without pre-drilling holes to stretching the high-tension wire).

When I say the hose blew, I don't mean that it sprung a little leak. No -- it exploded in a frayed mass of steel reinforcements and sprayed hydraulic fluid everywhere.

Since Al's an Amish man, he doesn't drive -- so I took him for a nice tour of Coloma, Watervliet, and Hartford in search of a replacement 1 3/8" hydraulic hose with appropriate couplings. We found a place to get one made.

Then we went looking for a comparable-sized offset wrench to make installing the hose go faster and easier. It was a Wednesday, and we were told that Wednesday was the day for the Snap-On man to be in the area, but no one was sure where to find him.

As we were stopped at the light in Watervliet, what should we see but the Snap-On truck!

The truck had a phone number boldy emblazoned on it, so I followed it while Al called the number on his cell phone. He got hold of the driver (!) and explained what we needed. The guy very kindly pulled over and let us see if he had what we wanted. Presto: the guy made an easy sale just for driving his truck through an intersection -- and answering his phone.

Just the other day I was talking to a friend who is an absolutely TOP photographer. She's amazing. She has made quite a name for herself in our little area, but she could be so much bigger. Her eye for detail, and her ability to photograph people with genuine, beautiful, flattering expressions really set her apart. She would like more work. Yet she's reticent to advertise.

She is not alone.

So often, writers and others in creative fields are afraid to advertise. We don't want to "blow our own horn" or seem pushy or brash. But what we fail to take into consideration is that we offer a very real service that many people cannot (or don't want to) do for themselves.

In a sense, we owe it to our potential clientele to tell them our services are available, and to give them a way to contact us. Just like the Snap-On man.

Ah, but there's a catch...

See, contrary to popular opinion, advertising doesn't involve letting people know what you do or what you've done.

(I realize this statement flies directly in the face of many writers -- and plenty of publishers -- on Twitter and Facebook who are forever shilling about *their* books.

My feeds are craptastically clogged with writers posting links to their latest reviews, or their books' trailers, or random quotes from their books. Occasional self-promo is fine. It's even encouraged. However, if the only topic that ever shows up in your feed is YOUR BOOK, you're committing an unforgivable, egregious social boo-boo. This is not advertising. This is visual vomit. This is shameless self-promoting spam.)

Advertising, done correctly, is not telling others about yourself or your product. Rather, it tells people what you and your product can do for them.

Effective advertising engages the audience on some level.

It provides a service.

It gives people fodder for conversation, or makes them laugh, or solves a problem they're having (whether they know it or not).

Sometimes it even causes people to call you up in desperation and chase you down so they can buy what you're selling!

A few questions to ponder:
What advertising have you seen that you found most effective? 
How do you respond to incessant social media spam?
How does your advertising encourage people to connect with your product?

How To Stop Being Jealous

or: 5 Ways to Kill the Green-Eyed Monster Before it Kills You

I was consulting with a client poised on the brink of Making It Big. We were brainstorming marketing strategy, deciding where to focus our immediate efforts, and discussing how to balance book and television projects with personal appearances.

“Get ready for it to get weird,” I warned him.

“It already has,” he said, uncharacteristically serious. “As soon as I officially announced my Major Product had been optioned and was going into national distribution, long-term friends unfriended me on FaceBook.”

Before I could launch into my trademark anti-Facebook rant, he continued, “Then the phone started ringing with people calling me and my clients to rain down crap and tell me how I’m going about this all wrong... Do you know how many phone calls of congratulations I got?”

None.

I wish I could say I was surprised.

I’ve seen it happen before: people work, often for years, with little to nothing to show for it. They amass a small, devoted army of supporters who see the potential the world has yet to discover. Then fortune finally smiles and blesses them with success on a larger scale—

The Pit of Despair: The Well of Jealous Souls

And all hell breaks loose.

Oh, sure, some of the original followers applaud the achievement, reasoning (rightly) that there are special places in the Inner Circle reserved for Those Who Came First.

But often with larger scale success comes a whole cast of new characters -- managers, producers, public relations people, coaches -- not to mention new challenges and new responsibilities.

Launching any major project can be an all-consuming task, much as having a baby completely occupies new parents’ every micro-neuron. Those who aren’t actively involved in the launch (like those who have never been parents) can feel left out, marginalized, or forgotten. For those looking on from the sidelines – especially those who have been hoping for their own success -- it’s a very short trip to the Pit of Despair for a heaping helping of jealousy.

Jealousy has its roots in both selfishness and anger, two of the most cancerous, toxic emotions known to humanity. It is also one of the most ironic of emotions. Giving in to jealousy is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die. Jealousy kills relationships because it destroys the person it originates with. It virtually eats you alive.

So, how can you kill the green-eyed monster before it ruins you? Some suggestions:

1.)  Practice Contentment. I’m not talking about a forced, false happiness. Contentment is different. It’s not giddy. It’s not out of control. It’s a quiet, calm joy that can be found in any life at any time, if one looks for it.

Pet a dog. Eat something warm from the oven. Listen to your favorite musician. Watch your favorite movie. Be grateful that you can see, or hear, or smell, or taste. Do something you genuinely enjoy and savor the experience. One of the best ways to avoid being jealous of someone else is to do something that feeds your soul instead of sucking it dry.

2.)  Avoid the Death-Trap of Comparison. Comparing yourself never ends well. In the best case scenarios, you come out on top, making you feel (and therefore act) superior. Which usually results in general asshattery. Worst-case scenario – you come out with the short end of the stick, which only beats the green-eyed monster and irritates him.

Everyone is different. Everyone has different strengths and weaknesses. Every character has a different arc. But everyone is the hero of his or her own story. Your only job is to be the best version of you possible.

3.)  Celebrate Success. Make a concentrated effort to acknowledge the successes of others. Even if they have succeeded at something that still eludes you. Especially if they have succeeded at something that still eludes you.

4.)  Resist the Urge to Scourge. Do you hate to read success stories? Does it just grind your tonenails into dust to read about successful debut novelists? Or spec script sales stories? Or "how I met my agent" or "how I met my husband" match-made-in-heaven stories?

Why?

There is no quota of successful people on the planet. Just because someone else has achieved a goal you've set for yourself doesn't mean you can't still make it.

We're all climbing the ladder of success. Beware of the temptation to mock those who are perched above you. Not only is karma real (how do you want people to react to you when you reach that rung?), but actively denigrating others does nothing to build you up. On the contrary, it saps your creative juices and punts you into the Back Alley Bully camp. Ick.

Never engage trolls...

If you truly loathe others' success, then you are only sealing your own fate. Self-preservation refuses to allow us to become something we hate. Those who hate rich people will never be wealthy. If they were, they would have to hate themselves. In the same vein, those who begrudge another person's success are virtually guaranteeing they will never achieve anything comparable.

I had an interesting chat on Twitter this past week with a screenwriter who has just released his first novel. His book enjoyed noteworthy success, cracking the Top 100 of its genre on Amazon...  incurring the anger of the ‘Zon trolls. 

Someone posted a hateful, spiteful, vitriol-infused rant disguised as a “review” of his book. When the novelist responded (NOTE: never engage the trolls. Any attempt at rational discourse only infuriates them.), the troll brought out a gang-bang of his cronies -- each with the sole purpose of defecating on the writer's success. Fortunately, the novelist was too smart to take their poo flinging seriously. But that doesn't mean such crass behavior doesn't stink.

5.)  Work. If All Else Fails -- Work Harder. An excellent antidote for allowing jealousy to overcome you is to immerse yourself in a pet project of your choosing. 

Get to work. Focus on creating something that enriches your life and makes you proud. Hone your craft. Challenge yourself to grow even more adept at the skills you need. Not only will this help refocus your energies on something positive (thus starving the green-eyed monster), but it will also help set the stage for your own -- imminent -- sweeping success.

Bucking the Odds

Faith Conroy is my hero.

Not because for the past two decades she has had steady work with the likes of Redford, Costner, Cruise, Witherspoon, Woo, Hopkins, Branagh, Whedon & other notables.

Not because she's a girl from the east who has carved a niche for herself as script supervisor for big studio films in L.A.

Not because she knows how to ride and has written a true-to-life film about horses.

Not even because in a few weeks, she'll be traveling cross country in a bus with the likes of Skeet Ulrich and Christian Kane. (OK, maybe a little bit because of that...)

The reason Faith Conroy is my hero is simple: she refused to buy into the ageism and sexism everyone says abounds in the film industry. Perhaps even more impressive, she didn't allow herself to be constrained by a career box. After years of supervising other people's screenplays, she co-wrote a script of her own AND helped to produce it as well.

She got involved, took the reins, and got the movie made.

No matter how you cook the film industry stats, they show dismal career opportunities for women. According to the Huffington Post, screenplays written by people without a Y chromosome accounted for less than 10% of spec script sales from 2010 to 2012.

But my heroes don't let the odds tell them what can't be done. They saddle up, get their cowboy on, and ride.

Conroy teamed up with Oscar-winning producer Jim Wilson to make the independent feature 50 to 1 -- the true story of Kentucky Derby underdog Mine That Bird. Now that the film is finished, she is personally involved in promoting it and helping it find an audience -- things that only further elevate her in my Halls of Heroes.

Which brings me to that cross country bus trip...

The entire cast and crew of "50 to 1" have taken time out of their schedules and money out of their pockets to literally go on tour together. Starting in March, they're going to board a bus in New Mexico and make whistle stops across the country as they head toward Kentucky.

These days, it's easy to swallow the lie that the only way to "make it" is to sell a piece of yourself. But Conroy, Wilson, Kane, Ulrich & the rest of the tour are trying out a new paradigm. They're going to break through by giving of themselves.

They don't have a big studio backing their promotional efforts. Ten Furlongs LLC, the production company & distributor, exists solely because of this film. They don't care that the odds are stacked against them. They're going to do it anyway.

My heroes.