The Hows and Whys of Daniel

Two weeks ago, nearly to the minute, I made a decision.  A big, scary, and, honestly, ill-advised decision.  I was going to self-publish a silly little story I wrote last fall.  And I was going to do it by the end of the weekend.

There were at least two reasons for this big, stupid goal:

1. My family needed the positive cash flow, no matter how small.
2. I had something to prove.  To my husband, whose favorite greeting is, "You finish that book yet?" (Grr!).  And to myself, who rarely asks myself if a book is done because she knows how annoying that really is.

Let's get one thing straight: I'm not afraid to share my stories.  Against all common sense, I'll type the last words of a first draft and send it off to someone, anyone, who wants to read it.  That's not the way it's supposed to work, so other writers tell me, but it's the way I work.  The excitement of sharing and getting that early feedback from the poor shmoes who have to slog through my typos--well, it's what makes this writer thing feel more like a village and less like solitary confinement.  Not that I have anything against solitary confinement.

Two weeks ago, "Daniel the Draw-er" was literally half the story it is now.  Like, 6k words to its now-finished 13k.  I knew the story needed to be more substantial, size-wise, but I didn't know how to do it. Some friends who read through pointed out some plot issues, mainly having to do with resolution of the various conflicts in the story (Daniel's mom's desire for Daniel to make more friends, Daniel and his best friend Annie's argument, etc.) and how the timing was way off.  Story structure.  It's a thing, apparently.

I would save myself a lot of time if I just learned how to outline.  Know where I'm headed, what needs to happen, that kind of thing.  But nooooooo.  My imagination insists on working free of the constraints of detailed lists, especially when I'm operating as a nine-year-old boy with a magic pencil, where the sky is the limit.  They call someone who doesn't plan out their writing a "pantser", meaning they're flying by the seat of their pants (versus the more serious and responsible "plotter", a. k. a. People I Don't Really Get).  The fun part about zero planning is that every single thing I write is a surprise.  I make myself laugh a lot.  Sometimes my weirdness scares even me.  But, anyway...

For a week and a half I spent night and day working on the story, holed up in my writing room in the basement listening to Bon Iver on repeat and eating cinnamon Fire Jolly Ranchers (!!).  My friend Courtney sat across from me and dished out tough love ("draw a plot diagram," she said. I threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, no lie). I spent almost an entire day working at a Panera Bread.  Two of my doula babies were born.  We said good-bye, for now, to a beloved family friend.  Life happened.  A whole lot of life happened.

This story is important to me in a much different way than my others have been.  "Daniel" came to be when I participated in an online writing course called The Story Cartel.  Our assignment was to identify the audience we felt we were writing to and write a short story with them in mind.  I didn't want to write a short story to teenage girls and bored housewives (you know who you are.  I am one of you!), I wanted to write a book for my boys like Tolkien wrote his classic tales as bedtimes stories for his children.  Like Dav Pilkey without the constant references to bodily functions and underwear. So I turned to my eight-year-old and asked him a good name for a main character.  He picked Daniel.  Then I wrote on, with my son peeking over my shoulder and laughing at all the funny parts.  He soaked up every word, waiting for me to peck them out in my usual slow manner, until it was late and I had to send him to bed. This story is my nod to my boys--the introverted Daniel who doesn't mind having only one friend.  The boy who hates meatloaf but loves pizza.  The boy who fixates on capes (for us, it is hooded sweatshirts).  The endless sketches of made-up creatures.  That's all of them lumped up in one fantastic boy.  That's why.

And now the "how". There are many facets to self-publishing that most people don't fully consider beyond just writing a story. Here are a few major points:

Editing 

Like, thorough editing.  It's best to use someone who edits as their profession, but I didn't have that option (see Reason 1 above).  Instead, I recruited a handful of people to read through and make sure I caught typos, punctuation, that kind of thing.  Then I gave it another read-through right before uploading it to Amazon and CreateSpace.  I'm 100% positive I, and my troop of beta readers, still missed errors.  I take comfort in knowing that even New York Times' bestsellers still have errors undetected by the people paid to do so.

Formatting  

I write most of my novels using Google Drive because I insist on making my friend read along. Amazon and CreateSpace want authors to upload Microsoft Word files (or one of their other preferred file formats).  Most of that formatting process wasn't a huge deal because I've been training myself to be better about indents and all of that mind-numbing detail.  I did spend about three hours one night doing battle with Word 2011 about page numbers and section breaks while my family went to the school carnival.  Bummer.  Although I did hear, in great detail, about my eight-year-old's meltdown while waiting 45 minutes in line for a balloon animal.  So, I'm chalking it up as a win in my column, even though I wanted to hurl my Macbook more than once.

Cover

Not surprisingly, the cover of any book might be the most important thing ever.  I drew what I thought was a pretty cool cover, a cat with a pencil in his mouth.  The charcoal on a plain white page was pretty drab, so I flipped it into a negative and thought it was good to go.

Except it frightened kids and adults, alike, so I had to draw a second cover.

And then I had to bug my brother to do about a million things to it until it was ready to upload at both Amazon and CreateSpace.  Poor guy.  If it had been up to me, the thing would never have a cover.  Never, ever.

Marketing

I'm still in the middle of this, and it's all trial-and-error because I should have done things different, if not for the self-imposed time constraint.  Cover reveal?  Psssh.  Blog tour?  Ha!

BUT, you can buy a digital copy of Daniel the Draw-er here.
You can buy a paperback copy of Daniel directly from CreateSpace here. (In a few days the paperback option will be live on Amazon, just not yet).

Book reviews are very helpful, too.  Even if you didn't buy your copy from Amazon, you can leave a review here for future readers.
If you use the Goodreads app/website, you can leave a star rating or a review for Daniel there, as well.

Side note:  I am open to other methods of marketing, as I'm reaching the end of my friends and family and need to figure out other avenues of getting the book noticed.  If you think of anything, comment here or contact me the way you know how.

So there you have it--a little peek into my hyper-accelerated process for the debut of my novella, Daniel the Draw-er.  While it's certainly no War and Peace or Harry Potter or anything, I'm hoping it leads to bigger and better things in the future.  I'm hoping Daniel is my little bit of magic.  

Daniel the Draw-er Is Alive... I mean, LIVE!

This has been the longest week and a half of my life, but I'm happy to say that my children's novella, Daniel the Draw-er, is now available for purchase as a digital book on Amazon.  Within the next day or so, readers who prefer physical books to eBooks will be able to purchase "Daniel" in paperback form.  

Daniel the Draw-er

About the Book

"This pencil is no ordinary pencil,” says the cat sitting on the end of nine-year-old Daniel’s bed. "It's magic."

Everything Daniel draws with his enchanted pencil comes to life, from a talking cat named Whiskers to a group of pizza-loving aliens from the planet Beezo.  Daniel’s mom said she wanted him to make new friends. This probably isn’t what she meant.

Join Daniel and his fantastic creatures on this fun-for-the-whole-family adventure as he discovers that friendship is the greatest magic of all . . . and that it can be found in the most unusual of places. 

Ways You Can Help

~ Buy the book. If you have Amazon Prime, you can borrow it for free from the Lending Library. I've even enabled lending so you can let a friend borrow it for a couple of weeks at no charge. 
~ Share the link to my book with your friends and loved ones. If you have a blog or some kind of following that would be receptive, share with your followers. 
~ Leave a review on Amazon. Please be honest, and only leave a review if you or your child have read the book. My goal is to help future readers find a book they'll enjoy.


~ If you're on Goodreads, add Daniel the Draw-er to one of your shelves or post a review!
~ If you're on Twitter, follow me - @SunnyJHenderson 
~ If you're on Facebook, "like" my Author Page 

I'll write more about my experience creating and publishing "Daniel the Draw-er" in another blog post. For now, I wanted to say thank you for believing in this little bit of magic... and thank you for passing it on.  

Daniel the Draw-er Makes a Friend

“Did you make any new friends at school today?” Mom asks, smiling up at me as she wipes crumbs from the counter.  Every day it’s the same question, and every day I give the same answer.  They say adults are supposed to be smart, but maybe no one told Mom.

I grab the carton of milk and take a gulp before she notices, then wipe away my milk moustache with my sleeve.  Today I feel dramatic, so I puff up my chest and place my hands on my hips like a superhero before booming, “Annie is the only friend I need!”  

If I owned a cape I would make sure it flapped in the breeze behind me the whole time, but capes weren’t on the shopping list for school clothes this year.  Mom looks disappointed.  I’m disappointed, too.  Capes are cool.  Not as cool as samurai swords or skateboarding dogs, but still pretty awesome.

“Daniel.  Annie is a nice girl, but it’s not healthy to have only one friend.”

Parents always said stuff wasn’t healthy for you.  Candy bars weren’t healthy.  Staying up all night watching t.v. wasn’t healthy.  Now being friends with Annie wasn’t healthy?  Unless Mom meant the time Annie sneezed right in my face and I ended up sick in bed for two days, I didn’t understand how having a friend could be bad.

“Really, Daniel.  What if Annie moved away?  Then you wouldn’t have any friends.”

“She’s not going anywhere.  She told me so.”

Her face grows serious.  “Promise me you’ll try to at least talk to the other kids.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes, but make sure I turn my back to her first.  Mom hates it when I roll my eyes.  Only she can roll her eyes and get away with it.  “What’s for dinner?”

“Meatloaf, your favorite!”

Gross!  I stick out my tongue and make a gagging noise.

“I was going to warn you that Tommy’s in the living room waiting for your sister, but since you’re being a smarty-pants, maybe I won’t...”

Tommy.  Ugh.

My sister Lila’s latest boyfriend was the worst one yet.  He plays in a band and has just enough hair on his chin to make it look like he’s super-glued a caterpillar there.  Tommy also likes to call me “buddy” and punch me in the arm.  I figure he can't remember my name.  When we first met, Tommy called me Fritz for an entire day before Lila finally put a stop to it

I tiptoe down the hall past the living room door, but knock into the coat rack with my backpack.  Like a hungry lion, Tommy pounces, jumping over the back of the couch and directly in front of me.  Great.

“Bud-dy!”  He punches me in the arm, as always.

“Ow!”  I whine.  Before he can hit me again, I slip off my backpack and hide my arms behind it like a knight with a shield.  

“What’s up, big guy?”

I try to answer him, but it’s kind of hard since he’s put me in a headlock, his skinny forearm pressing into my windpipe.  Up close, Tommy smells like microwave burritos and cat litter.  He rubs his knuckles on the top of my head and I yelp.  When the torture portion of our meeting ends, he lets me go and acts like nothing ever happened.

“Lila says you’re a draw-er.”

I’m pretty sure he means artist, but my head and arm still hurt so I keep my mouth shut.

“Uh, I guess so,” I shrug.

Tommy smiles, making the caterpillar wiggle.  “Well, keep practicing, buddy.  Maybe if you get good enough you can draw a cover for Revenge of the Lunch Lady.”

I back around him so I can keep an eye on his hands.  “Yeah, okay.  Thanks.”

Like that’ll happen.  Revenge of the Lunch Lady was the name of Tommy’s band, and their biggest show so far had been at the bowling alley.  No one had been able to hear them over the thumps of bowling balls and crash of falling pins.

The rest of the way to my room, I think about Mom’s words, What if Annie moved away?

It’s impossible to imagine life without my best friend.  While all the other girls at school dress in pink and smell like flowers, Annie always smells like peanut butter and wears her brother’s old jeans.  Back in kindergarten she ate an earthworm and that’s when I knew she was the one.  

The other kids tease us and say we’re going to get married when we grow up.  They make kissy noises when we walk past together, but that’s gross.  I don’t want to kiss Annie.  Annie eats earthworms, after all.

Mom’s being silly.  Annie’s not leaving.

Once I reach my room, I sit down at my table and get to work.  Dad put my table in front of the window so I could look out and draw nice pictures of trees and birds, but mostly I use the window as a launchpad for paper airplanes and plastic parachute men.  Instead of trees and birds, I draw animals and monsters and super-awesome machines nobody else has thought of yet.  My favorite was a robot named Pi-zzabot that could bake a pizza and do my Math homework at the same time.  I drew a toaster that could tie shoes and smear peanut butter on bread for Annie, too, but I still think Pi-zzabot is better.

Today I want to finish the animal I’ve been working on for a few days.  I mean, I guess he’s an animal.  His head is round and soft like a teddy bear with shiny black eyes, but he’s no ordinary teddy bear.  The rest of his body will have long tentacles like an octopus--once I finish.  

In the middle of drawing Octobear’s third oozing tentacle, my pencil lead snaps off.  I growl and fling my wounded pencil out the open window before I realize that was my last pencil.  

Lila’s in her room with her door open when I stomp by.  She leans in close to the mirror on her dresser and dabs at her eyelashes with a tiny black brush.  Girls are weird.  You’d never catch me poking myself in the eye with anything to make myself look pretty.  

I peek my head in her room.  “Hey, you got a pencil?”  

She stops and looks at me with the brush hovering near her eyeball.  I flinch and look away.  Even though Lila is my sister doesn’t mean I want her to become a cyclops or wear a patch over her eye.  

“No, Daniel,” she replies.  “I do not have a pencil.”  

Who died and made her an English teacher all of the sudden?  She probably needed to help poor Tommy out, not me, since he couldn’t even come up with a better word than “draw-er”.  I stalk away, taking back all the nice things I’d ever said about her, which weren’t that many.

I want to ask Mom about pencils but Tommy and his fists still lurk in the living room.  Octobear needs more legs, but if Tommy punches me one more time my arm’s going fall off.  Without my arm, it’ll be hard to draw.

The only other place to look is the attic.  I’m not really supposed to snoop around up there because Mom says I make a mess.  This one time I found a bunch of brand new action figures Dad hadn’t even opened yet.  His face turned purple when he found me playing with them a few days later.  Since then, the attic has been off-limits for me.  Octobear needs me, though.

It takes a while, but I find a box of old art supplies buried under a fake Christmas tree and a bin of my old baby clothes.  The stuff inside the box is mostly junk.  I push aside a stack of paper with brown water spots and small containers of dried-up paint until I feel something smooth and wooden.  The wooden thing ends up being a case, and when I open it up there’s a half-used pencil wrapped in green velvet.  Yes!  Why anyone would put a plain old pencil in a box like that, I don’t know, but Dad is weird and keeps his toys in boxes, too.  With a shrug, I toss the box to the side and hurry back down to my room.

I finish drawing the last of Octobear’s limbs and start on a cat who will have a jetpack on his back - I’m saving that part for last! - when Mom calls me down for dinner.  The meatloaf is extra dry tonight and Dad talks for a whole ten minutes about some market on Wall Street, wherever that is.  As soon as I choke down the last awful bite, I run back to my room, ready to send a cat into orbit.

Only one problem.  There’s a cat on my desk and he looks kind of familiar.  

The cat stands up and puffs his snowy fur.  “Hey, pal,”  he says.  

I rub my eyes and blink, then look over my shoulder towards the stairs where the rest of my family is still talking about James Bond or something.  I knew this day would come--Mom’s meatloaf had finally driven me insane.  

“Not gonna answer me?”  He closes his yellow eyes and shakes his head.  “That’s fine.  But do me a favor, kid?”

My mouth hangs open.  If I try to speak, the words get stuck inside of me.

He turns to the paper lying on the desk next to him and I see an empty space where his back should be.  With his paw, he pats my cat drawing on the page.

“Finish drawing me.”

I slam the door behind me and run downstairs as fast as I can.  Mom said she wants me to make new friends, and I guess I had.