What are the tell-tale signs of success for a writer? Is it all about having a way with words and crafting captivating stories? While those elements are certainly important, another key factor in achieving success as a writer is self-marketing. This involves building a strong online presence that showcases your work and attracts potential readers.
Take the time to update your website regularly and feature samples of your best writing. Don't be afraid to expand your reach by appearing on podcasts or collaborating with other bloggers. In fact, consistent blogging can be especially beneficial when trying to gain traction for your first book. It's worth noting that a writer's online presence can also catch the attention of traditional publishers and open doors to new opportunities. Keep an eye out for appearances, platform growth, new connections, reviews or mentions, and any other chances to showcase your talent and grow as a successful writer.
I know as you ponder this advice and glance at your outdated website, you may feel overwhelmed by the task of updating it regularly with samples of your best writing. Maybe take a leap of faith and revamp your online platform with some new stories. After all, it is just more writing and you’re a writer.
Reach out to fellow writers for collaborations. Self-marketing is not just about showcasing your work but also about connecting with readers and industry professionals on a personal level. You’re going for forming genuine relationships with your audience.
Collaboration with fellow writers can lead to a joint book signing event that draws crowds of enthusiastic readers. Embrace the opportunities that your online presence affords you. Explore new genres, experiment with different writing styles, and allow your voice to evolve with each new piece you put up.
And now a fiction break
Thorned Heart
By Liz Dubelman
My phone rang and my heart skipped a beat as I saw it was my mother calling. She only called when something big had happened.
"I want to tell you something before you hear it somewhere else first," she said, her voice trembling with nerves.
I braced myself for the worst news, but what she told me surprised me even more. "I had a date."
"And I'm the last one to know," I said with a touch of sarcasm.
My parents had been going through a bitter divorce when my father suddenly passed away. My mother hadn’t wanted him to die, but she was finally free from a marriage that she was trapped in. Being free came with its own set of challenges, especially since my father had been such a big figure in life.
"It wasn't a big deal," she reassured me. "Just dinner and a movie. He's not really my type anyway, so there won't be a second date."
Dating seemed to come easily for my mother, despite not having gone on one for over forty-five years. She seemed unfazed and unscathed by the experience.
The next day my mother called to tell me of a dream she’d just had. In the dream, she was back living on the Lower East Side of New York City, where she’d lived when she was first married. She walked from room to room in amazement; the apartment was vast and beautiful, each room more lovely than the one before. Then she saw a mouse, but she was not concerned. What was one mouse in a fantastic New York apartment? Then the mouse jumped up, bit her on the lip, and held on. She pulled the tail and the insides came out but even though the mouse was dead, it still held on. My mother woke up, understandably unsettled, but by the time she finished telling me, she was willing to dismiss it as “just a dream.”
About a month ago, my mother got into a fender-bender. This would have sent her into a tailspin in the past, but she surprisingly took it all in stride. The other driver, upon learning that my mother was also a widow, invited her out to lunch as an act of kindness. My mother recounted the experience to me with a touch of detachment.
"We went to a really nice restaurant," she said. "I felt like I should pay for lunch, but she wouldn't let me. She was a very nice lady."
"That's great, maybe you'll make a new friend," I said optimistically.
My mother chuckled. "I don't think so, she was just being friendly. I doubt we'll see each other again."
Last night Mother sent me an email with the subject line: "Starting Salsa Lessons!" The body of the email was a long, winding tale about how she signed up at the Jewish Community Center. She mentioned that they'd promised to find her a dance partner, even though she preferred to dance alone. The registrar insisted on pairing her up anyway.
When my mother was young, she and my father lit up the dance floor together. It was one of the rare times he showcased her. My father usually craved the spotlight for himself, but when they danced, he believed his role was to make her shine. He often said, "That's what Fred Astaire did."
Wanting to show my support, I went online that evening and ordered a Santana CD for her from Amazon. I replied to her email with a brief note explaining that the CD was on its way, which tracks were perfect for dancing, and that I hoped she'd enjoy her class. I added that I loved her and admired her courage.
She called me the next day.
"You didn't have to do that," she said. "You always turn everything into such a big deal. It's just a class."
"Just be happy, Ma."
"I am happy."
In Jewish tradition, mourners wash their hands before re-entering the house after a burial. This act symbolizes leaving death behind. When we buried my father, we remembered to set out the pitcher of water but forgot the paper towels. So we all walked back into the house with wet hands dripping everywhere.
After her first salsa class, my mother called again. Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"I can't dance," she confessed.
"What? You're an amazing dancer!"
"No," she sighed. "I can't hear the music anymore."
Images of my father flashed in my mind, along with memories of that forgotten stack of paper towels.
"It's late," I said softly. "You'll feel better in the morning." We hung up, and I went to bed.
My mother did not. She placed the Santana CD in her player. She picked up the remote and selected track 7. As "Corazon Espinado" filled the empty room, she whispered to herself, "Quick, quick, slow... and quick, quick, slow... and quick, quick, slow..."
The character of the mother is very well drawn out in a few short paragraphs, and makes the reader want to know more about her. She is very dynamic and admirable in her quest for new life experiences.
I truly enjoyed this short short story. Mother and daughter come to life an honest portrayal of too many Jewish mothers. The poignant ending came as a surprise. You very much have a way with words.👩🏼🦳