Small Presses March to Independent Beats

Thank goodness for small, independent presses. Writers like me, who lack the Internet presence major publishing houses require, have a chance with them.    .

March is Small Press Month. “Small” as in annual sales under $50 million - with fewer than ten titles published a year .If the Big Publishing Houses were corporate banks, the small presses would be credit unions. More accessible. Friendlier. Geared towards a particular neighborhood.

A database on the Poets and Writers magazine website lists hundreds of small presses, alphabetically and by genre: poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. I found a small publisher for my memoir on a list from the Writer magazine. Both of these sources are reliable, which begs a distinction that must be made between small presses and vanity presses.

The small press (like larger university presses) accepts quality manuscripts – and rejects substandard ones. Small presses also distribute their books and pay royalties. Vanity presses are virtually printers. They accept all manuscripts and sell the manuscript-turned-book, in volume, back to the writer. End of contract.

Writing magazines regularly feature articles like “Bigger Isn’t Always Better,” by Jeff Reich. He says the less-is-more perspective allows a small press to focus “on quality not quantity.” Big Name Publishers like Big Name Clients. They often opt for celebrity over craft – and hire a ghost writer for the celebs who can’t write.

My Memoir
on amazon
on bn.com
on iBooks

Small presses give writers like you and me a chance to tell our stories. Last year, after a number of really "complimentary rejections" from the likes of HCI and S & S, the independent  start-up, Signalman Publishing, accepted my memoir, Staying Alive: A Love Story. Since publication the book was nominated for the 2012 Christian Small Press Association Book of the Year, received a 2011 Readers Views Award, and has been recommended by the American Institute of Health Care Professionals.Yet it didn't have a chance with a Big Publishing House.

Jack's memoir
on amazon
on bn.com

Recently Signalman published a beautiful memoir by Jack Sheedy,a Connecticut writer who reviewed my book for The Catholic Transcript last year. As poignant and entertaining as Jack's, The Sting of the Heat Bug is, his story of growing-up- Irish couldn't make it through the likes of Random House or Penguin Books - because Jack, who has been writing for The Catholic Transcript for years, isn’t well known enough. An independent press like Signalman Publishers offers him the chance to put his story “out there” even though Jack is not trending on Yahoo. Not yet anyway!

John McClure, president of Signalman Publishing, says, “small publishers can and do release titles that offer the reader unique insight on a topic without the filter of commercial success blocking it.”

Yet, small presses can be profitable. Only after corporate publishers repeatedly rejected Paul Harding’s Tinkers, did the new, unheard of Bellvue Literary Press (named after the New York hospital) publish the novel. Then Tinkers picked up a 2010 Pulitizer Prize.

Jack and I are available for co-readings and book signings in Connecticut. Email me at laurabhayden@att.net if you would like us to visit your book club or organization.

A Friend's Next Chapter

A decade ago I would not have come to know Irene, a recent virtual friend and colleague. That was long before I had any inkling I’d write a memoir, no less have it published. But through the last few years one choice led to another: the choice to enroll in an MFA program and focus my thesis on surviving my husband’s premature death, the choice to move from high school to college teaching, the choice to publish the memoir.

Enter Irene, just after Staying Alive: A Love Story became available on Amazon and bn.com. As the managing editor of an online company that reviews and promotes independently published books, she had unique expertise in an area I knew nothing about: marketing. Within weeks the book was reviewed and Irene wanted to interview me – on her radio show.  She’d tape our conversation over the phone, me in CT and she in TX.

It took no time to realize I was working with a smart woman committed to promoting quality books in a growing independent publishing market. Now I was being introduced to Irene, woman to woman. First she called “just to chat” and prepare me for the phenomena of long distance radio transmission. We spoke the way women of similar ilk speak, easily and familiarly. She liked that the book portrayed my children and me as survivors, not victims,. This conversation assured me I would feel comfortable with her in the ensuing taping.

Irene tempered the daunting task of selling myself. We stayed in contact. I wrote for her blogging authors’ site.

When Irene was diagnosed with cancer we talked again. She remembered the story of my own bout with kidney cancer shared in my memoir. Over long distance, she continued to encourage me, professionally, as I did my best to encourage her to wellness.

After a number of extreme treatments Irene was declared cancer free. I was elated. Yet, the elation vanished yesterday when I received sad news from her family. Though Irene appeared to have won a battle or two against the insipid disease, she ultimately lost the war that escalated through her body.

After my interview aired, friends remarked Irene and I sounded like long-time friends. I wish that could have been so. Yet my one-year association with this great gal from Texas has had a greater impact on me than many I have had– for years. I’m a better professional – and person – for having known her.

If I hadn't gotten to know Irene the way I did, I'd be inclined to say Rest in Peace about now. Yet, having come to know her vim and vigor in getting important work for writers and readers done, I'm going to go with Rest in Perpetual Purpose, Friend.    

CLICK HERE for my interview with Irene.

 

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Analogy

 Considering the dandelion gone to seed on the cover of my memoir, it should not be surprising to those who have read the book  that, while writing, an important comparison occurred to me. That is - that the inevitable flight of the seeds from " little yellow flowers on everybody's lawn" is not so unlike my paternal grandfather's  ocean voyage across the Atlantic. The family account immortalizes how he, a six-year-old in the early 1900s, held fast to his older brother with one hand and, with the other, waved good-bye to his mother and father who remained rooted to the rocky Italian soil.  From Old World poverty to New World promise they sent their youngest son across the ocean at a great price – never to see him again.

This led me to wonder about how this new land inspired my mother’s father,  a man who shined shoes, to give each of his four children a nickel every time he heard them sing God Bless America.  Something assured him, through the hardship of youthful departure and obstacles of assimilation, that his trip would improve his life and provide descendants like me with opportunities he never had.

 When Grandpa the shoe-shiner sailed back to Italy in the 1950s to visit his mother, his two-way ticket entitled him to a cabin instead of the steerage quarters of his first trip to America.  In our home movie of his departure, he waves as proudly as the captain of any ship.  On his way to Italy, I’ve been told over and over again, he would pass his younger brother on the high seas traveling to America for the first time – on a west-bound liner. 

  I never saw my mother’s father again. He took sick and died in Italy. But I did get to see the rope burns his brother suffered when he was rescued from the wreck of the Andrea Doria.

 Though I can remember once thinking the dandelion was too pretty and too much fun to be called a weed, I thought I had outgrown my childish notions of dandelion flight. Even my mother’s intent to cultivate the little yellow lawn flowers had lost some of its comic edge after I discovered dandelion seed packets in the herb section of the local Agway .Still, every spring and summer, I’m reminded of the seedling’s natural, inevitable departure from the parent plant and my grandparents’ voyages from their mother country. Like Grandma in her housecoat, I add a touch of cicoria to my salad fixings among other bitters (arugula for one) and sweets (dried cranberries and strawberries).

The Toast, the Whole Toast, and Nothing But the Toast

The Mommy of the Brother of the Bride (that's me too!) ended the previous post "in medias res" - as the Romans would say - on purpose. Honest, it wasn't to drive readers bonkers- though I've already received a couple of FB comments along those lines.  No, no, no. The rest of the BoftheB's "impromptu toast" - a honed speech he made seem extemporaneous - begs to be related in the Brother-of-the-Bride"s own words.  

(Rewind  to the start of Conor's toast)

First of all -- a word of fair warning.  The line between toast and speech is about to be blurred.  And if you don't like it, well, too bad -- because my sister is getting married today, and yours is not.

(He spins to his backpack and returns to the mike)

To be completely honest, I did not prepare anything for this toast.  I was too deeply engrossed in the stirring, emotional new release "Staying Alive: A Love Story -- written by, I don’t know, someone.  Paperback available for $10.07 on Barnes & Noble eBook for $4.99. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED -- especially the chapter about me. But ANYWHO, shameless family self-promotions aside, I would like to say a few words to you all, and of course, the newly appointed bride and groom.

Which brings me to my main point.  I am the brother of the bride. Or, BOB as the fine folks at Modern Formals have come to know me, which created some Tux-related confusion. But anyway, in most situations, the distinction of brother-of-the-bride bears a very special honor -- and this is no exception.  Yet Emily's wedding bears an even greater significance for me.
  
As everyone in this room is fully aware, circumstance has left me as the de-facto man of the house in my immediate family -- a title I have tried to maintain with humility, dignity, and pride over the past thirteen years. But despite that unfortunate reality of our lives, we are all here to celebrate the joy that life still brings. As my mom’s incredible book so eloquently describes, our family is not one of victims, but of survivors.  We stand before you stronger than ever before -- a strength forged by our trials, our hardships, and above all else, by our love. 

And now today, my beautiful sister has found the man she wants to share her life with, and we are here today to share in the blissful celebration of their unconditional love.  The fact that you could all be here means everything to her, and therefore means everything to me. So thank you. 

There is no greater compliment that anyone can pay to me than to say that I am my father's son, and to that end, there is no higher praise I can give either of you today other than that Dad would be proud. Emily -- Dad would be so proud of the woman that you have become, and I couldn't be more proud to call you my sister.  Your grace, elegance, and boundless kindness are the glue that holds this family together.  And Ryan -- although you never knew my father, he couldn't possibly have hoped for a better man for his beloved daughter to spend her life with. And I couldn’t hand pick a better person to be the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had. So...you’ve got that going for you.

But this is, after all, a toast. However, it is a Hayden toast.

(Conor returns to the nearby chair and breaks out a cold case of Milwaukee’s Best,. He invites both wedding families to join him in the rear center of the barn floor, take a beer, raise their cans) 

photo by Amy Brogna Baione

Here’s to to a lifetime of health and happiness for Emily and Ryan, to everyone we are lucky enough to share this day with, and above all else, here's to those who could not be with us today.  We miss you, we love you. Cheers.

(That's my son. I'll explain the Milwaukee Best soon enough.)