THE SECRET KEEPER LETS GO Cover Reveal

Oooh! How exciting! Got an email over the weekend from Laura Sellars (my BFF who designs my book covers), and attached to it was the cover for The Secret Keeper Lets Go, Book #5 in the Secret Keeper series, due to release at the end of June. Maybe. Possibly. Most likely. I hope. Fingers crossed! Praying! Whew. Anyway, I wasn't expecting her to be finished with the cover yet, so that made her email even more delightful. I gleefully opened the attachment, and once again, I was bowled over by what I saw. It never fails to amaze me how she can capture the essence of a book she hasn't read. I mean, I didn't even tell her any of the plot points or summarize the themes (which is kind of dumb on my part, I know, but we have a good system going, so why mess with a good thing?) But she managed to take the brand she's already created for The Secret Keeper--the silhouette of the tree against a colorful background--and add the sort of detail and flourishes to perfectly hint at what's to come. Tee hee hee hee hee! Yay! Now you're going to study the picture and try to figure out what each leaf, bird, and squirrel (yes, there's a squirrel on this one!) means, aren't you? Good. You don't have too long to wait and wonder, though. Unless I go on vacation and decide not to come back. Or something tragic happens to me (shark attack). But in both of those instances, people close to me know where to find the files for the book, so they can publish it after my demise. Wow. This blog post just took a turn for the morbid, didn't it? Really, I'm just stalling, keeping you in suspense for a little longer before showing you the cover. I have a bit of a cruel streak. And a flair for the dramatic.

Okay, fine! Here it is! Get a good, hard look at it. Speculate. Study. Philosophize. And thank Laura Sellars for yet another fine piece of artwork. (Oh, and if you click on the picture, it will take you to the blog post with Chapter One of TSK LG, in case you haven't read it yet. But remember... there will be spoilers to the previous books, so read at your own risk if you haven't read Books 1-4 in the series.)

Stop Chasing a Myth

What is the biggest obstacle to your success? Fear? Insecurity? Laziness? Not enough time or money to do what you want or need to do? What about lack of ambition? Sure, all of those negative things can be major impediments.

But what about something our society values, like perfectionism? You rarely hear employers complaining that a worker is a perfectionist. People even boast about it in job interviews. “I’m a bit of perfectionist,” they’ll humble-brag. That’s a positive, right?

WRONG!!

As a recovering perfectionist, I’d like to offer this life-changing information:

If you insist on identifying yourself as a perfectionist, then you must accept that you will forever be a failure.

Okay, actually, I can’t take credit for that. My therapist, Mike, told me that, but it stuck with me. Obviously. I mean, I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember what he said to me years ago. Because he was right (he had an annoying habit of being that).

Of course, back then I was selectively perfectionist. Nobody who looked at my house—or my personal appearance—would say, “Yep. That lady’s wound tighter than the curls on a poodle,” but when it came to work and my writing, holy crap!

My co-workers now can attest that I’ve cured myself of perfectionism in the workplace. As for my writing, the fact that I’m published at all is a testament to my relaxed standards in that arena.

“Huh-what?” you may be saying. “Being less of a perfectionist helped you become published?”

Yeppers. And not because I decided it would be okay to publish crap. But I did give myself permission to publish books that perhaps not everyone would like.

You see, fear of rejection was holding me back. I was worried if I didn’t publish the perfect book (or books) that I would be a failure. It didn’t matter that all I’d ever wanted to do was publish my books. If I couldn’t do it perfectly, I didn’t want to do it at all.

How effing insane is that???????

I’ll give you a minute to ponder the ludicrousness.

Need more time? Okay, I’ll wait.

So, anyway, Mike told me something that changed my life: "There’s no such thing as 'perfect,' so chasing it is like searching for Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. It's futile."

No such thing as perfect? Talk about a cop-out! I remember thinking, “That’s just something that lazy people say to make themselves feel better.” I thought he was out of his ever-lovin’ gourd for making such a bold statement.

He went on to say, “You need to see yourself as good enough.”

Gosh, I stewed about his words the entire two weeks between our sessions.

“Good enough.” Ick. That ranks up there with “fine,” “okay,” and “meh.” Who wants to be those things? Not I. I wanted to be spectacular, fabulous, and... well, perfect. I didn’t think that was asking too much. It’s good to have lofty goals, after all. That’s what I’d always been told.

But I decided to entertain the notion that perfection is unattainable by mere mortals. At first, I approached the exercise like one would approach an outlandish hypothetical, such as “Not everyone likes pizza.” I’d think about it (perfection, not pizza) throughout the day, repeating, “There’s no such thing as perfect,” then mull over what that really meant. I’d try to think of examples to refute the theory. What about this? What about that? What about...? I was like an annoying kid, only I couldn’t tell myself to go play.

Did I come up with some potential examples of perfection created by humans during those hours of reflection? Yes, but there was nothing I could prove. Maybe even the most flawless piece of art is only perfect to a certain point. Maybe those things have imperfections that are undetectable to the naked eye, things that only the creator would know about. Anyway, I knew I was being pedantic. I knew I was missing the point. And I knew I was resisting the idea that perfection is impossible because I needed to believe it was possible in order to hang onto an excuse to not publish my books.

Everything else in my life felt so out of control. I could control my writing as long as nobody else ever saw it. And nobody would ever see it if I deemed it too imperfect for publication.

Whooooooooaaa...

Being a perfectionist—or claiming to be one—was my biggest obstacle to success.

Obviously, I came to believe that Mike was right... again. Sigh. And I truly believe that session was my big breakthrough. Shortly thereafter, I stopped going to therapy (and trust me, I know that doesn’t mean I don’t still need therapy, so pipe down you wisecrackers). I felt a huge release of pressure that had nothing to do with flatulence.

It’s so freeing to admit, “Perfection ain’t ever gonna happen.” And not in a defeatist way or in an underachieving way. Just a realistic way.

I love sharing my books—as imperfect as they may be—with readers. I’m perfectly happy with the inevitable imperfection of my books.

What about you? Are you an “all-or-nothing” sort of person? Are you using perfectionism as a form of control? Is it keeping you from doing or being what you want?

Repeat after me: “There’s no such thing as perfect.”

The Reluctant Blogger Welcomes... Jude Weatherington

Cheers, everyone! Jude Weatherington here. This is a bit odd, since I’m not anything close to being a writer, but when Brea asked me to guest blog for her while she was away at Francine LaSala’s blog, “Clippings in the Shed,” I couldn’t say no. First of all, that Francine is totty (don’t tell Libby I said that). And secondly, I owe my very existence to Brea, and that’s no exaggeration. So, let’s crack on!

Only... I haven’t the faintest what to write about. Small detail. Uh... I’d have Libby help me, but she’s away on her travels, and I’ve put this off too long to wait until the next time she reaches me on the old dog and bone.

Oh! That reminds me... I hear I have some of you readers to thank for a campaign about a sequel for Libby and me. That would be brill. Between you, me, and Maggie Thatcher (God rest her soul), though, I’m not sure it’s going to happen.

Don’t worry; Libby and I are doing fine. More than fine. Not that I’m going to go into any detail. I’m a gentleman, after all. But we’re happy. And that makes for a rather boring book, don’t you think? I’m fine with that, of course. The excitement at the beginning of our relationship was plenty for me, thank you kindly.

So our lives after Daydreamer may not make for the best novel reading, but I’d be glad to give you an update on things here in this post.

Like I mentioned earlier, Libby’s traveling, conducting research for her book about American versus British English, and I’m working fewer hours at the office, spending less time with Marvin. He’s a good bloke, but... spending every evening round the pub with him probably isn’t the healthiest behaviour. Plus, he pulls more ladies than I do. Obviously, I’m not trying. Oh, blimey... Don’t tell Libby I said any of this.

The truth is, Sandberg and I are quite the happy bachelors (not to be confused with “confirmed bachelors”). It may sound rather pathetic, but we enjoy our pipe-and-slipper evenings in front of the telly. At least, that’s what we tell Libby. We don’t want her to feel poorly about pursuing her dream. And yes, I do realize this will be on the Internet, but Brea tells me she doesn’t have very many blog followers. I'm taking her at her word. That may not be wise, eh?

Anyway, soon Libby will be finished with her travels, and we’ll spend more time together while she writes her book. Unless she has to go back to the States. Oh. Well, I’m trying not to think too much about that, actually. Whatever the case, we’ll find a way to make it work. Stiff upper lip and all that. Maybe there’s a book in there, after all.

Unfortunately, the more I think about it, readers of Daydreamer already know much too much about me. I’m a private bloke, you know. Sure, it was a mostly flattering portrayal of me (I think my “skills” may have been slightly exaggerated, but never mind...); however, it seems hardly fair that you know so much about me, and I know practically nothing about you. So! It’s time to share and share alike, readers.

Since it appears Libby and I will be coping with a long-distance relationship in the near future, I’d like you to tell me about the long-distance relationships you’ve had and how you made them work. Or not work. That is, success stories would be much more welcome, but I can handle reality, ironically enough, considering I’m an imaginary person.

Plus, you never know... maybe your experiences will spark an idea in Ms. Brown’s head (she likes it when I call her Ms. Brown), and she might very well give you that sequel, after all.

Thanks for listening to me waffle! Cheers!

—Jude

Imposter Syndrome

Any day now, I’ll be found out. People are going to catch on that I’m not clever or funny or talented. I’m already exposing myself, considering those three adjectives are basically the same thing. I’m a hack, a fraud, an imposter! I’m an ordinary, boring midwestern mom, wife, and administrative assistant in writer’s clothing (think, ratty sweatpants and a snot-stained t-shirt). I’ve never been anywhere interesting outside of my own head, and I’m about as fascinating as plain oatmeal. I have about as much business writing stories about compelling people as Lady Gaga would have lecturing the masses about how to be “normal.” And it’s only a matter of time before everyone figures it out.

Actually, some people already have (check out the one-star reviews of some of my books, especially this one, because it’s funny as heck). Yep. That’s right. I’m forgettable, an insignificant person writing ridiculous stories and trying to convince people she’s a legitimate writer. What a joke!

And I’m not just faking it in the writing world, either. Since I brought home my first baby from the hospital at a very tender age, an age much too young for serious parenting, I’ve been waiting for someone to knock on the door and say, “Excuse me, but you’re not qualified to take care of another human being. Do you really think you’re capable of raising a productive member of society?” Well, no... I don’t, as a matter of fact. That’s why I had two more. Practice makes perfect, right?

And what about every single job I’ve held? I’ve been a rank amateur in a sea of professionals. First, as a crew member at a local TV news station, then as a producer for a local morning news show (I really had no idea what I was doing there, other than giving myself ulcers), and now as an administrative assistant. (What the hell is Microsoft Access, other than a high-tech torture device?) But in each instance, people have expected me to either know enough to get the job done or do a good enough job of faking it that they can feel comfortable delegating the crap they don’t, can’t, or won’t do.

So why shouldn’t writing books be like every other venture I’ve ever attempted? Sure, I've published seven books, and I'm getting ready to publish an eighth, but... I'm just writing down my stories and hanging out with imaginary people in my head. That's all.

I have imposter syndrome, the feeling that not only do I not belong in whatever situation I find myself, but I’m poised to be exposed as a fraud at any second. It’s a real thing. And many people have it.

The first time I heard of imposter syndrome was in college, where, incidentally, I felt like a HUGE phony. I seriously expected them to drag me from class and kick me off campus nearly every day. I was twenty, married, and had a kid. I was going to college full-time, sometimes taking up to 18 credit hours per semester, but I was also working part-time to help supplement my husband’s full-time but meager income. We were so young. And dumb. And scared. But I was going to get that college education if it killed me.

I enjoyed learning, though, when I wasn’t battling paralyzing stress levels brought on by impossibly high expectations of my own making. One of my favorite freshman classes was Psychology 101. It almost made me want to become a psych major, but I couldn’t think of many practical applications for that degree... so I stuck with my mass media production major, which has served me so well (sarcasm heavily intended) (insert eye-roll here).

Anyway, in Psych 101, I learned about all kinds of interesting mental functions, behaviors, and disorders, all of which I determined I had, at one time or another... or currently. By the end of that semester, I was an obsessive-compulsive, co-dependent, paranoid, depressed narcissist... with imposter syndrome.

In other words, nothing has changed in the past fifteen years.

Please, don’t think I’m making light of these disorders. I’m not! I joke about losing my mind all the time, because it’s one of my biggest fears. I mean, my body’s already crap, thanks to the abuse I’ve heaped on it over the years, but as far as I can tell, my mind is still okay. I mean, I think it is. Then again, most people with mental problems don’t think they have a problem, do they? Oh, balls... I’m in trouble!

All kidding aside, although it’s not an officially recognized psychological disorder, imposter syndrome has been a constant in my life. I’m not being a psychological hypochondriac; I’m simply being self-aware. In most social and professional situations, I’m about as comfortable and confident as Queen Victoria at a nudist colony.

So, what do I do? I joke, mostly at my own expense. “How does this help?” you may wonder. It helps, because when I use self-deprecating humor, I’m telling the rest of the world—or the one or two people paying attention to me at the time—that I know I’m a fraud. I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’m saying. Don’t say I didn’t warn you! So when they discover for themselves, “That Brea Brown is full of bleeeeeeeeeep!” I can say, “What have I been trying to tell you all this time?!”

I know, it’s messed up. You’re fitting me for my straitjacket right now, aren’t you? Or maybe most people feel like this, to some extent, and now I’m freaking out the two readers of this blog who never imagined they had a syndrome with an actual name.

Psst... It’s really not that big of a deal. You get used to it after thirty-some years.

Anyway, it could be worse: you could suffer from the Dunning-Kruger effect, in which incompetent people refuse to believe in their own incompetence. I’ve worked with a few people like that. Trust me, you’d rather have imposter syndrome.

The Hermit Myth

Until I became a serious writer... (I’ll give you a minute to stop laughing.)

Okay. As I was saying, before I became a published writer, I always had a mental image of authors as loners, hermits holed up in rooms of their own, eschewing the company of all other humans, because no real person could possibly compare with the fascinating people and places in a true writer’s head.

All brilliant writers in history were anti-social freaks, right? We can all name a dozen of them from the tops of our heads (but we’re not going to, because it’s mean to call someone out by name as a freak). And even the social writers were only social with people of equal brilliance. Ernest Hemingway deigned to hang out with Gertrude Stein every once in a while. Stein didn’t mind chillin’ with Pablo Picasso. Picasso... Hmmmph. I’ve exhausted my knowledge of such things without resorting to research, and frankly... this is just a blog post, so forget it.

You get the idea, though. Once you decide to embrace the life of an artiste, you might as well get used to talking to yourself, because—really—does anyone else in the world have anything more interesting to contribute to your private conversations with you, yourself, and you than you?

YES, you insufferable blow-hard! Socializing is important!

Every now and then (daily), I allow myself to buy into the myth perpetuated by “serious” writers of old with their “nose to the grindstone,” “all I need is this typewriter and this bottle of tequila” elitist attitudes, which were all lies, lies, lies! I chuckle at the memes and cartoons on Facebook and other images in the media that portray all writers as introverts with social anxiety disorder and say, “Yeah! That’s me!”

No, it’s not. I’m as full of it as an Oscar Mayer factory. Sure, I prefer to be social on my own terms. I want to be a loner when it suits me and a party animal when it doesn’t, and I really wish that all my friends and family members would understand this and wait for me to send them the Bat Signal that means, “Time to hang out!” It’s a wonder I have any friends, isn’t it?

And maybe that’s just it. Maybe all those notoriously anti-social writers from history weren’t loners by choice. Maybe they were just such fickle fart-heads that they lost all their friends, but they decided to spin it so that it looked like they wanted to be alone all the time. (Hmm... This is good stuff. I’ll have to call the local colleges and universities and ask if they’d like me to guest lecture on this fascinating topic of my own making, fueled almost entirely by conjecture.)

Anyway, here’s the deal... except for a very rare few of us, we all need social interaction. Above that, we need support and encouragement and ego-fluffing, and we need someone to tell us when we absolutely cannot go another day without showering, no matter how “critical this scene is.” We need people to say, “I love you, and I think you’re more than just words on a page and the creator of imaginary people.” We need to hear other people’s world views so that not every story and character sounds the same, or worse... just like us.

So I’m thankful for writers’ groups and readers’ groups and friends and family and date nights and church. I’m glad there are people out there with much more energy than I have to organize events for writers to get together and socialize and HAVE FUN OFF THE PAGE. I love Facebook and email and chat and Skype, and I even understand the draw to Twitter (#maybe... #not really... but #whatever).

After all, what is writing, if not an exchange of ideas? Without feedback, writing doesn’t amount to anything more than standing on a milk crate in a deserted alley, spewing pompous opinions on everything from newborn toilet training to the designated hitter. If nobody’s listening (or reading) or caring, then what’s the point?

So those snobby, too-cool-for-school writers who claim not to need friends aren’t fooling anyone. If anything, we need interaction with others to provide fodder for future fiction.

(Speaking of, as I write this, there’s a shirtless dude across the street getting a ticket for riding his giant unicycle on the sidewalk, and it’s taking TWO police officers to handle the job. Never a dull moment!)