Fear

Hallowe’en is coming up in a couple of days and it got me thinking, besides wondering which kind of candy I should buy for my trick-or-treaters, about scaring kids and fear. What is so funny about being scared out of your mind, making your hair stand on end and your skin feel like it was crawling with ants? What I don’t understand is that the kids are not frightened by witches with blood-curdling laughs, owls in the night, or black cats that run across their paths. They know they won’t be hurt and they can laugh at the merriment with impunity. They are having fun!

It was not like that for me when I was growing up. A couple of days ago, I was invited to speak to a local book club about my memoir, Becoming Alice. Almost everyone had read my book and came to the meeting armed with questions. One of them asked, “Why was it that you had so many problems even though you were already safe in America?”

The answer is simple. The depth of fear and the duration of time that passed in which my family had to endure constant panic was so long, that none of us, including me, could bounce back to normal as if we’d just gotten over the flu. The seeds of fear that had taken root so deeply at such an early time in my life that it effected my entire childhood and adolescence. I reminded them of the parts in my book in which I described my difficulties in learning how to swim, to watch a Frankenstein movie, or go to Sunday School by myself.  I was terrified to go to elementary school and barely overcame that hurdle.

My father warned me about telling anyone anything about ourselves, lest that information would be used against us. So, I rarely spoke and made no friends. I thought I didn’t look like any of the other kids (I didn’t in those awful European-style clothes) and was sure my classmates were laughing at me behind my back. I remained isolated, fearing that some unknown danger would  happen to me.

I was in an unacceptable quagmire and knew that I had to do something. In late adolescent I decided to run away from it all by  leave Portland, Oregon and coming to California. I didn’t realize that I would be taking all my fears with me.

At another speaking engagement at a local library, a young girl perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, asked me, “How did you change from being the anxious, insecure teenager that you were, to being the woman you are today? I ask because I have those same problems.” My answer to her was that I made some decisions for myself; they are described late in my book. Those decisions would be different for every person, depending on their circumstances, and their inner strengths. But those steps need to be taken in order to conquer your personal fear. Luckily the kind of fear that comes with Hallowe’en is a lot different; it is the fun kind of fear.

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Writers and Authors are Good Guys

I returned from a ten day trip a few days ago and had a chance to read a couple of books on the long five to six hour flights back and forth between Los Angeles and New York.  They were “People of the Book” by Geraldine Brooks which I found interesting mainly because it is based on a true story. I like true stories. The other is “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy which I picked at the airport mainly because it had a tag stating “Now  Major Motion Picture.” I know why it is/was being made into a movie; however I found myself skim-reading a great portion of the book. It did do something for me though: it provided the subject matter for this blog.

“The Road” is about a father and very young child who have survived a major catastrophe on earth that has destroyed life as we know it. In their travels they meet other survivors and the boy keeps asking his father, “Are they good guys or are they bad guys?”

Having come from my husband’s medical school class reunion, I had met a group of people that would most certainly have fit into the good guys category. They were people whose orientation was to give and not to take. They were people who contributed to the welfare of their fellow men. They were people who contributed to their communities. And the most gratifying lesson I learned was that the medical school was still teaching that approach to life  to the future doctors, nurses, and ancillary professionals.

I’m back at my computer now catching up on all my e-mails and connections with others as I market my memoir, Becoming Alice. I have become computer friends with fellow authors who are in cyberspace doing the exact same thing I am doing. And rather than competing with me in what you would think would be a dog-eat-dog situation, they have been completely supportive and helpful.  Almost daily, I receive congratulations for anything positive that may happen, like placing in a literary contest. I receive answers to any questions I may have how things work out here on the internet. Most amazing of all is that they make suggestions for actions I should take to help my marketing efforts along.

The father in that book, “The Road,” would say, ” Writers and authors are “good guys.”

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Latest Picture on Flickr

Check it out: http:www.flickr.com/photos/alicerene

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Becoming Alice wins Award

Announcement re Becoming Alice,A Memoir by Alice Rene:
Award-winning Finalist in the Young Adult Non-Fiction category of the National Best Books 2009 Awards, sponsored by USA Book News. http://www.usabooknews.com/2009bestbooksawards.html

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Becoming A Writer, Becoming An Author

I was at a buffet lunch at my husband’s medical school class reunion recently, attended by about forty of his classmates and their spouses. I was so impressed by how they all had cared about the well-being of their patients and had not chosen their profession on the basis of its financial rewards. Now mostly past retirement age, many were still teaching and mentoring a new generation of doctors or consulting in research programs.

My admiration for this group included the wives of these doctors, one of whom has her water color paintings displayed at a local gallery; another is an accomplished photographer who judges competitions; others chose to better their communities with fund raising and volunteerism.

Eventually someone asked me what I do. I skipped over my lesser interests, large though they may be to me, and answered, “I am a writer.” Of course, the next question led me to tell them about Becoming Alice, my memoir. The news spread through the group as if it was gossip flying through a party telephone line and before long I was doing a presentation about my book like I do to local groups in my community.

Why am I telling you all this? It is because I have not yet been able to digest a comment made in one of my social networking groups by a gentleman who claims that no one has the right to call themselves a writer, or an author, unless that person has been published by a “traditional” publishing house, most likely located in New York. He did receive a multitude of comments in response, mine among them.

At the luncheon I was asked what my book was about and why did I decide to write my memoir, Becoming Alice, how long have I been writing, how long did it take, where can they buy my book, and what will I write about next.

I told them I’d been writing for quite a number of years now, that I’d initially taken writing courses and joined writer workshops, that I’d attended writer conferences and lectures, and that I read everything on the art and craft of writing that I could get my hands on. It is what I did for so many waking hours of my life. I considered myself a writer, which has nothing to do with whether or not my stuff was any good. That was for my readers to decide.

I told them that I was encouraged by the response my work received in my writing workshops. The pages of Becoming Alice took the shape of a book. It was published a little over two years ago, available in several local bookstores and online at amazon.com, barnesand noble.com, iuniverse.com, etc. where next to the cover of my book my name appeared as the author.

I told them that since then, I have been marketing my book by speaking at book clubs, libraries, temples, community centers, book festivals, etc. and that I also have a presence online. They can google my name, check out my website www.alicerene.com, and read my blod https://alicerene.wordpress.com.  I think they consider me a writer, and an author.

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Marketing Mania

My two week vacation is not over yet. I’m writing this from Rochester, New York where I’ve checked into a hotel which has a computer available to me. I’ve just come from a hotel in New York City where my hotel also had computers, but they had a payment requirement. One dollar for five minutes time. O.K. I’ve already told you that I’m slightly computer addicted so I  inserted my dollar and started to try to pick up my AOL e-mail. Before I could do that, I of course needed to answer a dozen of so security questions which chewed up five minutes. I was still telling them where I was born and the name of my pet when the computer went dead on me. At that point I got mad, mumbled a four letter word under my breath and walked away. I’ve already told you I am only slightly addicted.

Now, I am in a lovely Marriott hotel where the computer is not only free but doesn’t require any more from me than a couple of user ID’s and Passwords. Luckily, my memory is not entirely gone yet and I am able to write this blog. And I am also able to pick up a few stats from some of my sites.

I was particularly interested in doing so because during my absence from the computer I was becoming a bit discouraged about the effectiveness of some of my marketing strategies for Becoming Alice and thought about giving it up altogether. It seemed to me I was spending a whole lot of time on the computer without much result. For example, I was so pleased to see that over two hundred people had chosen to put my book on their to-read shelves at my Goodreads account. But then I only garnered perhaps a half dozen reviews. Most of them were five star reviews, but only a half dozen or so?

Then, there was this WordPress blog that I was involved with. I’ve really enjoyed writing these seventy or so blogs, but on most days I haven’t seen more than two or three viewers. There are some exceptions, or course when I do get a few more. Now that I’ve gone away and checked in after almost a week, I noticed a whole bunch of people have read my blog. The message is clear. I must go away more often.

I checked my Goodreads account and … amazing!! More readers. More reviews. I checked my amazon account. My ranking has gone way up. It must mean more buyers. Amazing! It’s clear. I must not go home. I must turn myself into a Flying Dutchman and Becoming Alice will become a best seller.

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Two week vacation

Hi Everyone,

For those of you who’ve been reading my blog, I’m off to New York for this and that and won’t be posting blogs for a couple of weeks. But stayed tuned after that.

Cheers, Alice

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Why We Are the Way We Are

Tina was here for a few days last week. Rememger herin Becoming Alice? She was the little girl who came to this country with me. She’s no longer a little girl, of course, but it’s funny how the roles we established way back then seem to have maintained themselves. I’m still someone who is not only taller and stronger, but also smarter and more accomplished than her. That was our equation at ages four and eight and since we haven’t lived in the same towns for many, many years, that equation hasn’t changed.

What has changed is that we both have had a lifetime of experiences since then that are totally dissimilar and have shaped us into entirely different people. Yet we still share many things. We’ve become daughters who’ve had to care for our parents in their old age. We’ve become mothers who have seen our children go throught their own ups and downs. We’ve had grandchildren for whom we’ve had high expectations which may or may not have been met. And we still have that bond from our childhood that has been so strong that it will never be broken.

We reminisced about our monopoly games in her bedroom, about our picnics at the beach, and our blueberry picking excursions to Larch Mountain in the summer time. At our age we were able to talk about our parents objectively, without the overlay of expected adoration, respect, and love, but rather with all that plus the objective assessment of their true and sometimes unadmirable qualities.

At this point in our lives we have ,of course, forgiven them any of their shortcomings. They don’t really matter. We all have them. But it was interesting for us to talk about our parent’s backgrounds and all the experiences that contributed to shaping them to be as they were. I often have wondered if my father would have been any different if he had been brought up in America instead of the Ukraine. I am sure he would.

It has been a game I have often played. Having spent so many years in the travel business and been to so many different countries with cultures so foreign to me, I often wondered what my life and I would have been like half way around the world. Maybe that’s why I still feel myself so at home in so many European countires. Maybe there is something to that saying, “You can take the girl out of Vienna, but a little bit of Vienna stays in that girl.”

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Computer Addiction

Bob and I took a week off from our hectic lives and drove up to northern California for a little R and R (that stands for Rest and Relaxation for all you non-Americans who may happen to be reading my blog.) That explanation may also be helpful to all you Americans who by the nature of our high intensity lives may have forgotten what R and R means.

We decided to drive the entire trip which meant taking a very long and boring drive up Route 5 to San Francisco and then cutting over to the incredibly scenic ocean drive to Fort Bragg. We used that location to take day trips around the immediate area. It was all very wonderful: cool and invigorating weather, being in jeans and sweatshirts all day long, taking photographs and reading books, and going out to eat every meal. And then I got withdrawel symptoms.

It all started when we packed for the trip and I casually said to Bob, “Think I should take my computer?”

He answered, “Are you kidding? What kind of a vacation would that be?”

“Guess you’re right,” I said. “I could always find a computer up there, I guess.”

The fact of the matter is that I do spend a lot of time on my computer … for a lot of reasons. I think a lot of people do, even if it is just to keep up with all the e-mails we get. I find that my friends don’t call me on the phone very often any more. They will simply e-mail me their pertinent information and get on with it. Of course, I am not reachable at home any more and neither is anyone else. I can’t tell you how often I’ve played phone tag with people for days. E-mails are good. And then there is all that other stuff I do regarding my book, Becoming Alice.

I thought I could go a week away from my computer but on Tuesday or Wednesday I started to get curious about what was going on in my cyberspace life. I aksed the clerk at our hotel where the Internet Cafe was in Fort Bragg. She said there was none. I felt a pang in my chest. I asked what I should do. My mind raced to find a solution, like where was the nearest town with a computer? The clerk said that I might try the public library, although she wasn’t really sure about that.

I set about trying to calm myself so that Bob wouldn’t notice my distress. I think he might have carted me off to a psychiatrist. I calmly asked him if he wouldn’t like to go back to the room and rest a while. We could read, perhaps watch some TV. He agreed. As soon as he picked up his book and started to nod off, I said I’d just mosey off to check things out at the library. I don’t think he heard me but I slipped out of the room just the same.

I raced to the library. Luckily didn’t get a speeding ticket. Inside I saw an alcove with about a dozen computers, each one of which was being used. The librarian told me to put my name on a sign-up sheet and wait my turn. Each turn allowed the user a full hour. I noticed a couple of others were in line ahead of me. I thought about Bob waking up and finding me gone.

I knew Bob would be getting anxious if I stayed away that long and the last thing I wanted was for him to call me a computer addict. I called him on my cell phone and told him I’d gone to the drug store for a few sundries I’d forgotten. He was okay with that. I returned to the library, now worried that I’d missed my turn. I got there just in time to secure a computer. I took a deep breath.

In the three or four days that I’d been away from that keyboard, I’d collected 184 e-mails. Of that number, 25% were advertisements which I deleted right away. About 10% were from people that need an answer of sorts from me. The others I was only curious about but knew they would keep until my return home.

Then I went to the thing that was most important for me … my statistics. Did my ranking at Amazon go up or down? Did anyone else tag my tags on Amazon? Did my publisher post my sales report? Did anyone send me a message on any of my social networking sites? Did anyone read my blog? Need I go on?

I guess it is pretty obvious that I must be pretty far gone as a computer addict by now. At least it is not an addiction to alcohol or gambling or food. I’d hate to weigh 250 pounds. I’m just trying to keep it a secret from Bob. And I’m not too worried about myself either because I know the time will come when I will no longer care about what those statistics are.

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More Than Friends

I know a lot of people, many of them friends. But when I think about it, not all of them are friends; they are really acquaintances. They are people I’ve met through many of the interests I have and who I see off and on, some more frequently than others. Well then, who are your true friends? Are they people who you see more often? Are they people who would do anything in the world for you? And if they are, is it because they owe you a favor? Is that really friendship … or a sort of a business deal that doesn’t involve any material product, but rather some other kind of favor?

I’ve just spent a few days with Trudi. You might remember her from my memoir, Becoming Alice; she’s the little girl with whom I came to this country. I grew up with her in Portland, Oregon and our families were very close. That friendship was cemented when, as newly arrived refugees in America, no one else accepted us as we were. In fact we were different. We were different from all those around us, whether they were Anglo-Saxon, Italian, Jewish, are any other ethnic group. There was nobody quite like the small group of Jewish immigrants who had escaped from Hitler’s murderous European grasp. We were traumatied for sure and it took us a long time to get to even keel.

Clinging together as refugees allowed us to get to know each other very well under very stressful conditions without covering up our true natures. Despite all the internal jealouses and conflicts amongst ourselves, we forgave one another and continued to stick together. Our friendships survived.

There are not many people who know me with all of my faults, my weaknesses, my scars, my shortcomings. Trudi is one of them and she accepts me as I am. How lucky to have her, along with perhaps another handful of people, who I consider as more than friends.

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