More Rita Regurgitation

For obvious reasons, a number of people have asked me about the Ritas over the past few days, and, during one particular conversation, I answered very rudely that I didn’t give a rat’s butt about contests, and even less about the Ritas. But, then afterward, I considered my response—because that’s what I’m trying to do these days, be a better person by figuring out why I do and say the things I do. So I figured I’d put some words together to iron out my very strong feelings about this contest, for me personally and for those who are trying to reform the Ritas.


So here I go, opening a vein: I’ve been in this industry for nearly 30 years. I was an early member of RWA, having joined them immediately after selling my first book in 1989. I even helped found the Lowcountry Chapter, along with Pamela Morsi and Carolyn Davidson. In the beginning, I was super excited about the prospect of mingling with other like-minded humans, all striving to do the same thing I was doing: writing, and striving to write better. But I’m going to skip through that part of this right now—skip right through all the million conferences I attended, and all the petty grievances and dashed hopes. In fact, I’m going to skip through most of my grievances, because I’m 56 now, with ailing friends and family, and none of this really matters.


So here’s the short version: I joined RWA at 27, full of high hopes, and soon realized that in order to get nominated for an award, or to be recognized in any way through RWA, you had to be an RWA Darling, and I was not. Why that was, I can’t say. Maybe it was because I was a little shy. Maybe it was because I was young and some people perceived (and yes, actually said out loud) that I didn’t earn my spurs because I was too young and/or too cute. Maybe it was because I was a minority (born in Spain to a Spanish mother). Who can say. I don’t care about the WHYs, only about the WHAT right now. And the WHAT is that I was invisible and unappreciated in an organization I supported and loved.


And now I’ll tell you why I felt that way: My best friend was an RWA Darling (and I don’t say this disparagingly – I wanted to be one!), and I could easily compare our experiences. We joined RWA at the same time, attended all the same conferences, met the same people. Until a certain point, she and I, we were equally involved in the organization, and I know this because we did nearly everything together back in those days, including sending gifts to other members who needed a pick me up. On one such occasion, she and I chipped in for a coffee and flower arrangement to someone who is no longer with us and who will remain nameless, because she’s not the point. She’s only one of a hundred instances that helped shape my overall feelings about RWA. Pam got the “thanks” for that gift, even though both our names were on it, and I think on this occasion it might have even been my idea. On the other hand, I didn’t get a thanks, not even through the grapevine.


On another occasion, when a beloved member’s policeman husband died in the line of duty, I immediately sent $500 to a fund that was started for her. However, because I didn’t join an organization-wide effort to critique manuscripts at $20 a pop to be donated to this grieving widow, I didn’t get even a simple thank you—from ANYONE, not even the widow—even despite that I’m pretty sure the donation, made in my name (which is not a pen name), must have been visible to anyone with access to that bank account. Sometime later, there was a plaque or something (maybe it was simply a digital plaque in the magazine) acknowledging the generous spirit of our organization and thanking those who donated. I was excluded from that list, and my best friend pleaded with me to speak up. I did not, because in my opinion, if you give, you give from the heart, and while it did sting not to be recognized when I very likely gave more than anyone else, ultimately I gave because I felt compelled to help a fellow human being, not because I wanted recognition. So, in the end, I kept silent. And, if you’re wondering why I’m bringing up this particular grievance now when I said I wasn’t going to bring up grievances, I’ll tell you why I’m highlighting this instance. I’m highlighting it because, every year up until this point my publisher had entered my books into the Ritas, and every year, my best friend was nominated, and some years she won, while I never, ever, ever had a single nomination, not ever. Not from a jury of my peers. 


On the other hand, I earned reader recognition and nominations by the dozens, and my books were selling so well that Avon chose me to launch an entire imprint based on the strength of my sales. So, maybe I was never nominated for a Rita because I sucked as a writer. Maybe. But I don’t think so, and, in any case, I realized something that year that I donated the $500 without thanks. I realized I didn’t participate in the critique effort, because the treatment I received as a member was undermining my sense of self, my sense of accomplishment, and even my confidence as a writer. My involvement in RWA eventually contributed to a 10-year sabbatical from writing entirely.


In the end, I realized that, at its core, RWA and the Ritas were a detriment to my wellbeing, and I gave myself permission to stop doing ALL things that didn’t enrich me as a person and as a writer. Judging by some of the blogs I’ve been reading, I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. I also know very well that this feeling is not shared by all my peers. I have close writer friends who swear by RWA and who will forever tout all the wonderful things RWA did for them. My best friend is one of those people, and I’m happy for all of those who felt enriched by the organization. But, for me, there is a different perception, because I couldn’t imagine giving more of myself at a time when I had a draining career, two kids and a life outside of RWA. RWA never gave one thing back to me, and that’s not an exaggeration. As an organization, it took and took, but never gave. The only thing I ever took from RWA were the relationships I made. But, in the end, I did that. Not RWA. At most, it offered me a location where everyone could be found in one place. And that’s no small thing, so I’m grateful for that.


However, when I look back at RWA, even from the perspective of my friend, the Darling, I saw incredible distress in her at EVERY CONFERENCE. Often, there were tears. And so, I developed a larger distaste for contests in general, realizing that whatever the dynamic created by Ritas and other contests of its ilk, it wasn’t healthy, not even for Darlings, and certainly not for those, like me, who felt invisible and unappreciated. I mean, thank God for my readers, my editors, and friends, because without them, I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in this industry given the “help” I received from RWA. Sorry, folks. That’s how I feel. And, as they say, with friends like that, you don’t need enemies.


In the end, this post might not go over well with some people, but before you write to tell me how much RWA helped you, let me repeat: THIS. IS. HOW. I. FEEL. I’m so happy you got something different. Truly. But THIS. IS. HOW. I. FEEL. And maybe if you ask my friends, you’ll get another, no less valid answer, but THIS. IS. HOW. I. FEEL.


So, now, while I’m seeing so much dissent, once again, over the Ritas, I’m sorry, but I don’t give a rat’s butt about that contest. To me, it has always been nothing more than a popularity contest.


Has it helped shape some people’s careers? Maybe. How would I know? It wasn’t my experience. Has it hurt others? Yes. It hurt me. Does that mean RWA holds nothing for the industry or the world at large? No, I don’t believe that at all. Essentially, that’s why I returned, in the hopes of seeing it grow into something better than it was. But even despite that, I’ve yet to return to a conference, and I have to ask myself why.


There is so much good about our organization—the literacy efforts, the teaching moments, the opportunities for networking and growth—but the Ritas are simply not part of that picture, for me.


So, I’ll say it again. I don’t give a rat’s butt about the Ritas. I don’t care if they stay, I don’t care if they go. I simply don’t care. However, if it’s going to stay, maybe as an organization, think twice about its role in the industry and in the organization, because, even now, there’s a new crop of talent emerging and they need something better than what we’ve got, not the slow decay of their spirit. Coming from someone who was not a Darling, let me tell you, it’s a very real thing, and it took me years to shake off. So what’s the answer? I don’t know. But maybe begin by asking yourselves what’s at the heart of the Ritas, and maybe do what I do when I am trying to figure out what stays and what goes in my life… consider the pros and cons, and if the pros aren’t greater than the cons, let it go.


New Hardcover Editions!

The MacKinnon’s Bride is now available as a hardcover edition!

You wanted large-print, hardcover and a less-expensive mass market edition, and now these are all coming to a bookstore near you. The hardcover is lovingly created for those of you who want a “keeper” edition on your bookshelf. If you purchase a copy, please be sure to send me a photo of you holding your book, along with your mailing address to tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com and I will send you a signed bookplate and bookmarks.

Additionally, the hardcover was created as a solution for those of you who are on a budget and would like to have your favorite library carry my books. Simply print my handy list of available books with ISBNS and take it to your library.

Here’s a printable list to take to your favorite librarian.

The King’s Favorite – A Top Shelf Nominee!

Contests are SO subjective, and I’ve spent a lifetime reminding myself I’m not in competition with my peers. Where there are winners, there are necessarily losers, and I believe it often sends the wrong message to writers who are providing readers a labor of their love. However, every once in a while, when my publisher has entered a contest, or, when readers, booksellers and reviewers have nominated my books, I’m a little more apt to see where it goes. I’ve been so very lucky in my career to be nominated for MANY, MANY awards, but like Susan Lucci, I’m ever the bridesmaid and never the bride… let’s see how it goes this time. Plus, this is a brand new kind of book for me, and so thank you SO MUCH to those who nominated The King’s Favorite for a Top Shelf Award.  You rock, whoever you are!

What Makes You an Author?

The industry drama continues, of course, but part of the overall scandal has to do with “what constitutes an author.” For me, that has a very straightforward answer. But before I get to that, let me tell you guys a quick story…

Once upon a time, Fabio “wrote” a book. For those of you who don’t know who he is, he’s that long-haired swoon-generating model who once graced hundreds of romance covers. The powers that be decided he had name recognition and wanted to capitalize on that, so they hired a ghostwriter, who was not named on the book (as far as I can remember). Pretty much the entire industry knew these books were ghostwritten, and most readers who followed the Italian model knew he could barely throw three English words together. They understood it was a gimmick and that the book was ghostwritten. Some people bought it and didn’t care; some wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. In the end, I believe Fabio had two romance novels with his name on it. (You might still be able to find these in used bookstores.)

So is Fabio a writer/author? HELL NO. Was it illegal? Nope. Do I think the ghostwriter (who shall rename nameless at this point, at least by me) was “wrong” to accept the assignment? No. She was making a living and they offered her a job and she took it. Do I believe the publishers were wrong to handle this the way they did? Absolutely. Because I believe it disrespects the reader. However, they are also not authors; they are publishers and our bottom-lines are far different. Theirs = Money. Mine = Love of My Craft.

There are a lot of decisions I make as an author that I make for love of my craft. I wake up every day, sit at my computer for eight-plus hours, seven days a week, 365 days a year, give or take a few sick days, and vacations. Given this, I feel pretty strongly that someone who hires ghostwriters and does not give a byline to their co-author is at the very least not being fair or transparent to someone who made “their” work possible. That said, I don’t live in anyone else’s shoes (or head) and only they can determine what they can live with. Ultimately, I had/have ZERO interest in reading “Fabio’s” books, even though I highly respected the true “author.” On principle, I didn’t buy these books or read them. Things like humor and voice are simply not interchangeable, they are subtle and precious and can actually be edited out by a heavy-handed editor. Ultimately, as a reader, I follow authors, whose voices I love.

In the end, I believe ghostwriters can be authors (but not necessarily), while people who hire ghostwriters to write 70 to 100 percent (pulled this figure out of my hat; don’t ask me where to draw the line, because for me, it’s at a heavy edit) of their book are simply NOT. Sorry. Not to me. But, unless you’ve added some of these other shady practices to your efforts, you’re certainly not a criminal, nor should you be dragged over the coals for trying to make a living (though I don’t agree with your ethics). You’re an entrepreneur perhaps, or a publisher, or an ace-editor or project manager, NOT an author. And your ghostwriter deserves a byline. That’s. How. I. Feel.

In the Beginning…

At my first book signing…

I often cringe when I’m asked about my first sale, because it was just too easy, and the telling of this story only adds to my worst fears that, somehow, I must be a fraud. Why? Because, unlike so many of my fellow authors, who endured four-hundred plus rejections, I sold my very first book to the very first publisher we submitted to.

Of course, I didn’t believe it would be that easy. I’m a classic “plan for the worst, hope for the best” personality—all while secretly fearing the worst is what’s really going to happen. 

I bought one-hundred manuscript boxes (yes, really, 100) and put them ALL together. They used to come flattened back in the Dark Ages. And just to get it out of the way, I finished them all—because, of course, I knew I would need every bloody one. So there they were, all stacked in my office/playroom wall, with my desk/old dining room table surrounded by Lego’s and Playskool toys—and, of course, children, who occasionally enjoyed knocking them all down. I mean, who can pass that up? It’s like sandcastles or houses of cards. That’s what they were really made for, to knock them all down. Right?

But here’s the best part and I’ll give you the short version: I printed off three chapters I liked best (WRONG, you’re supposed to send the first three chapters), and then sent them to ten agents and hired the first one who called (WRONG, you’re supposed to be patient, wait, and choose the best). So my first agent (Surprise! There were others) asked who I wished to submit to, and I figured, hey, why not? Let’s start at the tippity-top and get turned down by my entire Wish List before settling. Of course, I chose Avon Books, then owned by William Morrow Publishing, and, somehow, despite having done everything completely wrong, Editor Maggie Lichota called, and I said yes. That was thirty years ago next year (November of 1989). And that book was Angel of Fire, published in 1992.

I can’t say I never feel like a fraud anymore, because that’s just not true. The difference is that, after thirty plus books (and counting), and a precious lot of loyal readers, I figure that maybe I don’t suck. But it still feels too easy, because I’m doing what I love, and there’s nothing in the world I’d rather be doing. 

I was fortunate through my early years in the industry, in that I had a great editor (Lyssa Keusch, who inherited me after Maggie left Avon) who believed in me. She encouraged me to write the stories I was on fire for, and if there’s one piece of advice I have for aspiring writers, it is: Write what you love. And, be ready to persevere. Truly, though I wasn’t tested through first-sale rejections, the industry has a way of testing our resolve. The good news is that there’s never been a better time to be a writer, or a reader, with so many fresh reads. And, in that vein, I hope you’ll enjoy A Winter’s Rose—a bit of a departure for me.

Happy Holidays, my dear friends!

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