Blogs

I popped out of the womb with a pen in my hand. So I knew I had to write.

It hasn't always been easy. Yet I managed to stick with it through the years.

And now, just when things were looking up, Bam!, my world's gone topsy-turvy.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Let me rewind.

As a young single woman, Mom told me I had plenty of career options: "Be a secretary or a nurse," she advised, "or get married and have babies."

All the eligible men at the time either dribbled from the side of their mouths, or were 4 foot 6 and from countries I couldn't pronounce. So I learned to take dictation really fast and type like I had 15 fingers. Problem is I hated it. I tried other jobs: I delivered the Bargain News, but gave everyone the wrong change and ended up owing the company money. I did a midnight-to-eight gig typing video labels, but fell asleep once too often in front of the boss. I was a cook in a private home until I tried to bake potatoes by putting them in water and placing them in the oven. (Who knew?)

All the while, I wrote…on stained napkins at diners, on the bus, in my crummy one-room apartment.

Then, suddenly, I copped a break: The New York Times took one of my opinion pieces; then three more. I parlayed these into work with local newspapers - no serious assignments - just advertising inserts about camps and health clubs. In my mind, though, I had arrived. I ordered really cheap business cards that read: "Freelance Writer."

Then my big break: I sent one of my op-ed pieces, "The Joy of Being Single," to Workman Publishing, and they accepted it. You could hear my shrieks in Mexico.

Many years, and six books later, I traded the free part of my title for a corporate job editing and writing children's titles for Reader's Digest. I did that for nine years and saved my money. Then I quit to do my own thing. At last, I was in heaven. Then all hell broke loose. See, part of the allure of being a free-lance author is that it's me and the computer. I love the silence. I love the dress code - pjs until maybe four o'clock - then jeans before hubby comes home. I love the hours. I can work an all-nighter, sleep in, and get up at noon the next day. I love the commute: one minute, maybe two, if I trip over a cat toy. I love the emphasis on "free."

Another plus: I can do this job until I drop. I don't have to impress anybody with anything except the writing. If my cover photo reveals some upper lip hair, or a few grey streaks, well, that's what photoshop is for. I'm not Nora Ephron, so it doesn't matter. As long as I can turn out a good kids' book, or a YA novel, or bodice ripper, I have it made.

Or so I thought.

"This is 2016, babe," some publishing types reminded me. "If you want to survive, make some dough, avoid fading into author nothingness," this literati insisted, "you've got to be OUT THERE!"

I pleaded for directions: "Where's OUT THERE?"

"OUT THERE," came my answer, "IS EVERYWHERE. "You can't just write a book anymore. Publishers want a package. You've got to have followers; belong to associations; Tweet, give seminars; have an RSS; a website, four blogs, Google buzz, and Instagram. You have to have a platform, babe, and I'm not talking shoes here."

Translation: If I want to continue being an author, it's no longer me and the computer. It's me, the computer, and the whole world - that is, if I'm lucky enough to entice everyone in it to "friend" me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter; love me on Instagram; Google Plus, and get LinkedIn to me and God only knows what all else down the pike.

If I want to survive, I'll have to take time out of my regular writing to tell everyone I know and don't know, and hope to know, and don't hope to know, personal info - from what I eat in the morning, to what cream I use on my varicose veins. I'll have to have book trailers for my new releases, and that means I'll have to let people see me dressed up and looking buff. I'll have to be a YouTube star.

That means I'll have to go back to the gym, invest in a media coach and elocution lessons to 86 the "New Yawk" accent, plus I'll need a session with the "What Not to Wear" lady about my clothes. Before I even get that far, I'll probably need a whole new makeover, some Botox, maybe a chin lift (or two), and some purple and puce hair extensions, and a nose ring (so I'll appear more interesting.).

So I'm in a quandary. I know I love to write, but am I up for what goes with it? Do I want to friend the whole world on Facebook? Twitter away my time? Be a YouTube star?

Not really. But then, I'm a practical person. So who knows? Maybe my media training will make me stand out. It could get me noticed. I might even attract some big-time producer who'd want to do the Hollywood version of my kids' Bible book. It could be an epic, like Exodus or Cleopatra. I could write the screenplay. I could become famous….make a living, even.

Then, when I've stashed away millions, I could retire. I could take up where I left off. I could go back to my room, slip on my pjs, listen to the quiet, and do what I love to do: write books again.

How many videos can you upload to YouTube anyway?

- Allia Zobel Nolan

Allia Zobel Nolan is the author of Women Who Still Love Cats Too Much and 200 other titles. Overachiever. Humorist.