Coffee heat rising

Slave Labor: My First Kindle Book!

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Click on the image to go to Amazon! Buy, buy, buy!

w00t! My first foray into self-publishing is LAUNCHED! Slave Labor: The New Story of American Higher Education went live on Amazon Saturday afternoon. I don’t expect to make much money on the thing — in fact, this is a test-drive down the self-publishing highway. We’re told a self-publishing author starts to generate an income after putting about eight books out there.

At this point we have two more ready to go —  just waiting on graphic design. I’d like to get those online by the end of the year but will be surprised to make that deadline. Five more are on the proverbial drawing board. We hope to put those online by the end of 2015.

How do you like the cover design? That was done by my friend James Metcalf, a veteran of many a magazine issue and many an advertising campaign.

The physical e-book itself was created by the excellent Ken Johnson, a high-school teacher who reinvented himself as an IT tech of considerable skill and then reinvented himself again as Your eBook Builder. Copyediting was done by the redoubtable Tina Minchella, my business partner at The Copyeditor’s Desk. So…hm. When you come right down to it, all I did on this thing was the easy part: writing it.

Self-publishing gives this ole lady the heebie-jeebies, because when I came up, only people who couldn’t write anything good enough to faze past an acquisitions editor paid someone else to publish their golden words, which too often were gilded in a thin layer of pyrite. My books have been published through mainline publishers: William Morrow, Columbia University Press, Folger Shakespeare Library.

EssentialFeatureBut today the situation seems to have changed. Despite vast haystacks of chaff, quite a few decent writers are publishing on Amazon, iBooks, and Nook. Most of these are nonfiction writers — it’s just not that hard to write a decent piece of nonfiction, and occasionally you hit on an inspired idea that really does contribute something to the Greater Good or, if not, will provide real help or understanding to some specific group of readers.

Apparently some lively, decently written fiction is e-published, at least in the genre fiction categories. Friends who read this stuff tell me they find memorable and engaging novels self-published at Amazon. This is good. Very good.

MathMagicFurther to the point, it appears that in the Amazon environment much more money is to be made off a modestly successful book than one could expect from a mainstream publisher. The split with Amazon is as nothing compared to the proportion of gross sales that goes to a major publishing house. The books you see to the left here paid me 10% royalties. At Amazon, the situation is almost reversed: under most circumstances the author collects the lion’s share of gross sales. And neither the publisher nor the author has to split income from sales with a bookstore.

One cannot expect to get rich publishing on Amazon (although some do exactly that). On the other hand, precious few of us make much by publishing through traditional publishing houses. The Essential Feature has madSidneye several thousand dollars…since 1990. It still makes one or two hundred bucks a year. How many lattes would that buy? Anybody?

I did make enough on Math Magic to pay off the mortgage on my home. But that was because Flansburg, who contracted me to write the book, had already made himself a media phenomenon. And as for The Life of Robert Sidney? It went a long way toward landing me a full-time academic job: $43,000 to $65,000/year, over a fifteen-year period.

So, I suppose you could say the book that paid me the least ultimately earned me the most. 😉 Most of us don’t expect to get rich off a given publication, but do hope to leverage the thing in ways that are not obvious to the general reader.

Anyway, this is going to be an interesting experiment. I can crank books almost as easily as I can crank blog posts, which as you see I do almost as easily as…well, breathing. So if it’s true that after you reach a certain critical mass (some say five books; some say eight), you begin to earn enough to pass as middle-class, that will be very pleasing.

If it’s not, tant pis. I’m a writer. What I do is write. If no one reads it, that’s very much like no one hearing a mockingbird sing. Doesn’t change the mockingbird’s song.

Why i hated teaching…and why the whole credit thing is ridiculous

So, there’s a really bad blog headline, and here’s an even worse lede. 😉  Oh well. Spent about a third of the afternoon being reminded of why teaching f/t drove me batshit. Then went over to the credit union and was reminded of how bizarrely absurd (that’s “ridiculous,” dear Google bots) America’s credit rating and lending systems are.

Ridiculousness the First: My friend, the director of Heavenly Gardens’ journalism program, is trying to persuade the county’s junior college district, whose kingdom is VAST, to let her change the thrust of the program to include…well, some inkling of the future. She wants to teach digital media in addition to the old-fashioned, dying art of buggy-whip manufacture that is the content of most of our journalism courses.

This seems pretty reasonable, doesn’t it?

Print media are rapidly subsiding into irrelevance.
To keep our journalism programs alive, we are going to have to get with the times.
Getting with the times means adapting to the digital environment.
Therefore we need to teach journalism in digital media.

So sane. So easy. So fuckin’ impossible.

To pull this off, she has had to politick ALL OVER THE FREAKING DISTRICT, a monster entity, yea verily a GIANT SQUID that engrosses a territory larger than the City and County of Los Angeles. It has taken her months. Beeee-caause…wouldncha know it, the multitudinous campuses are full of aging faculty who a) do not want to learn a whole new approach to their subjects and b) most CERTAINLY do not want to have to rewrite their courses to fit the present reality, because (alas!) that would mean work.

You don’t even want to know the amount of work the woman has done to shove through the simplest, most commonsensical, most critical-to-the-district-programs’-survival strategy.

I know, because I’ve done this kind of thing myself, back when I worked f/t for the Great Desert University. If you are the entrepreneurial type, in any degree whatsoever, you are living in some kind of Hell when you endeavor to bring your talent and foresight into the field of teaching.

Ugh.

So that went on until almost 2 p.m. Many changes will be made in the magazine-writing course, all of them, IMHO, for the better.

From there, it was off to the credit union, for Ridiculousness the Second.

My car continues its odyssey toward oblivion. Its engine is now making crapping-out noises. I must buy a new car. I want a Toyota Venza with cream-colored leather seats and walnut dashboard trim and a six-banger. This is, in a word (or two), not cheap.

The credit union lady informed me that my credit score is 819 (take that!!!) and blithely qualified me for an astonishing $32,000. Kelly Blue Book says the Dog Chariot is worth around $2700. I probably can conjure a down payment of something between five and ten grand without having to raid savings. Interest rate is 2.2% at the CU.

I’m told some dealerships around here are still offering 0% interest.

So, the plan is this: even though I have enough cash, in theory, to pay for this thing out of pocket, it would be better at 0% to have Fidelity disburse the monthly payment, thereby leaving principal in investments, where it belongs.

I do not happen to believe that the Republicans will change their spots, and so expect within the next four to eight years to see investments go down the tubes again. But nevertheless would like to delay drawdowns to the extent possible. So, it looks like borrowing and paying out of the car-savings pot will be the strategy, especially if a 0% rate is forthcoming.

And now I must publish this without proofreading the thing because it’s almost time to race out the door for the evening event.

More to come…

Time for Some Self-Di$¢ipline

Welp, I’m officially out of money, at least til the end of the year. The amount transferred from savings to supplement Social Security and teaching income enough to keep me afloat through 2014 is gone…and we have almost two months to go.

{sigh}

This is all incident to the endless health-care flap, which arose last June and has not quit and probably literally will have no end. When I realized I was going to be undergoing surgery — even before I  understood that meant “surgery after surgery after surgery after…” — I also realized that with half my chest ripped up I would not be brushing down pool walls, mopping floors, scouring sinks, scrubbing toilets, oiling furniture, deconstructing and cleaning the gas stove, dusting light fixtures & blinds, and polishing mirrors & windows. So I hired a pool guy and a cleaning lady. That added $240 to the monthly tab.

Then there was having the plumber come and fix up the shower in the front bathroom, where the tub has an easy-to-clean 1970s plastic tub & shower surround. The house’s master-bedroom shower was beautifully renovated by the idiot previous owner, whose parting shot (literally!) was, “Oh, and this travertine has to be stripped and resealed every six months.” Huh-uhhhh…. Between that and the fact that the damn clear glass showers have to be polished dry and the damn travertine has to be wiped dry from ceiling to floor every time you shower, I never use that thing — I’d been using the tub in the front bathroom and taking actual baths, except in the summer when I could shampoo outdoors in the hose after swimming. Since I’m not allowed to get the incision underwater for three weeks after each surgery, that means I couldn’t bathe…all summer long and into the fall. I still can’t get the boob seriously wet. So…I’m glad I had the plumber install a functional showerhead in the outmoded but radically convenient front tub, but still…it did cost something.

So it has gone since last June: one unplanned expense after another.

The car also racked up several hundred bucks worth of bills. It now needs its brake drums replaced: $500.

So, financially I’m back where I was when the university laid me and my underlings off. Except that the stock market hasn’t tanked. Yet.

I probably should buy a new car now, before the Republicans do a repeat performance of their excellent financial leadership under Bush. Presumably within another eight to twelve years my shirt will be tattered again, and so it might be good to have a decent vehicle in the garage. One that the dogs & I can live in… 😉

And speaking of tattered, the diet is getting that way, too. The accursed surgery, which you would think would debilitate one and cause weight loss, had exactly the opposite effect: it’s made me gain weight!

Shee-ut!

I think that happened because I was forbidden to swim, and swimming formed a major part of the exercise program. Now it’s too cold to get in the pool — not that I’m allowed to do so anyway, but within a week or two in theory I will be. Assuming we decide not to lob off the guilty boob, in which case it will be yet another month or two before I can take a real bath or indulge in any vigorous exercise.

After dieting and walking four miles a day this week, the result has been another pound gained!

I’m now about five pounds above the desired weight. Figured that two pounds off a week would restore the coveted sylph-like figure in a month or less.  But that just doesn’t seem to be happening. And I don’t know why. None of the strategies I used to drop those 30 pounds a year or two ago are working anymore!

So, what to do?

Well, first I’m going to have to re-institute the stringent budget. This means cranking out those accursed Excel spreadsheets and tracking every. single. expenditure as it occurs. And staying out of Costco. And staying out of AJ’s and Whole Foods.

Haven’t bought any clothes since the current fiasco started, since I have no idea what will fit on top and no way of knowing until I could see the final result of whatever they end up doing to me.  Now even if we decide to keep what remains of the boob intact, I still won’t be able to buy any much-needed shirts — the old ones are wearing out. And if the boob comes off, I’ll just have to figure out how to cope with the old cleavage-displaying shirts and crocheted tops.

The dogs will have to not get sick or hurt. If they do, they’ll just have to suffer through it.

No more eating out. No more concerts. No more anything that costs any sort of extra money.

No Christmas present for my son. Nor will I be able to entertain over the holidays. Which probably doesn’t matter, because I’ve got to stop eating, anyway.

Assuming no more extraordinary expenses arise, I’ll need about $2,000 to make it to the end of the year — not counting the $500 for the car. Enough to repair the car does reside in a short-term emergency savings fund, so it won’t have to be drawn down, taxably, from retirement savings. But two grand to cover living expenses? Not good.

Between now and mid-December, I should extract about $1500 from the community college district, with both classes in full swing.

That’s going to leave me $500 short. In two months, if I pinch every penny in a vise, lay off the pool guy, lay off the yard guy, and cut back the cleaning lady, I might manage to make that up.

Merry Christmas!

The Cool Thing about To-Do Lists…

…is that you can put stuff on them that you would do anyway, and THEN you can give yourself a hefty dose of satisfaction at checking them off!

√ Put sheets away
√ Roll hair
√ Shower
√ Send out weekly SBA meeting notice

Heh heh heh… I’ve barely begun the day and just look at all the stuff I’ve already got done!

The whiteboard calendar idea is working out exceptionally well. Because it has space for notes or whatever, it lets me write the to-do’s right on it. This means no more little slips of paper all over the house. And of course, because I have to approach the calendar to list the to-do’s and check them off, I’m more likely to read the calendar.

Put that thing up a couple of weeks ago, and I haven’t missed a single appointment so far. And I’ve gotten a lot more tasks and projects done, in a timely way. These things are no longer getting overlooked or put off for another day. It really is a very useful time organizing tool.

So what do I actually have to do today?

Meet friends for lunch
Set up auto-pay for new Part D insurance
Go through pile of statements & receipts on desk; prepare for accountant
Read client copy
Read student papers
√ Work on Fire-Rider II, chapter 9
Practice Requiem alto parts
Get stuff to make gazpacho, xergis
Make gazpacho & xergis
Iron pillowcases (in front of Netflix tonight, after dinner, after choir)
√ Write blog post

And so, to work.

😉

This, That, and the Other…

This…

Finally feeling up for re-engaging the exercise routine. The endless spate of surgeries has meant I wasn’t able to use the pool all summer long, and a significant part of the fat-reduction plan has to do with daily, vigorous swimming. The result, of course, is that despite my best efforts to starve myself, the fat is slowly crawling back.

Actually, in moments of particular distress and depression, I’m afraid “starve” was not the operative word: have recourse to comfort foods was more like it. My concept of “comfort food” entails large portions of pasta followed by large portions of ice cream. Or maybe even just a whole meal of ice cream with some fine sauce dumped over it.

{sigh}

Anyway, for awhile there I was as much as six pounds over the desired weight. Now we’re back down to three. So it shouldn’t take much longer to get back down to what I crave to regard as the New Normal.

That…

Speaking of the which, last night Ruby and Cassie BOTH trotted two miles with me, without dragging, sitting down in the middle of the road, begging to be picked up, or otherwise impeding traffic.

The weather is finally cooling down enough that Cassie, whose hair is about three times thicker than Ruby’s, can go more than half a mile without threatening to expire of heat exhaustion. Last night’s low, ô mirabilis! was 46.7 degrees. It was in the 50s when we sallied forth after dark. And I’ll tellya, those were two mighty happy dogs!

Happy human, too.

In the morning, I took them for a mile-long walk, then returned them to the house and went out for a second mile undoglested. So for moi, that amounted to four full miles over the course of the day!

And that’s my target: since I can’t swim or do a lot of yoga, I’m trying for four miles a day. If that doesn’t get the fat off, nothin’ will!

The ’Tother…

Yesterday the Mayo called to set up an appointment with a new radiologist. I’d already seen one, but WonderSurgeon wanted me to see whoever was in the “conference” in which she planned to discuss my “unusual” case. Other than scheduling an appointment with me at the standard three-weeks-later surgical check-up, she has had nothing to say. So I have no idea whether the consensus (if any) was to lob off her Work of Art or that it’s worth trying to save the newly and amazingly rebuilt boob. It may be that she just can’t bring herself to tell me they think it should go. Or it may be that she wants me to hear what this new radiologist thinks are the prospects for therapy. We shall see.

The more I think about it, though, the more I feel it’s six of one, half-a-dozen of the other…and that really, mastectomy may be the smartest course of action.

If that’s what the docs recommend, I’m going to ask if they’ll give me a two-for-one…  Since the entity that seems to have invaded half the right boob has been mammogram-invisible for years, it’s reasonable to suspect a similar one infests the left boob. If they can make a convincing argument for that, we should be able to persuade Medicare to cover it.

But even if we can’t, if they could keep the out-of-pocket cost under ten grand, I would just pay to have the left one lobbed off, too. That would obviate a whole slew of problems, mean I’d never have to see another mammogram machine for the rest of my life(!!!!), and make me even on both sides. The cash is there to buy a car; since I’ve already decided that a new car is off the table, I could use the automobile savings to cover the cost of lopping off the second boob.

So, there we are.

Meanwhile, one of my three fave clients resurfaced this morning with another book, bless his heart! Dearly love the man. He’s a very good writer, a very interesting human being, and he pays without wincing. 😀

A Discovery(!) and an Insight(?)

Okay, so late Friday, the St. Joe’s oncologist called me back and listened to my sadly puzzled story about the ambiguities incidental to the latest boob surgery. I told him that Dr. P (aka WonderSurgeon) thinks the Mayo’s staff might consider radiation and tamoxifen despite her considered opinion that the 2014 standards for “clear” margins don’t suffice.

He said, “I don’t think you should take tamoxifen. There’s a better alternative for older women.” Turns out that if you’re post-menopausal, aromatase inhibitors work better at preventing recurrences in the guilty boob, are more effective at suppressing new growths in the other boob, and  have fewer dangerous side effects.

Tamoxifen is a dangerous drug. It has some very nasty side effects. Aromatase inhibitors also cause some conditions you’d prefer not to have, but fewer of ’em. Videlicet:

SideEffects

None of these are anything you would willingly bring on yourself. But then, neither is invasive breast cancer…

I’ve already got osteoporosis and don’t need a drug to make it worse. To control this effect, you have to take Drano In A Pill, aka Fosamax. It also has nasty side effects, one of them is to eat into your gut. Doesn’t that sound jolly?

With the bone thinning, I take my chances rather than taking that stuff.

So: aromatase inhibitors… My hair, which has yet to turn gray, is damned spectacular and I do not relish “thinning.” I keep the high blood pressure under control with exercise and weight maintenance, and I do not care to take a drug that will aggravate that issue and that has been shown to make me sick. I have plenty of joint pain, thank you very much, and do not need more. As for depression: well, creative types are prone to depression, and since I’m already iffy enough about riding this train to the end of the line or jumping off a bit early, it probably would be unwise to swallow a drug known to aggravate that tendency.

And tamoxifen… Holy God! Stroke? Deep vein thrombosis? Blood clots in the lung? I heard about one woman who got a blood clot on the outside of her chest — they  had to remove a rib to treat it. Uterine cancer? A dear friend of mine who was on tamoxifen had to have a hysterectomy to deal with that. Vaginal bleeding? Honest to God, I would rather die than have periods or period-like bleeding come back on me! And that is not an exaggeration.

I’ve highlighted the so-called “rare” side effects in gray. But experience has shown — consistently — that if a drug has a “rare” side effect, that is the one I’ll get. So we need not speculate that one or more of these will crop up during the five years I’ll be required to take the stuff . We know it.

So, OK. I made a discovery: there’s an alternative to tamoxifen and it is more effective in older women. It has fewer effects that are likely to be fatal. The commoner side effects appear to be even less desirable than the common side effects of Tamoxifen. Its uncommon side effects appear to be significantly less horrifying than Tamoxifen’s.

Ducky.

And over the weekend, as I was thinking about this nightmare tangle of decision-making, it occurred to me that a woman who has been told she needs treatment for DCIS after a lumpectomy has two choices and only two, with no middle ground. You can do one of two things:

a) Subject yourself to radiation treatment that has the potential for ugly, potentially fatal long-term effects, and then spend five years swallowing a drug that has side effects that may kill or cripple you; or

b) Have a mastectomy.

Doctors rarely tell women that breast radiation therapy  has effects than can crop up as long as thirty years later.  Among these are leukemia, myelodysplastic syndrome, new cancers, hypothyroidism, bone damage, lung damage, heart damage, lymphedema, restricted arm and shoulder movement, and permanent discomfort to the affected breast.

Mastectomy, as unpleasant as that prospect may be, would solve the problem. All of these matters are obviated by mastectomy, because with no cancer-prone breast tissue left, you are no longer eligible for either radiation or hormone therapy.

As far as I can tell, there’s no in-between. For example, I am no longer a candidate for radiation alone. And apparently no one suggests hormone therapy alone.

So here’s what it boils down to:

For a woman to keep a blob of damaged flesh attached to her chest, she has to accept a panoply of risks from radiation and drug therapy all of which are unpleasant and some of which are life-threatening.

Frankly, when you look hard at these issues, they make mastectomy look damn good. In fact, if I can get Dr. P to come up with some excuses to convince Medicare it’s medically necessary (the chance of new DCIS arising in the second boob is higher after it appears in the first boob, and radiation therapy increases the occurrence of new  lesions in the other breast), I may ask her to lob them both off.