A New Era Begins - Caramelo Day

My last job ended on a Friday (previously known as butter pecan day). I had a new one, out of the downtown core. I would now have a commute, and not just a bus ride. I thought that was kind of neat.

I wasn't sure about what would happen to my morning routine, but the Second Cup had been closed for over a month now, and aside from little sneak previews through the ripped covers on the inside which proved work was still being done, no one really had any idea when it would re-open. It was all mysterious, really, and a whole clique of us formed, sharing information on the happenings with the renovations. D was more than happy to spread the rumours and stories as we each made our daily pilgrimage to peek into the window. D wasn't concerned so we weren't, either. After all, no one was more affected by the Second Cup closing than D, since he depended wholeheartedly on the generosity of passing caffeine-guzzlers.

So on this last day, I drove in to pick up my vastly accumulated stuff. As I drove up Elgin for the last time in what I thought might be a while, (slowly, under speed limit, could have hit an old woman with a walker and a baby and not harmed them), I noticed that, lo and behold, Second Cup was re-opened! I swerved (quickly, dangerously, skidded, and would have taken out old woman, walker, baby AND toy poodle. This is one busy old woman.) and ran inside (parked first. In a snowbank.)

I was a bit skeptical of this new Second Cup without my second cup guys. I walked in, looking around suspiciously at their freshly upholstered comfortable looking chairs and their perfectly polished tables. Only one other customer sits in the coffee shop, and he too is looking around suspiciously. Our eyes cross for a moment and I understand that he too is wary of these fresh new surroundings (Look, it's before 7 in the morning. I need comfort and familiarity).

I follow their still clean carpet, leaving my dirty little trail behind (it was a big snowbank), when a cute little blond chikita, whom I remembered from before, looks at me suspiciously (we're all very suspicious), and says: Medium flavour?

I told her I loved her.

Thankfully I didn't get kicked out of the coffee shop, and I did get some news on Wally, who is now enjoying golfing a lot (now that I think about it, I wonder where???), and Dave, who's still just as grumpy (he's my "miss" guy...)

So I got my coffee, and a hot chocolate for D, who was turning into an ice cube outside (he put large sticks on his wheels chairs with plastic paper and duct tape so that the snowdrifts wouldn't hit him, and he was sitting in a sleeping bag - I thought it was quite ingenius!), which I hadn't been able to do since Second Cup had closed down. I felt quite at peace.

I've come full circle.

Oh, and the flavour that day? Not hazelnut, unfortunately. Not butter pecan, as it should have been. But it was caramelo, which is Monday.

So here's to new beginnings!

mmmmmmmmm caramelo...

End of an Era - Day 5 - Butter Pecan Day

Friday seemed like any other butter pecan day. D wasn’t there. He’d probably taken the day off (panhandling being his job), as it was getting really chilly.

I went in, the Second Cup growing emptier each day, the sound of chairs scraping the floor much less frequent. Dave was as efficient as usual, and my large flavoured coffee was waiting for me by the time I reached the cash.

I sat in the back with my coffee, no student sleeping on a bench today, and wrote my usual hour, bemoaning my Utnu-less state the whole time, before heading to work, just down the street. I waved and grinned at the Second Cup guys as I left – they had other customers and I was in a hurry.

I celebrated Friday by going to lunch with a co-worker, and as we sat inside we looked longingly at the closed patio, ordering drinks with little umbrellas in them in a vain effort to fool ourselves into believing winter’s icy grip wasn’t squeezing the sun, birds and blossoms out of our city.

“Did you hear about Second Cup?” She asked, sipping a very pink drink.

I nodded between bites. “Renovations – how long do you think they’ll be closed?”

“A while, I hear.” She whispered, and I laughed.

“I wonder what the boys will be up to during that time! They live in that place!” Which was true. I’d never gone into that Second Cup (and I went most days of the week), without Wally or Dave being there.

My co-worker looked up, tears welling into her eyes (to be fair, she was going through a rough patch, and was much more emotional than usual).

“You don’t know?” She asked.

“What??” A chill ran down my spine, and I recalled D’s words on Caramelo Day: It’s bad.

“Wally and Dave are retiring. New owners are taking over.”

I almost cried. Well, ok, I did tear up, but no actual tears were shed.

I left her after lunch, saying I had to give my farewells, and headed to Second Cup. But by the time I arrived, it was already closed, a note from Dave and Wally taped to the door, thanking their customers for years of faithful service.

I stood a little while before the door – ok, a bit longer than perhaps necessary. I couldn’t help it, though. For years I had come to this Second Cup, almost every single morning. I had met so many of my characters here, I had created new worlds, I had suffered death, love, failure, fears, hope and humiliation with my protagonists and antagonists, and every single day had been marked with a simple system of flavours that kept reality only one sip away.

I’m not necessarily the most stable person you’ll ever meet. I bought a car with the sole purpose of picking up and leaving whenever I chose, for an hour or a day, and am a casualty of wanderlust. I’ve surrounded myself with some of the best people I’ve ever met - people who are willing and able to bend and shift as I do, so that when I leave for a few days, I would think of them as home, knowing they’d still be there when I came back. Kind of like flavoured coffees (I’m sure my friends are thrilled by that comparison).

As I stood before my Second Cup, I realized that was what this place had become for me – a place for my mind to be able to leave on its own wanderlust, every morning for an hour, to come back afterwards to its safety, always warmly greeted. I never did get kicked out for loitering but, then again, I always did leave a tip.

I wish at least D had been there. It would have been nice to commiserate with a friend, though I was hardly the only one in shock and loss at the farewell sign on the Second Cup. Many stopped and either gazed in shock, swore, or gasped, and most of them wandered away as lost little children, wondering where they could get their much needed caffeine fix. It's nice not to grieve alone.

As I was leaving, the first snowflakes were falling from the skies, preparing to blanket us in white a whole month earlier than usual.

Experts were predicting a long and difficult winter.

They had no idea how right they would be.

End of an Era - Day 4 - Hazelnut Day

Hazelnut Day, also known as 'my-absolute-most-favouritest-day-of-the-week,' seemed to come and go without a hitch. I was worried about Utnu and Second Cup, but so busy at work I barely had a thought to myself anyhow.

That evening, since it had been a relatively good day and the week was coming to a close, I decided I would bake cookies. I stole chocolate chips from my good friend who had foolishly left me with her apartment keys (I am ruthless), I bought random baking stuff at the convenience store, threw on some rock and roll tunes (regardless of twirling danger - am rebel), and began baking.

Now, everything was dandy until my second batch was in the oven and I noticed that a plastic lid was on top of my 'this is where the oven farts hot gas' element. I grabbed the lid, and strings of melted plastic followed. I sighed and threw it in the sink.

A big drop of melted plastic now adorned my element, and I thought it would smell very bad when, forgetting it was there (which I would), I would turn on the element (probably this very night). I put on my oven mitt and pulled off the element, with the intention of putting it in the sink before the plastic fully hardened. Now, let's recall that element was warm enough to melt plastic.

It also happened to be warm enough to set my oven mitt on fire.

Thanks to my experience with flaming tabbies, the fire was quickly put out, but in the process, I threw my element, melted plastic and all, in the cold water of my sink. It made some really funky noises and the plastic is now bonded to it like skin to bone.

Sigh.

I was, however, pleased to report that I didn't actually burn myself until, with the same oven mitt (still smoking), I took out my cookie sheet (burnt cookies by then). They don't kid around when they say oven mitts don't work as well once they've burnt. I didn't drop the cookies though, so I'm pretty pleased with myself.

I didn't tell my mom about this incident, as she is a good woman and I didn't feel she needed to know this was part of her legacy on Earth.

... well, ok, this didn't really have anything to do with the end of an era, but I was pretty brain dead by then, and I thought it was funny. Besides, a girl can only handle so much coffee and Utnu-related drama in one week, really.

But wait until Butter Pecan Day. Everything changed on Butter Pecan Day.

End of an Era - Day 3 - French Vanilla Day

With Utnu's diseased brain, I had missed a whole day at Second Cup, neglecting my coffee people (very uncouth). This morning I came in Utnu-less, but determined to get some quality coffee and letter writing time.

I asked D. what he wanted today, and he said a coffee. I told him it was Irish Cream day and he seemed pleased to hear that.

I merrily strolled in, and my coffee people threw their hands up in joy (one day missed is very rare for me. I am a coffee-addict). I felt like the prodigal son (except instead of being a moocher, their business depended on me. I’d be happy to see me too if my RRSPs and children’s education funds depended almost exclusively on my caffeine guzzling habit, but I digress. I digress a lot, apparently.)

I walk up to the counter, grin widely, and ask for two medium Irish Creams.

I look down.

Eyes grow wide.

“Oh, it’s French Vanilla today?”

“Miss …”

Oh no! I won’t be Miss’d today! I beat him to the punch.

“But it’s Tuesday!”

“Miss…”

Start panicking and remembering week (remember, it was a long week. The end of an era, in fact!)

“No, wait, it’s Thursday!”

“Miss …”

“No! Wednesday! It IS French Vanilla Day!”

Second Cup guy throws hands up as if in deliverance and shouts: “Thank you!”

I was then scolded for not coming in yesterday, as I was obviously losing track of time without their carefully crafted time-keeping system. If I came every day again, they informed me, I would once again grasp and be soothed by it.

I have my doubts.

But it’s nice to be missed.

End of an Era - Day 2 - Irish Cream Day

I'm always suspicious of Irish Cream Days. I don't know if it's my brain that doesn't quite get enough of a boost from this particular blend, but usually I'm at my very slowest. Which is very slow, I must say.

But, although my Second Cup lingered near renovation closing-time (it's like a coma in people terms), I didn't make it in on that Irish Cream Day, since Utnu had been having difficulties lately. (Utnu being my beloved iBook G4 and my bestest writing buddy ever.) Anyways, instead of going to Second Cup and facing Irish Cream Day, I called Utnu's warranty people.

The conversation went something like this (CR = customer representative):

Me (calm) : "Yes, he's not been booting since yesterday."
CR (confused) : "He?"
Me (embarrassed) : "Um, yes. I have a strong affinity with him."
CR (redefining reality) : "Ok. So it, um, he doesn't boot?"
Me (worrying) : "No. He screams."
CR (polite but difficulty adapting) : "Screams?"
Me (wishing didn't feel Utnu was own person) : "Um, yes. Well, he beeps three times. Yes. And he has kernel panics."
CR (back in realm of comfortable language) : "Those aren't good."
Me (too much information?) : "No, because when he panics, I panic. It's really not a good scene."
CR (good old scout try) : "Oh. Yes. I can see that. Well, ok, well, ship um, him in, and um, he'll see a, um, doctor. Yes. A laptop doctor."

So Utnu went on a little trip, and we didn't get to spend this last week at Second Cup together, which only made things that much more difficult. Of course, then Canada Post lost Utnu, my friends vowed to head out in throngs (ok, more like a small gang - I don't have that many Utnu-hunting friends), but he was found again, and repaired, even though I called regularly for Utnu updates and got to know the CR very well (always got the same one, who also came to call Utnu by his name). I also debated sending Utnu flowers (care of his rep, of course) but, thanks to a rare appearance from my censor, didn't do it.

Utnu took three weeks to return. We're inseparable again.

After that day, though, I learned that it doesn't matter whether or not I'm actually drinking Irish Cream on that day. Irish Cream Day is still Irish Cream Day. (A moral for the ages.)

End of an Era - Day 1 - Caramelo Day

It’s been a rough few months and, although I have wonderful friends who supported me through all the hardships, it’s still a bit hard to talk about it. But a girl’s gotta get things off of her chest, and now’s as good a time as any.

It all began in November. The beginning of November, actually. I arrived early to Second Cup, as usual, and saw D hanging outside. D is the local enterprising panhandler, who always greets me with a smile and kind word. But today his eyes didn’t have their usual spark, and the second he saw me crossing the street and walking towards him, he shook his head and shouted in warning: “It’s bad!”

The greeting I was about to shout died on my lips, as did my smile. Never before, in our years of chatting in front of the Second Cup, had D ever harbinged doom.

He shook his head again. “It’s real bad.” The he nodded sideways, to the door of the Second Cup, and I saw the sign: “Closing for Renovations by end of week – every item for sale.”

“What do they mean, renovations?” I asked, rooted before the sign.

“The way they talk about it on the streets (the “streets” of Ottawa are apparently quite concerned over the welfare of this Second Cup),” he lowers his voice, forcing me to stop staring at the sign and lean close to him to capture every syllable, “they’re going to be closed for a while.”

“A while?”

He simply nods and goes quiet. “I’ll get you a hot chocolate, no whip,” I whisper as I pass him and head into the Second Cup, the door slightly heavier than usual.

It all looks the same, inside. The same wooden chairs, the dilapidated section in the back where used to be a bagel shop, the dark corners where sometimes a student was allowed to take a quick nap... it was all the same, but disturbingly different, all at once. As I stared at it, I felt as though time was painting over the beloved mosaic that was this shop, where I had spent so many happy hours writing and forgetting the world.

“What’ll it be, miss?” Dave, one of my two Second Cup guys asks. How long would it be before I would hear him say ‘miss’ again?

“Large Caramelo?” Caramelo. It was Monday. Caramelo day. I always loved Caramelo day.

“And hot chocolate for D,” I say softly as I approach.

“Hot chocolate, no whip, coming up,” he says as he takes my money and quickly gives me change. Wally, the second beloved Second Cup guy, tries to break the tension.

“It’s getting cold out there! I think it’ll be a long, cold one!”

His smile falters as though he has said too much. I don’t ask for details – the fate of my Second Cup is more than one can handle first thing on a Caramelo Day.

“How much for the clock?” I suddenly ask, and all three of us understand I’m just trying to capture a piece of this place, as though by buying their weary Time for a Second clock, I would somehow slow down the passage of time, and steal the painfully efficient paintbrush straight out of Father Time’s hands.

Dave gives me a weak smile. “Sorry miss. It’s already sold.”

That was Caramelo Day.

Things went downhill from there.

Navigating the Treacherous Waters of Publishing - Part 2

Self-publishing

Self-publishing used to be frowned upon as the rejected child of the publishing industry, only to now be celebrated as one of its prodigal children. Many bestselling and well-known authors first undertook the self-publishing road, such as Virginia Woolf and James Joyce and, on a more recent note, Christopher Paolini with Eragon.

Mind you, using these authors as examples portrays the self-publishing industry as simply a road to the world of traditional publishing. And yes, it can be that. But it can also be so much more.

Judge a book by its cover lately? Well, in self-publishing, you get to decide what exactly it is people will be judging. I love this idea. My roomy is a wicked artist (as can be witnessed in the “About the Header” blog entry), and she could make such a wonderful cover. Another of my best friends is an amazing graphic designer, and she could take care of the lay-out, and I’m sure it would be kick some serious butt.

And inside there would be some pictures, like in the old fantasy days. Just quick black and white pen-type sketches. I’ve always loved them, and miss them so in modern fantasy novels.

My sister-in-law is a photographer, so we’re talking book jacket picture right there. And any necessary Photoshop-ing (let’s not fool ourselves here). (See the blog pic? That’s her stuff. Cool, eh?)

So it would be a nice product, something that would stand out on the shelves (should the book get on the shelves). No need for the same old, same old.

And of course they’d all do this for free until I can repay them somehow. I’d throw a party for them, though. With lots of snack foods and properly-themed googly-eyed creatures.

Printing the books would require some capital, which is a bit of a problem for most. But you start with a small run and re-print once you’ve proven to yourself you can sell. There’s not need to go into complete debt over this. And you can set your own cover price, though it’s wiser to aim for the lower end (meaning cutting into your royalties). Customers don’t like taking chances on unknown authors, and they’re more likely to pick up something cheaper and that ends in “.99” (silly, but true).

Then, once the book is out, well, you need to market the little sucker. You prepare your website, and sell your book from there, maybe posting a teaser chapter for fun. You go to talks, bring your printed bookmarks for your book (every author seems to have those), and you become your book’s best champion (you and your mom).

Online marketing is the fastest and cheapest method to start off with, though not necessarily the most efficient at times. Author signings in bookstores are of limited popularity, but I figure one sold book could mean ten, since the best selling method is word of mouth. So time to get out there.

Of course, you also need to distribute it. Online stores are willing to post self-published books, as long as you take the necessary steps with them and pay your fees. Not too shabby, but remember, keep in mind shipping costs! Those will devour your profits real fast!

Even after all that shining on your part, your sales might still not be that great. And you’re having a hard time breaking into even local independent stores. And your mom can only buy so many copies. The cure? Keep writing, keep taking out more stuff, and keep marketing like mad.

It seems that to be successful, self-publishing has to become a full-time gig. Or you wait to be discovered by a traditional publisher. But if that’s your only goal, save yourself the hassle and go straight to the source. Or, if your only goal is to call yourself a published author, well, quit writing. That's just sad. Besides, self-published authors are not technically "published," they're "self-published."

If your goal, however, is to have a product you’re proud to call your own, from every word to every art stroke, and you don’t care about the quantity of sales so much as the quality of the book (or you’re a marketing guru with lots of capital), then this is the road for you.

And during the course of your self-publishing journey, remember that, in the end, it’s the echoes your story will manage to leave in your readers’ minds that will sale your next book.
So make sure, amongst all the marketing and number crunching, that you don’t forget that first and foremost, your job is to write.