Strategizing for a Sustainable Future of Writing

Margaux Chronicles image from Substack
WHY I’M Strategizing

Like a lot of indie literary fiction writers, I’ve struggled to gain traction. I’ve done things “right”—entered contests and won for my writing, received strong reviews, and I’ve invested in professional editing, design, and marketing—because I believe the work deserves it. Even with  all of the effort, I haven’t come close to breaking even. Part of me doesn’t mind. I love writing. I’d do it even if no one read it.

But I want people to read it.

How I’m strategizing

So I’m trying something new: I’m serializing Margaux & the Vicious Circle on Substack. A few chapters will be free—I haven’t decided how many. The rest of the book will be available for subscribers—free subscribers ($0), monthly ($5) or annual ($60). Free subscribers will receive a discount code to download the eBook version of Margaux & the Vicious Circle at a significant discount from retail prices—$4.79. All paid subscribers will receive a FREE download of the full eBook, to read ahead if you want. Founding subscribers (pledging more than $50 per year) will additionally receive a signed copy of my book, and the opportunity to talk to me one-on-one.

This isn’t a money-making scheme. It’s a sustainability experiment. If enough readers chip in even for one month or become free subscribers and buy my discounted book, I can afford to professionally edit Fiddler’s Point, the next book in the Margaux Chronicles.

It’s an ask—but also an offering.

Think of this as an ongoing story place, where fiction gets layered over memory, and mystery and magic become a way of seeing the world. If you’ve ever loved a character who felt more real than some people you know, or gotten lost in a book that helped you remember things from your own life—this one might be for you.

Here’s a description of the book:

Margaux Andrews lives alone in a dingy Lower Manhattan walk-up. By day, she’s a nanny, and at night she writes into the wee hours. She’s completed a draft of her first novel, One Elysium Street, and is working on her next, inspired by experiences and secrets from her childhood: a Colorado apartment complex where a friend vanishes, games that turn dark, and a place where danger lurks around every corner. She discovers that nothing was ever quite as it seemed. Her novel has earned at least a hundred rejections. Too unbelievable, the agents say.

Until… one writes back.

The M. Des Jardins Literary Agency, once entangled with the legendary Vicious Circle, offers representation, and also an invitation into a world where literature breathes, childhood memories serve as portals to truth, and the line between fiction and real life blurs. Margaux’s present collides with her past when she learns that the head of the agency is a long lost childhood friend.

As Margaux’s story takes on a life of its own, she must follow it back to where it began—to the friends she left behind, the girl who disappeared, the traumas, and the half-remembered magic that might be the key to everything.

When I’m strategizing

Beginning now, new chapters will drop weekly, starting next week.  Of course, I’ll keep On the Shelf free and alive—short fiction, essays, poetry and the like.

Thanks for reading, and for sharing. This whole thing only works if it reaches someone who cares. Maybe that’s you? Maybe it’s someone you know!

Please visit my Substack website to follow or Subscribe to The Margaux Chronicles

Mini-fiction: Woman at Work

Ginny did not take to motherhood naturally. The whole process was so messy, so out of her control from the start—and, all of the expectations that went along with the role of mother overwhelmed her. One expectation, in particular, weighed upon her,  that she would breastfeed her child for at least a year.

The nurses at the hospital had impressed upon her the importance of breastfeeding, giving her statistics about all of the horrible things that could happen were she to choose formula over breast milk, and so hesitantly, in the interest of the health of her baby, Ginny had chosen to breastfeed.

Learning to do it properly took her entire 8-week maternity leave, during which time she had suffered cracked nipples, a breast infection, and numerous humiliating incidents of breast leakage. Although she never loved it, she had gotten the hang of it, just in time to return to work.

Upon her return, Ginny discovered that the company had not fully embraced motherhood either, and therefore had made no provisions for new mothers. The Human Resources person Ginny spoke to suggested that she get an extension cord, plug her pump into the outlet by the sink in the Women’s restroom, and sit on the toilet in the stall to pump. She tried it once, sitting on the pot for 15 excruciating minutes listening to nothing but the hum and pulse of the pump, as puzzled colleagues came in and out to do their unsavory business. She produced half an ounce.

In the end, her administrative assistant, Ella, had made a “Woman at Work” sign fashioned cleverly after the “Men at Work” road warning sign to place on the door of the conference room when Ginny was in there pumping to make sure that she had adequate privacy. Ella had also set up a television and a comfy chair so that Ginny would have relaxing entertainment while she milked herself.  And so, it had become Ginny’s habit to dutifully visit the conference room twice each work day to relieve her breasts of their burden, and while not entirely pleasant, it seemed possible.

WOMAN-at-work

One day, Ginny had just settled in. She stripped off her top, connected the suction pieces to each of her breasts, and turned the pump on. The home decorating channel  came to life. Ella must have been in here, Ginny thought. She flipped the channel to what had become, idiotically, “her” soap opera, and she felt her milk “let down.” Such a relief. Just then, the door of the conference room swung open and her CEO, Bob Corchoran, trailed by an entourage of Asian men, stepped into the room. Expressions of confusion and shock filled the room. Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat. She squeaked rather than shrieked. She felt the milk dry up as she struggled to cover her milking machine encumbered breasts. Bob turned around, stretched his arms wide to prevent his tour group from moving further into the room, pushing them back and out, saying, “I’m sorry this room is in use.”

That was the last day that Ginny breastfed, and she never looked back.