Like most writers, I've had my share of bad reviews.  I've also had more than my share of glowing raves.  Early in my career, there was so little attention to my work that the good reviews could make my day.  And the bad ones could send me to bed.  Over the years, after having experienced the full range of dizzying highs and crushing lows the writing life can offer, I have found more balance.  Like a kayaker in big water, I stay centered and keep on paddling - rain or shine. 

A few years ago, I read a book called The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz.  It changed my life.  One of the agreements, maybe the most important for me was: Don't take anything personally.   No matter what anybody does or says to you, even if they should go so far as to walk up to you and put a bullet in your head, has anything whatsoever to do with you or who you are.  It's all about them, about their thoughts, ideas, prejudice, and view of the world.  If people say they love you, it's about them.  If people say they hate you, well, that's about them, too.  If you learn and internalize this (which - PS - is not easy), it can be very illuminating - and freeing.

Most people only deal with this on a small scale.  You have your friends, family, neighbors, business associates, and random encounters with strangers.  Most of us know that some people are going to like us, and some people are not.  Likewise, we won't like everyone we encounter.  Maybe your coworker reminds you of someone who bullied you in high school; you dislike her without even knowing why.  That's about you. Maybe you think your friend is cheap and it makes you angry. Another person might admire her for her frugality.  It's all about the opinions we bring to the table.

As a writer, I am fortunate that my novels have found a large number of readers.  And, guess what?  Some people love my books. And some people don't.  Some of those people keep their opinions to themselves, some of them post on the bookseller sites, write their opinions on Facebook, send me personal emails, or write reviews in major national magazines and newspapers.  Luckily, most of the people who do this, have at least something nice to say about my books.  But not always.

If you're true to yourself, as a person, as a writer - if you don't chase trends or seek to please, you are likely to attract at least some negativity.  I have found this to be true in my personal and professional life. Of course, it's never a good day when someone says something negative about your work, but you tuck in and keep paddling.

When I sit down at my keyboard to work on my novel, I am my truest and most centered self.  I don't seek to please; just to tell the best story I can, to the best of my ability.  I know some people are going to love it, and some are not.  The world is impossibly complicated, and opinions vary wildly.  So no matter what reviewers write about my books, I try to remember that it's about them as much as it is about me.  

There is a misconception that the writing life is a lonely one.  While it's true that we write in solitude, the business of publishing is foremost a business of relationships.  Over the years, our colleagues become our friends.  Maybe this is true of all businesses, but none so much as publishing.  Most of us come to the work of writing and publishing and selling books only out of love, because of our consuming passion for the written word.  And in the doing of this work together, we become friends.

David Thompson was one of the first booksellers to invite me into a bookstore.  I was a very shy, first-time author - terrified of speaking about my books. My parents were local to Houston, and my mother was a regular customer at Murder by the Book.  I remember walking in for the first time and thinking, "Now, this is a bookstore."  I could feel the passion, the love.  It radiated from the shelves.  It radiated from people who loved books, and took great pride in sharing that with the world.  The crowd in the store was largely friends and family; I am sure the talk I gave was not very good.  But from the minute I walked through the door and saw David smiling at the counter, I felt at home.

When we lose someone like David, it hurts.  It shocks us. It makes us angry, and so unspeakably sad.  Of course, he was too young.  There was just so much more he could have done, would have done. It's an injustice, to be robbed of someone with so much life in him.  And, yet, none of us is promised anything.  Not a single moment with anyone we love is something we should take for granted.  Because every moment we live to do the things that we love, to love the people in our lives, to follow our dreams and our passions is a gift. This is a cliché only because it's so desperately true.

What gives me comfort when I think about David is that he was a person living his dreams.  He made a life out of what he loved.  He did with his time exactly what he wanted and was meant to be doing.  I honestly don't think many people can say this about their lives.  So many people are walking around wishing that they were doing something else.  Not Dave; his passion for his work was clear.  I like to think that there was joy and excitement for him in almost every day.  This means something.  Maybe everything.

About a month ago, Gregg Hurwitz and I met in Houston to do a joint event at Murder By the Book.  We went there for a lot of reasons: to see each other, to support a store that we both love and appreciate, and of course to hang out with Dave and McKenna.  We had a good event, and then took David out to dinner. (McKenna was away.)  We wanted to take him someplace great, to show our gratitude for the event and for his support.  He wanted to go to Pappa's BBQ.  We ate pulled pork off paper plates and drank beer from plastic cups.  But, you know what?  It was great.  Because we were together, talked about books and craft, and laughed a lot - which is probably what we all like best.  When we said good-bye, we had every expectation that we'd see each other again, sooner rather than later.  It's hard to let go of that expectation.  For me, he'll always be there, behind the counter at Murder by the Book, smiling. 

David Thompson was one of the kindest people I have ever met, in the business or anywhere.  Since his passing I have thought about McKenna, his beautiful, bright and sweet wife every day hoping that she is as well as she can be, and that she is strong. Their relationship, too, started in that store, mingled with their love of books.  I hope that all of her memories of David, and the love of family and friends will carry her through.  In this business of relationships, where there is so much love for David and McKenna, I hope she knows she is not alone.  

There's a village in my computer -- friends, fans, readers, and colleagues.  It's a populous, sometimes chaotic little burg always bustling with news, gossip, opinions and potential excitement.  It's very attractive to the writer, the quiet, semi-recluse who is often alone in her own head.  When the words dry up and the blank page seems a mile long, this other world is a click away. In a heartbeat, I might be swept from solitude into the virtual current that is our modern world.

Of course, this is the last the thing I need.  The business of writing a novel is a long meandering road into the self, into the imagination. And it's a road the writer travels alone.  In the quiet spaces, the empty moments of my life, the path often becomes the most clear. If my attention is too focused outward, rather than inward, I may lose the trail.  I'll have to redouble my efforts to find the way back.

As with all things, it's a matter of balance. But the line I walk between the quiet and solitude I need to create, and the gregariousness necessary to promote my work can be particularly tricky.  It's very easy to get lured from the quiet into the hubbub.  But it's difficult to get back to where I need to be to write well.  It requires effort to close the door and focus the mind again. A shift from Word to Mail or Safari, where suddenly I'm posting on Facebook or answering email can represent an hour-long distraction.  One thing leads to another.  Insidiously, these activities masquerade as work.  I am productive, I can tell myself.  I am writing!  And maybe, in some sense, that's true.  I'm just not writing my novel.

And now the distractions are portable. Even exercising, my best personal blank space, where all narrative problems are solved, where inspiration often lives and breathes, I can check my email or log on to Facebook.  If I am not mindful, I could fill every blank spot with something less significant than creative thought.

I love the village in my computer.  There's little validation in the day-to-day life of a writer; sometimes we ache for a connection.  These days, the world is at our fingertips. The same instruments we use to create, allow us to connect in unprecedented ways.  But as much as we sometimes want to join in village life, it's the writer's responsibility, most of the time, to remain in margins.  Writers don't belong in the town center; we're not a part of the main stream.  We have to stand apart to observe well, and we have to observe well to write well.

In one of my favorite books about the craft, On Writing, Stephen King says that writers have to write with "the door closed."  When the book first published, Mr. King probably didn't even know how hard it would become for writers to do that.  Sometimes it feels like a Herculean, though virtual, effort -- as though I'm pressing my body against a thumping door, the world outside clamoring to get in. Or maybe it's me, clamoring to get out of my own head.  Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

When I sit down to write these days, I find it's best if I turn off my access to the Internet.  Because of the mommy factor, my time to write is limited and precious.  I've removed certain applications from my phone to protect the blank spaces in my life.  There's no phone in my office. In the moments that are pregnant with thought, ideas, creative day dreaming, the real work is done; the actual placement of words on the page sometimes feels like the last 5% of the process. Of course, like all organic processes, there is an ebb and a flow to writing.  One does not exist without the other.  The writer needs to be vigilant in protecting both, confident in the knowledge that the village will be there when we choose, finally, to open the door. 

I love book groups.  What could be better than a gathering of smart, funny, engaged woman (well, it usually is all woman, and maybe a husband or two) talking about books?  Generally, wine and snacks are involved.  And I'm usually in my pajamas.  It's true -- a couple of times a month, sometimes every week, I join in book group discussions of my novels around the country.   One evening it might be Seattle, another Minneapolis, the next night New Jersey or Pennsylvania.  Of course, they're doing all the wine drinking and snack eating.  And I'm in my pajamas, usually in my office, chatting with them via speakerphone while my daughter sleeps.

I have a theory about book groups.  Book groups don't actually get together to talk about books.  They get together to talk about something much more important.  There's a popular misconception that people turn to fiction because it provides an escapist pleasure from the mundane everyday.  But most readers --  and writers -- know that's not true.  We turn to books not to escape from, but to understand life.  And when we get together to talk about books, we've really come together to discuss our lives and the lives of the characters we met.  Because a great story is a little slice of life - it shows us something, teaches us something.  Story helps us to understand each other and ourselves better.

What I love the most about visiting with book groups (as opposed to book signings where most people are coming to get their copies and haven't read yet) is that everyone has already read the book.  They're teeming with questions, and they are as involved with my characters as I am.  We chat about process, the vector of my career, how I research, and the inner lives of my characters, often things that are not on the page.  Of course, I don't answer every question.  Sometimes I leave people hanging.  But that's my job: to keep my readers in suspense!

I have a couple of local groups that I visit with every year in person.  I do manage to get myself dressed for those, in case you were wondering. And that's been a really lovely experience ... to grow with my readers, to expand on a conversation that started with the last book, to be able to drink the wine and eat the snacks everyone else is always enjoying!

People think that the writing life is a solitary one -- and in many ways it is.  But I have been blessed enough to be invited into the homes of fabulous people across the country to talk about my work.  And that is one of the many gifts of my profession.  I create alone. But I'm then allowed to share my stories with the world.  And what better way to do that than one living room at a time?

If you'd like me to join your book club, write me a note here!