Promotional Suicide

The holiday season is upon us, which is a beautiful thing. The Christmas/New Year collaboration is supposed to be, in my opinion, the celebration of the birth of Christ, the joy in our world, and the blessing of being on this earth another year. Many of us celebrate by giving gifts to show our appreciation of one another, having family and friends over for festive gatherings, and possibly getting drunk to forget about all the money you spent and the ill-meant well-wishes you sprayed because 'tis the season.'

Is Wanda D. Hudson a scrooge? No. I absolutely love the holidays. What I don't love is the fact that some people use the holidays as a personal promotional tool. Yes, I do believe in promotion - hell, I have a novel that will be released in January of 2006, so I'm a promoting fool right now. Sure, push your book as a Christmas gift. If someone if going to spend their money to show their appreciation for their fellow man, why not spend it on your work. My problem comes with people who burst down your door to get the job done.

I am a member of a few online writing groups. Every year some of these groups do gift or Christmas card exchanges. Beautiful. I signed up in a couple of the groups. Everyone gave out their home address or PO box numbers and the cards began flying. Well, I received my first card in the mail last week. I was so happy! I mean, to think someone who doesn't even know me included me in their holiday spirit! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Well, I got so mad when I opened the card and the author's promotional bookmarks fell out! Those bookmarks took my holiday happiness and stomped on it. In an instant I became another stranger at a fair who that particular writer wanted to reach. I know how the author felt, I am the same individual trying to reach that potential buyer.

I just feel that the majority of us in these groups know what each other does. I know you're trying to blow up, shoot, so am I. But the purpose of the card exchange, in my opinion, is to spread holiday cheer. Would it really harm any of us to simply put those promotional items to the side? I feel like my home was invaded. I gave my address to a stranger and then they just came in and did as they please. Yeah, I'm probably turning a mini cupcake into a German Chocolate Cake, but this is my vent space. I had to get this off of my chest.

Maybe I am judging someone's actions and for that I apologize. I haven't thrown the cards away, but I have no intention on purchasing the writer's works. Will keeping my money in my purse hurt the author? Probably not. Promoting until you are on the best sellers list is a dream that many of us have, and that many of us will accomplish. Promoting by entering the back door, when you're welcome thru the front, is promotional suicide.

Dreaming In Perfecta-Vision

Hey all,

Please visit http://myinvisiblehusband.blogspot.com/2005/12/dreaming-in-perfecta-vision.html . I am the guest blogger on Miss Sheila Goss', the author of My Invisible Husband, website.

Find out what kind of dreams really do come true.

Daddy's Babygirl

Babygirl – a name my father began calling me the day I entered this world. I swear I can hear his voice right now, and I see the scene of a pretty brown newborn being cleaned up on a table in a delivery room, and him standing by proudly saying Babygirl over and over again.

Strangely enough I used the title of this post as one of the chapter titles in my soon to be released novel. Life imitating art, to say the least, is an unsettling feeling. Three weeks ago I had to face the callous reality that one day until the rest of my life, I will never hear my father call me his Babygirl. Some realities you can never grasp or want to own. My father had his second recorded heart attack, and this time his kidneys began to fail. I’ve never had to deal with death so closely. I’ve had friends and cousins lose their parents and cried with them, but never fully understand how they felt until now.

I never thought about my daddy dying. I figured I’d be in my late sixties or seventies when he passed away. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready for this. My parents are divorced and somehow I think that if they had stayed together and we were a “proper” family unit, he never would have gotten sick. I shake my head at my childish beliefs and am forced to grow up in an instant.

Thinking of my father being sick ills my heart. I don’t want him to suffer. He is under Hospice care and hearing him speak of dying shatters me every time. Then I think of how man made Jesus endure a painful death, and of all the sick people in the world, the catastrophes, and tragedies. Although I believe in God, in times of weakness none of this knowledge changes my heart; I don’t want my daddy to suffer. Hey, I’m human…I’m not perfect.

At the present I reside in the Bronx and he lives in Florida. This doesn’t help. I have to move, I have to help him in order to help me. The daunting scenes of my father lying in a coffin, and of me crying, is not a black art picture that I want to go on sale. This hurts. Nothing about black art should hurt…black art is beautiful.

I flew to Florida a week after his attack and stayed with him for five stingy days. Five days is no way long enough to spend with a man that made sure you had a hot meal, clothing, and a place to sleep every night. Oh, don't let me forget the sight of him putting together my first metal dollhouse. A whole lot of metal clanking and cursing, but hours later, I was playing without the thought of ever growing older. I only stayed five days because I had to be an adult, and return to my place of work so I could do the same for my child as he did for his. For once, I wish I had no job.

Losing a parent is devastating in more ways than I can imagine. The one thing I’m afraid of is, when my daddy passes on, it will be official. I will be an adult. I will be the one next in line to become a grandparent, and the one who everyone looks to for guidance. I have no choice but to take the reins and handle them like he did. But I was always the babygirl. To this day, at age thirty-nine, I’m still the babygirl. At least that’s how my daddy makes me feel. If he leaves me, will I still be the babygirl? Funny, I have two daughters and I still want to be the baby when it comes to my father. Before I left Florida to go to the airport he kissed me and said, “Stay sweet, baby. I love you.” It’s my birthright to be the baby.

Each day I’m living with the knowledge that death is going to come and choke me. The one thing that soothes me is I now know that no matter where my daddy is, I will always be Daddy's Babygirl.