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Misadventures in Meditation

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Labyrinth in concrete and paint.

Aren’t I pretty? I’ll eat your soul alive!

Meditation and yours truly have a long, ongoing flirtation.  Over the last decade, I’ve winked and twisted my hair at my fleeting suitor and sometimes he winks back.  Mostly, though, he uses me in a torrid fling and then casts me aside like yesterday’s garbage.  And then I weep silently until I summon the courage in another few years to give him another try.

Not this time!  This time, I’m going to conquer him!  I’m going to be the one who uses him.  I’m going to wring every last positive benefit from his fickle carcass and then I’m going to use him again.  Or so I’m telling myself.

Until I can master him, I’m going to console myself by telling my tale.

 

First Courtship

Meditation and I met each other a decade ago when I ended up in another brief affair with a yoga studio in Berkeley.  That flirtation was rather dull, aside from a Ganesh puja I participated in (awesome!), but the meditation class I signed up for wasn’t.  What it was could only be described as difficult.  Really difficult, in ways I couldn’t have imagined when I whipped out my checkbook.

The first basic tenet of meditating is that you should be silent.  Unless, of course, you’re chanting.  This is usually a no-brainer.  Words aren’t things I utter unless I’m around people, and even then, unless I’m discussing ideas or something of vague interest, I tend to keep them to myself unless I’m debating myself in the shower.  Except meditational silence isn’t the kind I’m used to maintaining.  It’s a mental silence.  It’s a place where thoughts flit by like little chirping birds, or drift serenely like clouds.  Just a blip and then quiet.

That isn’t my brain.  Not by a long shot.

Still, after trying a number of techniques over the six weeks, which, coincidentally enough, were the last few before I got married, I sensed the mind’s true depth.

I can’t remember much about the meditation itself.  It must have been guided, and I must have been sitting in a chair, because I could never do the cross-legged thing for the two hours the class lasted.  All I know was that the layers of my mind peeled aside like an onion as I delved deeper.  Emotions went away first, then all of the random minutiae of the complete life change ahead of me.  Then went my sense of the universe, my intuition.  After that, I arrived at the core.

We were supposed to sit and observe that core without judging, in complete mental silence, and to tell the class about the image we received once we emerged.  Mine was a lone scientist alternating between a telescope and a microscope.  I knew her by name.

“She’s the unbiased observer,” I said.

I got a few profound nods in acknowledgement.  Sweet, I finally mastered meditation! I thought.  And then I got married and forgot all about breathing and peeling away layers of thought and listening to other people chant in the presence of harmoniums.

Besides, I’d mastered meditation.

 

The Fourteen Day Twenty-One Day Challenge

Flash forward eight years.  Things aren’t going so well outside of the marriage department.  I’m trying to wrestle with the emotional wreckage of a couple of disastrous failures, and I’m drowning in a sea of emotion.  I’m dealing as best I can.  I’ve started practicing yoga, but only the DVD variety.  I browse to Huffington Post’s GPS for the Soul which I’ve taken to reading.  It’s of dubious use, usually, but sometimes there’s something good.

This time it was an ad for Deepak Chopra’s 21-Day Meditation Challenge that caught my eye.  It was free.  And only 21 days.  I could do that with one eye tied behind my back.

Right.

It started off well enough.  I sat down and listened to the introduction.  I breathed and chanted “So hum” to myself with every inhalation.  The music was pretty, a nice mix of sitar and New Age synth.  You know, one of my favorite things to listen to.  The voice was soothing.  I opened my eyes at the end of the twelve minutes oddly relaxed.  Then I did it again.  And again.

And then came the journey.  See, I’d started the challenge thinking I was going to relax and quiet my mind.  To embrace the oneness of self and universe, and to flow with the currents of possibility.  To find the place beyond anxiety and pain.  Except, meditation number 7 was all about delving back into crap, and dredging up random traumas in all their full detail.  The kind of traumas that really aren’t, but sometimes come to mind and then go away after a few seconds of emotionless pondering.

My instigator floated on a cloud next to my serenely speeding cloud in the crystalline blue sky.  Who was it?  I hadn’t thought of him in years.  I hadn’t needed to.

What did (s)he do to you?  Write this person a letter, and read it aloud to them as you float along side by side, said my tormenting guide.

I wrote the letter.  I read it aloud.  As the guide of my vision spoke, I set the letter on fire and told my long-forgotten ex, “I forgive you.”

Except I hadn’t.  I didn’t care enough to forgive because I’d already mostly forgotten.  I spent the rest of the evening in a funk, because all the details of all the years-ago pain came back.  Thanks, Deepak!

The next seven days, I listened to a bunch of chant mp3s and mentally repeated “So hum,” as I inhaled and exhaled.  The irritation never quite left, and meditation’s unpleasant house-guest came for a long, exhausting stay.

 

The Fourteen Day Slump

Meditation’s a crappy janitor.  His loud guest, Mr. Energy-Slurping Shop Vac, takes control of his flaky steerage and sucks the wrong things from my head.  I’m supposed to lose the anxiety and stress of life, not what limited energy I have left.  Instead, anxiety hides away from the Shop Vac of Slumber, lodging itself permanently in my chest, and my worst thoughts run wild.  My will takes a deep nose-dive, and alertness gets sucked away into meditation’s voracious gut.

Yep, I’m talking about the 14-day sleepies.

I was relaxed early in the process, and the good inner peace sort of relaxation.  I was harmony, I was flow, I was serenity.  And then I was asleep from the eighth day on.  Ten hours a night, and two more hours during the day.  My waking hours were dulled and lifeless, and when I did manage to have a slight energy peak–VZZZZZZH!–the Shop Vac would suck it away.

On day fifteen, I told myself, “Enough!” and I quit.

And my sleep went back to normal.

 

ConZentrate!  The Game is On!

Another year went by.  Stuff happened, both good and bad.  And then, suddenly, my mother-in-law had a major catastrophe: a heart attack and then a stroke that left her paralyzed on the left side.  I haven’t been able to relax since April.

What better to blunt the edges of constant anxiety and grief than meditation, right?  My suitor began another seduction attempt.  I’ll help you control your emotions!  I’ll help you master your thoughts!  I’ll help you relax!

By making me sleep my life away? I asked him.

I knew his mischievous grin too well and that I was going to give in to his false charms.

This time, I was armed.  I was going to take meditation slow and steady.  I was going to start out by searching out an app with a timer.  I was going to progress slowly.  I was going to enjoy the process, dammit!  I was going to level up!

Dharma Meditation Trainer promised a good start in gamifying meditation.  I made it to level 2, then three, and then four.  I breathed mindfully and allowed thoughts to drift through me as I returned to my breath.  I was Zen incarnate as I waited for the chime to go off, patiently.  I was peaceful, I was bored for ever longer periods.  I wanted to shoot myself.

I started napping again after fourteen days.  VZZZZZZH!  The Shop Vac slurped out the last of my energy.

Then I thought, “I love games!  I love leveling up my Steam profile—maybe I can find some way to gain achievements!”

I started ConZentrating.  I got new balls.  I unlocked new chants.  New backgrounds for the bouncy ball that my eyes followed for five minutes at a time.  Ommmm!  Then, I figured with all my achievements, I could go back to the Dharma Meditation Trainer and exploit the tiredness so I could sleep again at night.

I did five minutes of bouncy ball focus just after having coffee and five-then-six-then-seven minutes of boring breathing before I went to bed.

I made it to a solid month with both.  My will to live joined my energy in the Shop Vac’s guts.  My creativity was starting to follow.

You won’t win, Meditation!  There are lots of different forms of you I can try!  With this in my head, I browsed every New Age bookstore I could find.  I came across a book that sounded promising: Meditation for Your Life: Creating a Plan that Suits Your Style by Robert Butera.  Well, personality influences everything else, so why not meditation?

The book was packed with questions.  Exercises.  Introspecting on things that really don’t require thinking about.  Lots and lots of journaling.  But the goal was simple: to find a form of meditation that wouldn’t suck my life away.  So I did them.  I delved into things that should be un-delveable.  I drew stupid pictures of stick figure me and drew circles around the stick figure and wrote out everything I liked and disliked.  I put in a huge amount of effort over the space of three weeks and filled pages and pages with pointless emo wankery, all in the interests of finding the type of meditation that wouldn’t kill me.

Finally, I’d had it.  I read ahead, and made it to the Sentence of Doom.

The only solution is old-fashioned trial and error.

Yes, I’d just wasted weeks for nothing.  I’d lost.  Meditation had won. I’d been mastered.

 

A Labyrinthine Problem

Well, back to the drawing board.  I quit my ConZentrating and my Dharma Training.  My energy returned.  I found a blog post somewhere suggesting that guided meditation might be the solution to getting out of my head for a few minutes a day.  I found The Voice of the Muse Companion: Guided Meditations for Writers by Mark David Gerson.  They were pretty relaxing and focused.  I’ve made a little peace with my inner critic but haven’t rediscovered my missing deep relaxation.

I’d always been vaguely intrigued by labyrinths. Something about staring into the pictures I’d seen sent me spiraling off into my inner universe and I’d read about the inner tranquility legions had achieved by tracing their convoluted paths.  Besides, walking a labyrinth just once couldn’t hurt, could it?

According to Labyrinthlocator.com, my area is lousy with them.  In fact, there are two or three within ten minutes of me.

Some labyrinths are inlaid tiles.  Some are paved stones set within dirt.  Some are spirals of paint on concrete.  Guess which one I ended up trying today?

It was striking.  If I stared into the heart, my mind would whirl as I tried to trace a mental course.  I’d never thought white paint upon red concrete could be beautiful, but this was.  Even though traffic sputtered by just a few feet away, I could almost feel the tranquility calling me within.

Yes, walk with me, meditation whispered.  Bask in my promise!

I should have walked away right then.

But I walked.  I watched every step as I made my way around the narrow tracks.  I switched forward, I switchedback.  I spiraled.  I kept my feet within the confines of the lines, just wide enough for a man’s single footfall, and I had to pay attention to my balance to keep myself from toppling over during the narrow turns.  It must have taken me ten minutes to reach the center, a mere five steps away from the entrance.

I didn’t feel any more Zen, even though the labyrinth was surrounded by a high bush and a stand of trees that rustled in the gentle breeze.  The sun was shining, and tiny clouds scudded across the brilliant sky.  I should have felt myself slip into the inner relaxed state I used to achieve effortlessly only a few months ago.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I reversed course, trying to figure out if I’d actually skirted the center boundaries.  I couldn’t remember doing it.  My mind tried to plot the next turn, and the following turn on the way out.  I twisted and turned again.  I almost left when I finally reached the exit.

That’s it? I thought.  I had a second chance to walk away.  How many times are you supposed to walk through a labyrinth anyway?

Instead, I did it all over again.  And reversed course again.  This time, I could see where I went through the near-center points.  My feet were a little surer, but my mind wasn’t.  I wasn’t clean or clear.  Instead, I wanted to yawn.

Meditation had returned with Mr. Energy-Slurping Shop Vac, and both were determined to make me lose my zest for life.

I drove home.  Then I slept for an hour, the VZZZZH! loud in my ears.

I hate labyrinths, I really do.  That was the only insight to come out of this afternoon’s meanderings.  Labyrinths are convoluted, tangled.  They’re as twisty-turny as life is, but unlike life, which is an infinite array of choices spread out before you, there’s only one true course ahead of you.  And only one way out, if you’re to honor the experience properly.  I really hate that.  Life is possibility.  Life is change.  Life is a universe of potential.  Labyrinths are a deliberate restriction, a single pointless path into a center of nothing.  A false universe.

And they’re boring, unless you’re contemplating them from a photo.

 

And where does that leave me?

Dunno.  Am trying some binaural beats, and I’ll maybe do a guided visualization or two.  I’ll shake hands with my inner critic a few more times and say hello to my muse.

And then I’ll get a massage.  Then do a yoga class.  And feel the axé in my next roda.

A Clash of Archetypes: Steven Pressfield’s “The War of Art,” A Review

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She is not me, though I wish she was.

Temperance – She is not me, though I wish she was.

I’ve read all kinds of manifestos, from the short to the Communist.  I can either take them or leave them, honestly, which is probably why I haven’t come up with one of my own.  They can be motivating or distracting, boring or fascinating.  I can nod in agreement with every word or wish that the words could be scrubbed from the page before my eyes.  Which is why I’m not completely surprised that I didn’t find Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art to be the motivational masterpiece that so many others have.

I’ve been waging my own war with waning creativity lately, and perhaps that’s my problem.  For Pressfield, “resistance” is the enemy: the writer’s block, the tardy muse, the drugs and the sex and the rock ‘n’ roll that’s so much more appealing than forcing words to appear upon a page.  I can’t say he’s not right.  If there ever was an enemy to creativity, it would be that unnamed force that keeps the muse at bay.  All I know is that war is exhausting.

Raise that keyboard high!  Let the pencil strokes fly!

So, we fight!  We lift keyboard in hand and raise our pens to the fore!  We heft that palette upon our shield-arm, and thrust our brushes forward.  We slice and dice our ineffable enemy with keypresses and brushstrokes.  It won’t ever stop.  It’s around us everywhere, both seductive and violent.  It seeks to distract us from our objective: getting words on the page, lines and circles on the canvas.  It will stop at nothing to stop us.

You think you’re safe, don’t you?  You’re ensconced in your office or your studio, staring at the wide wall of your monitor, of your canvas.  You’ve barricaded the door, and blocked off all extraneous thought.  You have fingers poised, ready to perform intricate actions, to bring the vision that dances behind your eyes to life before you.  You ready yourself.  You’ve made sure your Maginot Line is well-fortified, and you’ve allied yourself with your neighboring distractions.

How about a little cake? something whispers in one ear.

You look around in alarm.  Nope, there’s nothing.  No one is holding a delicious slice of indulgence over your shoulder just inside your peripheral vision.  You return your attention to the blank whiteness before you.  You set your fingers on the home row.  You dip your brush into some basic black, then blue, and start stirring.

You’ll never be able to bring it to life, the voice says, menacing now.  You think you’re good enough, but you’re not!

But I am!  The voice is defiant, and you press deliberately upon the shift key.  The brush feels heavy in your hand as it hovers above the canvas.  And if I’m not, who will bring my creation to life?

That’s right!  Just hit that key!  I dare you!  And then another.  And then you’ll have a whole string of nonsense to cringe at!  Better to back away.

But!  But!  You slam your fingers over the keys now.  You’ve managed to write a sentence.  Your first line isn’t a thing of beauty, all smudged with paint or faulty antialiasing, but it’s there.  It’s a start.  You can always fix it later.

And I’ll be here later to bug you! the voice says.

You think you’ve won a respite, but Resistance has breached your Maginot Line.  Suddenly that imagined cake is looking pretty good, except it isn’t with you.  It’s at the bakery, halfway across town.  You put down another sentence, stroke out a gentle curve.  You mix another color, and futz with italics.  The cake screams, Buy me!  Its voice is louder than mere resistance.

Suddenly, you’re exhausted.  You’ve scratched out a start, but it isn’t anything close to what you intended, and your defenses are down.  You should keep slapping away at the enemy with your keyboard, jabbing at it with the cruel ballpoint of your trusty pen.  Instead, your head dips.

Curse you, Resistance!  You’ve won!

I’ve never been a warrior, unlike Pressfield.  I just don’t have the will to fight every day of my existence.  He might have armor and an unflagging spirit.  His words drip with challenge, and have been honed to optimal sharpness by a master blacksmith.  He slays, he declares victory every day.  I try to slay, thinking of the page’s blankness as an enemy, but instead I shrink away, pained.  I’m slashed to ribbons even as I’m seduced by distraction.

My inner storyteller is battered and bleeding, and she seeks respite from his relentless words.

And now she’s rambling about the Storyteller… sigh.

My inner writer isn’t a warrior.  My muse isn’t Durga.  Instead, she’s insatiably curious.  She’s innovative in her own quiet way.  She wants to know as much as you do what lies ahead for the myriad characters she’s woven, and wants to spin a yarn as best she can as they interact in the world she’s sculpted.  She is Storyteller, both for herself, and for anyone else who cares to listen to her words.  She hears Pressfield’s stirring words and lies down for a nap.

Nope, not for me, this endless clash!  It hurts too much!  Just tell me what comes next!

What next?  What is next?  She reaches inside herself for the world she’s created from the soil of thought and reality.  She feels it take shape in her hands as she feels the silken strand vibrate that she keeps connected to her characters at all times.  She sees as they do, and feels the clay flow into buildings, trees, races.  She watches and listens as they speak to each other.  She smiles as they become all the more alive in interaction.  In life.

Tell me, she whispers to them, what are you going to do?

Sometimes they comply with what she’s envisioned.  Sometimes they don’t, and chart their own course.  She is the last to predict, the first to step aside and let them assume control.  She speaks their words and thoughts.  She reveals their motivations and describes their actions.  She allows them to guide her fingers over the new world she’s created and refine it.  She is their conduit, their channel, and when they rest at the end of their journeys, she weeps until a new world beckons or new characters introduce themselves.

What’s next?

That should be my rallying cry, but sometimes I know what comes next and my Storyteller balks.  Why should I tell the story?  I already know what happens.  Who cares?

Because writing isn’t always about you, I tell her, but she usually ignores me.

I tell her to put on her armor and poke and prod herself into compliance with the corner of my keyboard, but she just curls up in a ball and hides.  I can’t blame her.

What does that have to do with archetypes?

I just recently started on Archetypes: Who Are You? by Caroline Myss.  So far, I’m not finding anything particularly surprising about it, though I haven’t really spent much time delving into my primary archetypes to see if there’s anything I can use to get me up off my butt creatively.

Myss points out in her introductory chapter that archetypes are universal.  Months before I picked up the book, I’d already intuited that Pressfield’s creativity is best represented by the Warrior archetype and that mine really isn’t.  I’m not a warrior, dammit!  I’m a Storyteller!  When I took Myss’ test at archetypeme.com, the results didn’t surprise me so much as finding out one of my dominant archetype’s alternate names is “Storyteller.”

In case you’re curious, my dominant results were: 33% Creative, 33% Intellectual and 14% Visionary.

I can see why so many creative and innovative artists find Pressfield’s work so motivating: my guess is that they either have a hint of the Warrior or the warrior’s drive within them.  Pioneers, heroes, and advocates all have to harness the warrior’s courage to impel others to change.  I’m a little too laid back (a very kind way of saying “low energy”) for his words to spur me properly.  Instead, I just felt tired after reading The War of Art.

The importance of ritual

If you take a look at the Amazon reviews for Pressfield’s book, you’ll see a number of comments about how Book 3 goes off the deep end in speaking of angels and rituals to the muses.  Sadly enough, this was the part of the book I found the most personally applicable, even if the language was highly figurative and “mystical” in nature.  Maybe Pressfield’s dead serious in viewing his language as concrete and literal, but I resonated with it on a more abstract level.

I’m going to diverge for a couple of seconds into the land of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator and cognitive functions.  You may or may not see the sixteen types of the MBTI as more pseudoscience and inaccurate mumbo-jumbo (I’m mixed about its true accuracy, even if I find my “type” describes me almost perfeclty).  Either way, to a certain extent, I’ve found the side-theory of cognitive functions to be very helpful in understanding how my personal thought process works.  Essentially, in this theory, there are four primary functions, expanded to eight based on their inward or outward direction: Thinking, Feeling, Sensing and Intuition.  All of these four can either be Extraverted (outwardly focused) or Introverted (inwardly focused).  I’m using Jung’s spelling of “extrovert.”

My personality type is INTP (Introverted Intuitive Thinking Perceiving), and my cognitive process stack is as follows:

  • Dominant: Introverted Thinking (personal inner mental model of the world outside)
  • Auxiliary: Extraverted Intuition (awareness of outer patterns and the complexity of the exterior universe and all its possibilities.  The “wheeeeee!” in life)
  • Tertiary: Introverted Sensing (recollection of personal experience in all its details, awareness of how the body feels internally)
  • Inferior: Extraverted Feeling (longing for universal harmony, universal values, the welfare of all within a group)

If you read a lot of books on developing intuition, you’ll find that most encompass the development of introverted intuition.  This is the land of gut feelings, your “sixth sense,” and the universe within you.  Pressfield’s was the first I’ve ever seen that explains exactly what extraverted intuition feels like.  You look and scan everything around you to get the gist of reality.  Suddenly, you’re smacked with an “A-ha!” moment, which can either hit you like a brick in the face, or like a gentle whisper.  When you hear of “angels” or muses actually whispering an idea in someone’s ear and you secretly wonder if the purveyor of such words is actually bonkers, maybe they aren’t.  Maybe they’re hearing their Extraverted Intuition talking and expressing the sensation in the most accurate way they can.  The experience feels highly abstracted, so the language follows suit.  Or maybe they really do believe they’re hearing angels and they’re nuts.

Pressfield’s rituals are precise, and his language, frankly, sounds insane if you’re not comfortable with extraverted intuition.  He’s elaborate in his processes for preparing his perception for the act of writing.  My own processes and rituals are far less precise, wacky and intense.  But, really, to ensure my best writing I do have a ritual to prep my mind for the writing act. In short, I prime my perception just as Pressfield does with his muse-invocations and prayers.

Basically, I imagine what mood I’m going to try to convey for the writing session.  I then visually scan my hard drive for the album that I think conveys the mood the most accurately.  I take a few deep breaths, fire up the album on Windows Media Player, and then I open my document.  Then I close my eyes and try to tap into my characters’ inner logic and emotions.  I remember what I wrote the previous session, and let myself get sucked into their world.  Without that kind of initial ritual and initiating process, my writing and inspiration suffer.

A germ of what might work for future exploration…

Who is your inner writer?  Who is your outer persona?  Are you a warrior?  A hero?  Someone who loves to slay inner demons?

If you’re like Pressfield at all, this manifesto will get your blood pumping.

I’m not.  Instead, I’m thinking I need to find a way to spark my Storyteller’s curiosity to get moving again.  I need to tap into her need to tell the story to others.  I need to actually perform my rituals to get her interested again.  In short, I need to focus on priming my perception.

Grokking the Author Platform

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stage

All the world’s a platform!

Publishing these days, from everything I’ve been reading, involves massive amounts of marketing on the part of the author.  You need media savvy, business acumen, and a vast array of skills that don’t actually seem to be related to writing.  I’m of two opposing positions on this new change, but here I’m going to pretend that I’m not feeling personally violated in the slightest.  Nope, not at all.  Nunh unh.  Instead, I’m going to try to convince myself that the process of developing a personal platform is sparkling with the fairy dust of inspiration, and glittering with pure potential.  Because it is, and in an odd way, it’s exhilarating.

So, what is this platform thing I’ve been ambling on about?  Glad you asked.

At its most fundamental level, your author platform is you.

Building from that base, your platform is how you present yourself, your personal strengths, and your writerly arts to the external world.  Your expertise, if you don’t mind me slipping into the marketing jargon I’ve been reading too much of lately.

Disclaimer: I’m just at the ground level (ridiculously grandiose exaggeration) of platform building myself, and I’m still trying to get my brain around how it’s done.  But I can point you to the books that have really helped me understand the process.

1. The Productive Writer by Sage Cohen

If you’re even thinking of trying to become published or working in any capacity as a professional writer, I highly recommend this book.  It also should have been the book I began with first when I was trying to understand author marketing and the platform-building process.  Sage Cohen’s writing walks an elegant line between the practical and inspirational, and for that alone I’d recommend this book even without her excellent overview of what platform building actually is.

In short, start here.  You’ll receive a solid basis and context for understanding a lot of the more concrete advice in Sell Your Book Like Wildfire, and Get Known Before the Book Deal.  Likely, you might be inspired enough to want to build a platform.  As it was, I’d already read the latter book, and had developed a thick crust of cynicism and annoyance.  This book washed it away in a tide of new ideas, and helped me to understand that a platform could actually serve well as both a professional and life guide.

Note: Turn off your inner editor when flipping through this book at a local bookstore.  For some reason, the horse’s “reins” are consistently spelled like a king’s “reign.”  I almost didn’t buy the book for that reason, and I’d have probably regretted that forever.

2. Sell Your Book Like Wildfire by Rob Eagar

I’m kind of torn in recommending this book over Get Known Before the Book Deal.  To be perfectly honest, the information within both books is quite similar, though Eagar’s book is more comprehensive.  Both rely on a fair amount of marketing jargon, but Eagar’s is probably a little more impenetrable; understandable considering this is fundamentally a business book first and a writing book second.  If you read this book, you probably won’t need Get Known, and I highly recommend you do.  I’m hugely biased though: this book reads like a professional effort, and not like a “chatty” self-help book the way Get Known does.

Eagar covers every aspect of platform building for both fiction (yay!) and nonfiction writers, from media interviews to newsletters, to guerrilla marketing tactics.  And he does it in concrete steps that are reasonably easy to follow.  The one drawback is his emphasis on shelling out huge amounts of money for professional web design, videotaping of speaking engagements, etc.  You’d have to be wealthy to afford everyone he suggests hiring.  That said, he’s clear that you don’t have to do everything in the book to build a respectable platform.

If you want to know everything there is to know about creating a platform, this is your book.

Note:  The term “leader” is used a lot in this book before Eager finally defines what he means in the second-to-last chapter.  He’s referring to the decision-makers in any group setting: managers, executives, church pastors and the like.

3. (tentative) Get Known Before the Book Deal by Christina Katz

I’m going to admit right off the bat that this book royally ticked me off.  It’s probably unfair, but there’s something in the author’s style that really, really annoys me.  The “chattiness” I referred to earlier isn’t the chatting of a friend to another friend, but that of a parent to a child, with that same hint of condescension and lecturing.  That put me right off the book, even if I did read it cover to cover.  The personality is thick in this book, while Eagar tends to back away and usually lets the facts do the talking.

If either of the examples below doesn’t bother you, or actually helps you somehow, you might want to choose Katz’ book over Eagar’s.  Otherwise, go with Sell Your Book Like Wildfire.  There’s enough overlap in material that you won’t miss out if you only read one of the two.

  • “The problem for writers who want a leg up today isn’t the state of the world, the unstable economy, or even the climate in the publishing industry… The problem isn’t (if you have one of these) your editor, your agent, your publisher or even your publisher’s publicist…  The problem just might be, my dear fellow writer, you…  Specifically your attitude.”
  • Exercise for establishing your platform: “Have you ever imagined yourself as an action figure?  Want to imagine yourself as an action figure?  Go to [website] and browse the action figures, and then describe yours.  What props does your action figure have?”

Katz makes a huge deal of the concept of “authenticity” in this book, and if that resonates with you, you’ll probably connect to it better than I did.  Despite the constant reminder to always be genuine when interacting with the outer world through your platform, I found the book to feel very inauthentic, in that Katz seems to have a clear platform-defined persona which she keeps under tight restraint.

That said, there’s a lot of valuable information in this book, and if you can read past the platform spin better than I can, you’ll get a lot out of it.

Note: If you really do want to see platform in action, read this book.  This book is clearly a product of Christina Katz’ platform, a real-life case study in what something engineered specifically for platform-expanding purposes might look like.

If you’ve been wondering what to read to get your brain around marketing and platform-building, I hope I’ve helped cut down your potential list just a little.