Deciphering Clarice Lispector's writing

The books by Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector were recommended to me by a friend who likes her work. I recently purchased two of Lispector's books, Near to the Wild Heart, her first novel published in 1943, and An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Pleasures, published in 1968. Two books published twenty-five years apart, just to get an idea of how she wrote and evolved as a writer. Based on these two books alone, I can truthfully say that I will not be reading more of her work. It's not that I think that she's not a good writer, I just don't think she is a great writer. 

I found it very difficult to get through Near to the Wild Heart. Fragmented is the best way I can describe the book and the experience of reading it. It was disquieting to try to pull it all together, to piece together the substance of her novel. The feeling while reading it was not a pleasant one; I struggled. Not so much to understand what the story was about (a woman, her early life, her husband, his lover, and eventually her lover), but how she chose to go about it. The disjointedness and the fragmentation were jarring. The main character, Joana, is a young woman with considerable mental problems-- a hypersensitive woman who dissects herself and her thoughts continually, ad nauseam. She does not live her life, she rather observes it, as though she stands outside herself. She wants to live life, but she is unable to, whether by choice or by virtue of some mental affliction. She is disconnected from herself (and others), yet hypervigilant about what each thought and utterance means, hers and others. She is constantly aware of herself and her thoughts almost immediately after thinking them, but much less so of her feelings. Or if she is aware of her feelings (hyper-aware), she analyzes them continuously in a kind of stream of consciousness (no limits on her thoughts or expression of them), such that they are dissected away into a state of feelinglessness. Suffice it to say that a normal person cannot live this way and does not behave this way; her behavior borders on madness, on craziness, and a normal reader can feel the madness. At least that was the effect on me. I couldn't wait to finish the book; I considered abandoning the book halfway into it, but decided to finish it so that I could evaluate it properly. There were parts of the book where Lispector pulls the narrative together into an understandable story, only to be followed by more disintegration and descent into fragmentation and discordance. The only aspect of the book that you could bet on as you near its end is the knowledge that Joana will continue to behave in the same vein as when the book opens. It seemed to me that as she evolved and grew older, her same state of mind grew worse, if that was possible. I'm not sure how insanity is defined, but Joana's life comes close to some kind of definition of it. 

I read An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Pleasures, before Near to the Wild Heart. The same tendency toward disjointedness and fragmentation was present, but much less so than in Near to the Wild Heart. Lispector had by this time grown older (by twenty-five years) and had married and had children. Perhaps that had a stabilizing effect on her. In any case, this book had a reasonably happy ending (Lori and Ulysses end up together) but not before Lori undergoes personal transformation/evolution in order to be able to meet Ulysses at his level. It's a strange book in that he seems to be the mentor and she the mentee, so in that sense it is an unbalanced relationship. She must evolve to his higher emotional and philosophical 'level' (his perception of himself) in order for them to be lovers, per his requirement. I found his behavior to be unkind and cold at times, and I wondered why she wanted to be with him at all, especially when he finally admits to her that he is as 'lost' and confused as she is about the big questions in life. 

Deciphering Clarice Lispector's writing was perhaps an ambitious title for this post. Based on the two books I've read by her, I don't think I accomplished that. But I give myself credit for forcing myself to finish these two novels. Because when she did manage to pull the narratives together, I found myself wanting her to continue to do that, because that's when the books became engaging to me. I understand that others may have different opinions about her writing, and that's fine. But I don't think reading should feel like a chore, and with her books, it did. My next book will be a detective story or something similar; I simply don't have the patience anymore to try to wade through a dense tangle of random thoughts and feelings in the quest to understand life, because it is not possible to reach the goal. Life cannot be fully understood, it must be lived in order to achieve some small amount of understanding about our place in our life and the lives of others. 

A poem for Christmas--Silent Stars

I wrote this poem years ago when I was a teenager. I have always loved the spirit of Christmas, remembering back to those days when our parents, schools and churches prepared us for the birth of the savior. Life was simpler then, or at least it feels that way from the vantage point of now. I started writing poetry when I was young and have continued throughout my life. It was a focus during my teenage years when little else except my studies held my attention. Writing poetry was a way of escaping into myself, of getting away from the outside world that demanded my utmost attention. I can't even begin to imagine how much the outside world demands of teenagers now, but from what I see and read on social media, it seems that the demands are overwhelming. These were my thoughts way back when......

Silent Stars

Wander across sea and sky--
Stars nightborne in flight.
Carry on across all time--
Centuries ago began your light.
Go on and move into the night.
Your silence is heard then,
Your light has touched all men.
And once upon ago two thousand years,
You shone upon no ordinary man. 

Copyright Paula M De Angelis

All rights reserved. 

A poem for this Christmas season--The Advent Wreath by James Palmaro

My friend Jean sent me this poem about Advent wreaths. It's a lovely poem written by James Palmaro, a poet who is blind. 

The Advent Wreath

The leaves are all gone, the trees are barren and bare,

The autumn winds are chilling, yet anticipation’s everywhere. 

It is the Advent season, 

The winter nights grow near, 

We search for the warmth inside ourselves, 

Wreaths are everywhere.

Cousins to our Christmas trees that bring us joy and brilliance,

We place them in and on our homes, 

And they remind us of resilience.

Circular in shape, symbols of connection

That despite the cold and dark of night 

We’ll find light and resurrection.

Give me your tired, your poor

Emma Lazarus wrote this sonnet in 1883, and in 1903 the poem was cast onto a bronze plaque that was mounted inside the lower level of the Statue of Liberty's pedestal. We know parts of this poem since it is associated with the Statue of Liberty, which is one of the first sights immigrants see and saw when they first arrived in America. 'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore'--these are the lines that most people are familiar with and that represent what America stands for and stood for a century ago. This is the entire poem: 

The New Colossus

by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Copyright Credit: n/a

Source: Emma Lazarus: Selected Poems and Other Writings (2002)

The great divide

Parable is a poem I wrote many years ago--my reflections on the great divide between the wealthy and the poor, inspired by the parable in the New Testament about the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31 NIV - The Rich Man and Lazarus - “There was - Bible Gateway)

Parable

Lazarus in the street,
While in the penthouses above
The glitterati meet.
In the end I left
The glamour, the effete chic.
(Not that I belonged).
‘City of vipers’--
Women poised like cobras,
Bedecked in jewels and haughty crowns,
Ready to strike, tongues flicking.
Gold lame skins rise and fall
With their breathing.
Fixing you with their stares.
Outside the frost-edged window
Awaits the city---
The viper rich indoors
See it not, nor feel.
Teeth flash, capped, even, gleaming--
Fangs for the night about to end
About to start
That never ends, for reality 
Is a party, a toss of the coin--
One more Lazarus for the gutter,
One more snake for the pit. 

from Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books

All rights reserved. Copyright Paula Mary De Angelis

My author page on Amazon

As many of you know, I've been writing for many years. If you'd like to check out my Author page on Amazon, here is the link: 

Amazon.com: Paula M. De Angelis: books, biography, latest update

These I Can Promise--a short poem by Mark Twain

A short but lovely poem by Mark Twain.....

It's been a while--an update

It's been a while since I wrote any posts for my blog. It's not because I didn't want to, but because life threw me a curve ball that I spent the month of April dealing with. Suffice it to say that the curve ball was health-related and that I spent nearly a month in the hospital. I'm back home now and recovering from a heart operation. My doctors tell me that I will be fine, and I trust them since they're the experts. But I wanted to let you know that I'm still writing my blog and I'll be posting more soon as time goes on......

Thank you for your support, always. 

Avery Corman's The Old Neighborhood

I can unequivocally recommend The Old Neighborhood by Avery Corman, published in 1980. It's one of those books that comes as close to perfect as an author can get. I imagine that when Corman wrote it, he finished it and understood that he had written a little masterpiece. Because it really is a little gem, for reasons that are almost too complex to put into words. The feelings the book engenders are those feelings that make one desperate to hang onto those aspects of life that one doesn't understand are truly important in the making of ourselves until we are much older. When we are young we are often so desperate to get away from the town and/or home where we grew up, for reasons that make sense--we need to let go of our childhood in order to become functioning adults--but at the same time we don't understand until much later how much those times formed us and even how much we miss them. 

I lived in the Bronx from 1980 until 1985, in and around the area where Corman's protagonist, Steven Robbins, grew up and eventually left. So I understand why many people did not want to stay there, even though the neighborhoods north of 200th street and the Grand Concourse were safe for the most part. I enjoyed my time there, but I would never have wanted to settle there permanently. By the time I lived there, much of the lower Bronx looked like a war zone, with decrepit and destroyed buildings and debris everywhere. It was not like that in the 1940s. But still, most young people growing up there in the 1940s and 50s wanted to leave the old neighborhood in their quest to become successful. That meant moving to Manhattan. Steven Robbins leaves his humble beginnings behind after being offered an ad-job in California. He becomes a successful advertising man, marrying a beautiful woman--Beverly--along the way, and raising two daughters with her. They live first in California, where she grew up, and then move to New York when he is offered an ad-job he can't refuse. Beverly is no slouch, and she eventually finds her niche in terms of using her art education. They both become successful after a time, but they end up growing apart as a result. It is Beverly who wants out of the marriage; Steven is perfectly willing to put the effort in to save it. But they're at different places in their lives when they divorce; after a summer apart at Beverly's request, she tells Steven that she wants only more success, whereas Steven, who has not been happy with his success in quite a long time, doesn't really know what he wants to do with his life. He just knows two things--that he doesn't want to work in advertising anymore, and that he doesn't want to lose Beverly, but he does.  

Corman writes matter-of-factly and succinctly for the most part, but there are parts that tug at your heartstrings, especially when he describes Steven's relationship with Sam the Bookie and his experiences playing basketball with the locals. Steven finds the happiness he's looking for when he returns to live in the Bronx area where he grew up after he and Beverly divorce. It draws him out of his lethargy and depression. He rediscovers himself and what matters to him. But eventually the people around him there change, die, or move on, and he faces another emotional life upheaval. He ends up moving to Manhattan and opening a collectibles/antiques store called The Old Neighborhood, where one can find items from a distant past. You can go home again or you can carry home within you, Corman says, and you can be happy. But you cannot hang onto the past anymore than you can hang onto a dead relationship or outmoded ideas. Life has a way of changing you, pushing you onward, and that is where the melancholy seeps in. Because we do change and move on, even if we sometimes think we have remained the same person no matter what. We haven't. Perhaps our values remain the same, because they were formed by the upbringing we had. But we are not the same. Even if we return to where we grew up, we cannot recapture what was. That would be the wrong reason for returning. But we can appreciate it for what it meant and means to us, for what it tells us about ourselves and why it makes us happy, we can savor the memories and relationships, and then let it go like we must let go of all things eventually. Life is about stepping out into the unknown, about taking risks, about trying and failing and trying again. Sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we don't. Corman understands that, and he has written a lovely story about a man who found himself and what mattered to him at mid-life.  Well-worth reading. 

A nice poem by Oliver Herford

I came across this poem today and thought I'd post it since my next post will be about birds and the bird feeder I bought for my garden. Enjoy.....

I Heard a Bird Sing

I heard a bird sing

In the dark of December.

A magical thing

And sweet to remember.

"We are nearer to Spring 

Than we were in September,” 

I heard a bird sing 

In the dark of December. 

From Welcome Christmas! A Garland of Poems (Viking Press, 1955) by Oliver Herford

A good poem by Martha Medeiros

This poem by Martha Medeiros--You Start Dying Slowly--resonated with me........

You start dying slowly

if you do not travel,

if you do not read,

If you do not listen to the sounds of life,

If you do not appreciate yourself.

You start dying slowly

When you kill your self-esteem;

When you do not let others help you.

You start dying slowly

If you become a slave of your habits,

Walking everyday on the same paths, 

If you do not change your routine,

If you do not wear different colours

Or you do not speak to those you don’t know.

You start dying slowly

If you avoid to feel passion

And their turbulent emotions;

Those which make your eyes glisten

And your heart beat fast.

You start dying slowly

If you do not change your life when you are not satisfied with your job, or with your love,

If you do not risk what is safe for the uncertain,

If you do not go after a dream,

If you do not allow yourself,

At least once in your lifetime,

To run away from sensible advice.

Caring for the birds in winter

The natural world keeps our hearts and minds calm and sane. In this poem, it is a crow that changes the mood of the observer, who is having a bad day. The simple act of shaking snow down onto the observer saves the rest of his otherwise bad day from being a total loss. Nature has a way of doing that. Of course the crow has no way of knowing that nor did it shake down the snow deliberately. Birds are interesting creatures that open a window onto the natural world. I love watching them in the garden during the summer months, as I've written about before. So many different birds--sparrows, magpies, crows, small robins, blue tits, bullfinches--the list is long. Sometimes seagulls show up, but not often. 

This winter, I'm going to go to the garden every other day to feed the birds. I haven't done that before, although I do feed the birds that land on the balcony outside our kitchen window. Those birds are mostly pigeons, although we do get a few magpies and sparrows too. They all love sunflower seeds. I bought a nice and presumably sturdy standing bird feeder station on Amazon (where else do you get such a wide selection?) and am waiting for it to be delivered. I'll find a good place for it in the garden once I get it. Here is a link to the feeder if anyone else is interested in buying something similar: Urban Deco Bird Feeding Station With Feeders - Bird Feeders Hanging Station Heavy Duty Bird Feeder Pole With Bird Feeders For Small Birds - Bird Feeder Stand With Bird Bath Tray And Bird Feeder Tray : Amazon.co.uk: Garden

Caring for the birds in winter is important for so many reasons. They are little creatures who grace our lives with their beauty and their antics. They make us laugh, but they also make us ponder nature's ways. A world without birds, without their squawking and chirping and singing, would be a dead world. They make us forget ourselves, forget our trials and tribulations, for a few moments. It is worth taking care of them just for that alone. 

Another poem--Dreams Like Smoke-- from my collection Parables and Voices

Dreams like Smoke 

The many misconceptions 

That love would somehow 

Answer many unanswered questions, 

Fill the void-- 

Free them from unwanted deception. 

But deception in man is eternal 

And unyielding, they fool themselves first, 

Not each other. 

For they brought to love themselves, 

And the expectations of a lifetime. 

But dreams drift silently onward-- 

Dissipating upward like the rings of cigarette smoke 

In one of the many rooms they inhabit. 

They don’t stop dreaming, they just navigate 

The aimless drifting with another kind of care, 

Or lack thereof.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

My poem--Train from Michigan

This is a poem from my first published collection of poems entitled Parables and Voices. You'll find it on Amazon if you'd like to read more of my poetry (Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books). 

Train from Michigan

I dreamed then of my father, I was 

On the train; outside a yellow moon 

Full-light circle against the blue-black sky. 

His face came into memory 

As I drifted in the sleep of transit, 

That is uneasy and unsettled. 

We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio, 

The train's whistle blowing lonely 

As though miles ahead of us-- 

Yet ever with us through the night. 

I thought the thoughts of transit-- 

My father, dead these three years, 

Perhaps traveled this same train 

Bound from Michigan to New York. 

He knew people in the north of Michigan, 

Farmers and ultimately life-long friends. 

I see his face, with me always. 

My head rests lightly against the train window-- 

When I awake it is because my head has banged  

And fallen against the window, jarring me. 

I visit friends, they live in Michigan now 

Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose. 

I meet new people on the way to visit old friends, 

And think about old friendships as I make my way home. 

New people I am always letting in; they find me or 

We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits 

On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me. 

Do they, these spirits, find each other? 

Are we all in search of one? 

About trains, I know they draw me so, 

Luring me with the call to adventure, 

Like a call to arms. 

I boarded one, bound for Michigan, 

And then one back, to New York. 

Time spread out over hours of track-- 

Moving me, my life, along, 

From one point to another. 

Spreading me out, thin, fluid, 

Over time which is suddenly the merger 

Of past, present, future. 

Like liquid spreading I see my life 

Moving over these tracks, out and beyond, 

Expanding to assimilate Michigan 

As I have before incorporated other states 

And other countries, American and European. 

A fear that I can never belong to someone-- 

How could one keep me from flooding 

Past the walls and out into the open spaces? 

It is an abstract love of world I feel, 

A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable. 

To care for it, about it, accept it for itself,  

The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land, 

The farms and their greenness in the summer-- 

The land you pass through while travelling on a train. 

Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities, 

Unknown, but knowable. 

I look out, I know this river-- 

I grew up along it, knowing it stretched 

For miles, out of my reach--I see it now 

In places I never knew before 

And feel the vastness of its beauty. 

Back in New York, I grew up here, 

But I have grown beyond it.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis

All rights reserved 

Matthew Kelly's mission is to get us back on track

I just finished Matthew Kelly's The Three Ordinary Voices of God, and can heartily recommend it. It is an inspirational short book that focuses on learning to listen to the voices through which God communicates with us. Those voices are our needs, talents, and desires. Kelly's main point is that we live in a noise-filled society that distracts us at every turn. Just think social media, news, materialism, emphasis on worldly success, the newest gadgets--the list is long. All of them encourage us to ignore the important voices that want our attention. In a non-judgmental way, Kelly prods us to pay attention before it is too late. His fear (for himself and for us) is that we will mis-live our lives and not become the 'best versions of ourselves'. That we will waste our lives on non-essential things rather than the essential things. We can only become the best versions of ourselves if we 'let go and let God', if we ask God to show us what he wants for our lives. His appeal to readers at the end of the book is to 'come to the quiet', because it is only then that we can hear and pay attention to the voices of God and discover the 'want beyond the want' (we are never really satisfied when we get what we think we want), which is God. His words resonate with me and many others because he knows how difficult it is to pay attention to the voices of God (our needs, talents, and desires) in a society that is constantly distracting us and pulling us in all directions. It is his opinion that most people don't know what they want and don't know who they are or what they're made for. He's on a mission to wake us up and get us back on track. He doesn't want us to waste our lives. Because in his view, society as it is now will drag us down and prevent us from moving toward God.  

I was reminded of Mary Oliver's poem The Summer Day; the last two lines ask 'Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?' Indeed--a very good question. Mary Oliver was acutely aware of the natural life around her; she paid attention to it and to her needs, talents and desires. She wrote “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work". Not unlike what Matthew Kelly says. However, unlike Kelly, she was not part of an organized religion (Kelly is a committed Catholic), but she had a special relationship with God. 

My question is--how can one go through life and not pay attention? There is so much to pay attention to. We live in a marvelous world that can inspire and energize us. Even if you are not a person of faith, you can seek silence and watch and listen to the world around you. It has so much to teach us. I never tire of learning, and I think will serve me well as I move into my later years. I can sit silently in my garden and watch the sparrows approach me tentatively, hoping for a handout (they usually get one).  During hot dry summers, I've learned that the sparrows and bees will line up on the bird bath in order to drink water. Who knew? Who knew that sparrows like to bathe communally? These are just a few small observations about the natural life I see in my garden. I find God in my garden because I have hours of quiet in order to do so. What about the dearest people in my life, without whom I would not be who I am today? I love them, and it would not occur to me to ignore them. I thank God everyday for them. I am still working on becoming an essentialist, on cutting away all that is non-essential in my life. I know it is and will always be a work in progress. We are not perfect and will never reach perfection on this earth. But books like Kelly's remind us that it's possible to change, to turn our lives around. Sometimes in order to effect change, we just need to change a small thing each day. For example, make a little time for silence. Go to the quiet. It's a good place to start. 

A Tale of Two Rivers, revisited

Today, as I was walking along the Akerselva river and enjoying the autumn feeling all around me, I remembered a post that I had written back in 2010, the first year of my blog. Fourteen years ago this past July, I wrote A Tale of Two Rivers--A New Yorker in Oslo: A Tale of Two Rivers (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)--about the Hudson and Akerselva rivers. The post got noticed by the Nyack News & Views and they wrote a short article about it--As Others See Us: From Hudson To Herring - Nyack News & Views (nyacknewsandviews.com). Needless to say, that made my day back then, and still does...

The tragedy sniffers as described by Charles Bukowski

The more I read Charles Bukowski's writings, the more I like them. He can definitely be crude, rude and abrasive. But his prose-poetry touches on some really timely and interesting themes. Like this poem, They Are Everywhere, which could describe a lot of what goes on in society at present. Why all the anger? 

They are everywhere

The tragedy-sniffers are all

about

they get up in the morning

and begin to find things

wrong

and they fling themselves

into a rage about

it,

a rage that lasts until

bedtime,

where even there

they twist in their

insomnia,

not able to rid their

mind

of the petty obstacles

they have

encountered.

They feel set against,

it’s a plot.

And by being constantly

angry they feel that

they are constantly

right.

You see them in traffic

honking wildly

at the slightest

infraction,

cursing,

spewing their

invectives.

You feel them

in lines

at banks

at supermarkets

at movies,

they are pressing

at your back

walking on your

heels,

they are impatient to

a fury.

They are everywhere

and into

everything,

these violently

unhappy

souls.

Actually they are

frightened,

never wanting to be

wrong

they lash out

incessantly 

it is a malady

an illness of

that

breed.

The first one

I saw like that

was my

father

and since then

I have seen a

thousand

fathers,

ten thousand

fathers

wasting their lives

in hatred,

tossing their lives

into the

cesspool

and

ranting

on.

Charles Bukowski

Interesting viewpoint from Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski wrote this poem about rising early versus sleeping late.....

Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

Dreaming of the garden

My latest poem--Dreaming of the Garden, copyright 2024 by Paula Mary De Angelis. All rights reserved.  

Last night
I dreamed of the garden
of its simple beauty 
that greets me 
when I arrive there 
early in the morning
when no one is there
except me

Crocuses and snowdrops
await me
along with honeybees
that have discovered both
buzzing from flower to flower
in the sun that warms them 
and me for a few afternoon hours

Yesterday I happened upon
a little robin 
singing his heart out
loud and clear and unafraid
to anyone who would listen
I listened 
because he had something of importance to tell me
it’s spring and he wants a mate

I dream of my garden
a sanctuary, a place of worship
one with the divine 
perhaps by design
miracles happening before 
my eyes, wondrous
watching the ground for signs of life
feeling my soul align
with the miracles before me

I sleep and then I dream
of a garden that I create
anew each year 
in line with a kind of
divine design
my hands guided by a light
that has been there for centuries 
serenity

Book promotion

It's time again for some book promotion. It's a necessary part of being a writer, whether you've published via a publishing house or gone the self-publishing route. From what I understand, many writers who have published their books via large publishing houses find themselves in the same predicament as me--having to promote their books themselves. Publishing houses require it. So even though some of the downsides of self-publishing are that you have to wear all of the job hats yourself, it heartens me to know that had I published in a traditional fashion, I'd still be expected to promote my books. I've learned quite a bit by publishing my books myself, being responsible for, with some few exceptions--writing, editing, designing a book cover (I've gotten excellent help with that), publishing on a digital platform (the excellent Kindle Direct Publishing platform), book marketing and promotion. I've run ads for my books using Amazon and Facebook; I also have a Books by Paula M De Angelis Facebook page. I've also exhibited one of my books at the international annual Frankfurt Book Fair held in Germany. I have a website as well as this blog, and I use both to give updates about my books. 

The first book that I ever published has been the one that has sold the most of all of the books that I've published. The subject matter--passive aggressive leaders--clearly struck a nerve with many readers. It sold very well for a first-time author, from all of the articles I've read about what one can expect to earn from a first book. So that was and still is encouraging. 

My Amazon Author Page: Amazon.com: Paula M. De Angelis: books, biography, latest update

My blog: A New Yorker in Oslo (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)

My website: PM De Angelis - Updates (paulamdeangelis.com)

To my many readers who read this blog each day, thank you for your support. Please check out my books; you won't be disappointed.