Patricia J. DeLois

As a library intern, I conducted a focus group with a certain group of elderly ladies to find out what they wanted from the library.

"We like authors with three names," they said. "Write that down."

Mary Higgins Clark. Anne Rivers Siddons. (I suggested Joyce Carol Oates, but no, they didn't want her.)

Valuable information, and duly noted in my report.

When my boss found out that my book was being published, he asked if I was going to use three names, like Barbara Taylor Bradford.

"No," I said, "I'm going to use my middle initial, like Homer J. Simpson."

My middle initial has been part of my signature for longer than I can say. At some point I ceased to remember that I had a middle name; I had nothing but an initial. It was only when Joanne told me her middle name was Patricia that I remembered my middle name was Joann. Now we work together, and we call each other Joanne Patricia and Patricia Joann. We're like a bad comedy act. We are a bad comedy act.

But I'm Patricia J. on the dotted line. Always.

Now I've got powerful and influential people in the publishing industry telling me I should drop my middle initial, to "simplify" my name.

Seriously? Is it that complicated? I don't think people are confused by it. I meet people at book groups, and they call me Patricia, until I say, "Call me Patti." No one's ever called me Patricia J.

I told the agent I hope this isn't a deal breaker, because I'm not inclined to change my signature. Maybe if my middle name were Coreghessan, but...no, probably not.

Goals

Never had 'em. Plans, sure, and schemes, and half-baked ideas, but not goals. The only goal I ever had was to finish library school, and that wasn't even my idea. I was on the tail end of a string of people who inexplicably took advice from Georgia.

"I think you should buy that house," she said to Jeff Curtis, and he bought the house.

"I think you should buy that car," she said to a co-worker, and he bought the car.

"I think you should go to library school," she said to me, and I said:

"I'll apply. If I'm accepted, I'll go."

Of course, applying is always easier said than done. I had to take the Miller Analogy Test, which involved registration and bus schedules and whatnot. I scored freakishly high, which means absolutely nothing except that I happen to be good at word games, but those percentiles were the reason I got in. It couldn't have been my interview, because that didn't go well at all.

So there was the test, and then the interview, and then classes and papers and whatnot, and it was one thing after another until it was over. The process was complicated by the fact that I got kicked out part way through, but that's another story. Basically it just meant more hoops to jump through, which I did, and I got back in and finished the program, and I've got the damn degree in a closet somewhere if anyone ever asks to see it. So far, no one has.

This is my one experience with a goal, and what I learned is that you have to keep the goal in the back of your mind and focus on the task in front of you. Finish that, and then finish the next one, and keep doing that until you get to the end.

So I'm kind of at a loss with this publishing thing. In publishing, it seems, the goal is always more--more books, more readers, more sales, more money. You don't ever get to the end.

It's been freaking me out this past week, but with a shedload of help from my friends, I think I've got it back in perspective. My goal is to finish the second novel.

After that, I'm going to steal all Jodi Picoult's fans.

My Role Model

People ask who my favorite authors are, but no one ever asks about my role model.

It's Jerry Seinfeld. Thanks for asking.

This is what I've heard: when the network executives tried to push Seinfeld into a more conventional sitcom--everyone sleeping with everyone else, presumably, followed by someone getting married and having twins--Seinfeld would say, "I don't have to do this. I can go back to doing standup."

The beauty in this is that he wasn't bluffing. He would have been perfectly happy to go back to standup, just as he was perfectly happy to do the show, on his own terms.

If you've seen the movie Comedian--a documentary about standup comedy, Seinfeld's in particular--you may remember a scene in which a young comic is bemoaning his lack of success. All his friends are established in their careers, he complains, while he's spent years working as a comedian, and what does he have to show for it?

Seinfeld puts a stop to the whining with a simple question: Is there something you'd rather be doing?

*

The agent contacted me a few days ago to report that there's been "some interest" in the two-novel package.

"But they have some questions," she said, and one of the questions was: do I intend to keep writing?

Seems like a funny question. Why would I stop? Why would I write at all if there were something I'd rather be doing?