In 2004 I was in a funk
over my writing life. At last I’d landed an agent, but he wasn’t able to sell
either of my manuscripts. And then he ended up firing me. (Much later I
realized that he didn’t know what the heck he was doing, and I should have
actually fired him, but that’s another
story). One of these novels, after much revision, ended up as my thesis for my
MFA program in 2008. But the other ms, called Falling Uphill—what could be described as a “chick-lit mystery with
a little bit of old Hollywood thrown in”—went into my “trunk,” only to gather
dust on my hard drive.
Flash forward to 2011.
By now I’ve had two novels traditionally published and self-pubbed e-books are
all the rage. And, I thoutht, why not take another look at Falling Uphill—maybe I could use it to jump on this indie-pub
bandwagon. I hadn’t touched the ms for some seven years and as I read, I got
caught up, just like a new reader. Did I write this? What’s going to happen next?
I couldn’t remember how it all turned out. And, best of all, I liked it!
So I got to work. I put Falling Uphill out as part of Amazon’s
Select Program under its Kindle Direct Publishing platform. This meant agreeing
to sell the book exclusively on Amazon for a three-month period. Under the
Select Program you get paid not only for the copies of books you sell, but also
for books borrowed from Amazon’s lending library for users who have a Prime
membership. But the best thing about the Select Program for me was being able
to offer Falling Uphill for free for
five days. When I did this (along with some self-promotion regarding the free
giveaway), I garnered 35,000 downloads. This led to the book charting quite
well on various Kindle free and paid bestseller charts, which gave it a visibility
it wouldn’t have otherwise attained. Sales have remained steady and my Amazon
reviews more than tripled. And through this people have also found out about my
other books. Gaining new readers—that’s what it’s all about for me.
I couldn’t be happier
with the experience. Pretty good for a trunk novel that probably never would
have seen the light of day without the digital publishing revolution.
Excerpt from Chapter One of FallingUphill by Wendy Nelson Tokunaga
Ruth Fenton is dead, but I don’t know what this has to do with
me.
I press the button on the answering machine
once more.
This
is a message for Candace Grey. Ms. Grey, this is Sally Claiborne at the West
Portal Home for the Aged in San Francisco. We’re sorry to inform you that Ruth
Fenton passed away on Monday. A memorial service will be held here next
Wednesday.
Sally
has left her phone number and says to call if I have any questions. Yes, I do:
Who is Ruth Fenton?
After
spending four brain-numbing hours at my office correcting finals, it’s already
way past ten. And I’ll still be late getting my grades in, which seems to
happen every semester. As usual I’ll have to get up extra early tomorrow and
finish inputting them into the computer.
Jeff’s still not home. When I saw the
blinking light on the answering machine I assumed it was a message from him—not
a mysterious call from San Francisco. It’s Thursday and already this is the
fourth time Jeff’s arrived home later than me this week. This means every day
so far. Is he going to tell me that yet another meeting with his
department head required his attendance? I don’t know if I can keep buying
that.
“You
sure he’s not cheating?” My friend Laney Svensson didn’t mince words over lunch
today.
“Cheating?”
I put on my best that’s-out-of-the-question face, but I have to admit the
thought has crossed my mind. After celebrating our fifth-year anniversary of
living together just the previous month (a celebration that was all my idea—a
weekend at the Rose Petal Inn bed-and-breakfast in Stevensville, with a view of
Lake Michigan), there’s still no urgency on his part to set a wedding date.
“Is it really necessary to secure a piece
of paper to prove our love?” is one of his favorite lines. And I get no
straight answer as to why, when he’s told yes, said piece of paper is
required, other than, “I’m just not ready yet and you’re so nice to be so
patient with me. Give me time.” Toss in these recent bouts of lateness and it’s
enough to make a girl wonder if indeed something fishy is going on.
Ruth
Fenton. Ruth Fenton.
I
file through my brain, hoping to jog my memory into arriving at a clue as to
who she could be. I forgot all about eating so I toss an individual frozen
salami and sausage pizza into the microwave. I’m not about to make dinner for
two for the late Mr. Jeff Sands. As the pizza pops and sizzles I hear the front
door, then see Jeff in the doorway of the kitchen.
He
looks tired and a little drunk. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “But some of the
students took me out for a beer to celebrate the end of the semester.”
“Did
you eat something?”
“Yeah.”
He opens the refrigerator and takes out a hunk of Monterey Jack cheese and a
Cadbury Strawberry Crème bar. “But I’m still hungry.”
I
stare at his food choices, and conclude that it really isn’t just my
imagination that his eating habits have lately become increasingly bizarre.
“How come you didn’t call?” The microwave
beeps and I remove my pizza, throwing it on a plate.
“I
knew you’d be sweating it out grading finals,” he says. “Did you get your
grades in?”
“No.”
He
yawns. “Well, that’s no surprise.”
I
frown. Procrastination is not in Jeff’s vocabulary—he turned in his grades a
week before the deadline, as usual.
“So what students did you go out with?”
“Just
a group from my English Lit class. No one you’d know.”
I
wonder if maybe it was more like one particular student he was with. Perhaps
Stephanie Filcher? I spotted him talking to her last week on campus behind the
library, sitting together on a bench in the oak grove, a well-known make-out
spot for students.
Stephanie has just finished my Anthropology
200 Gender, Mass Media and Society class, and is as auburn-haired, hazel-eyed,
rosebud-lipped, and milk-skinned as an American Girl doll. She probably weighs
more than I do, but her slight chubbiness is displayed in firm, rounded curves
that are flattering on a college sophomore, but would appear downright pudgy on
anyone over twenty-five.
When the semester started she made a point
of telling me she had “that hottie” (her words) Professor Sands for English
Lit, as if to see my reaction. It was obvious she knew he was my boyfriend,
though it wasn’t something we broadcasted all over school. Very tacky for
someone out of high school a good two years and enrolled in a halfway decent
private college like Jonesbury (no University of Michigan, but respectable) to
use words like “hottie” in front of her teacher.
But
it also might look tacky to ask Jeff exactly what he was doing with Stephanie
Filcher at the oak grove, even though I’m picturing him on his outing tonight
sucking down a Corona with her—in bed.
“I
have to tell you something,” he says.
The
professorial gravity in his voice nearly makes my heart stop. I’m transported
back to high school, to Mr. Flack’s advanced geometry class, my knees trembling
as he’s about to announce final grades. Here it comes. I brace myself for the
inevitable
I’m-in-love-with-Stephanie-Filcher-however-I-wish-you-the-best-of-luck-in-all-your-future-endeavors
confession. I wish I were dead like Ruth Fenton. I hold my breath. “What?”
“I
just found out I’m teaching summer school so I can’t go with you to LA.”
I
consider this to be bad news, but it sounds a lot better than I’m breaking
up with you. “I thought you said you couldn’t get a summer placement.”
“Tim
Gifford decided not to take the spot at the last minute. Dean Cooper asked me
if I wanted it and I said yes. I figure I could use the money.”
Notice
he doesn’t say we could use the money. He insists that we keep our
finances separate like roommates. I still owe him $8.75 for half of the
Haagen-Dazs White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream, Milano Double Orange
cookies, and Tofu Helper he bought on Monday.
“So
you can’t go with me?”
“Sorry.”
He leans over and brushes his lips against mine. Even after six years together
his kisses still thrill me, though I’m not sure he feels the same. Maybe he
wasn’t with Stephanie Filcher tonight. Maybe he still wants to be with me.
Except not when I go to LA.
I
sigh. “Well, that kind of changes everything.”
“This
doesn’t stop you from going on your own, Candace. It’s not like I would be a
big help or anything.”
“But
I thought it could be a kind of vacation for us. No school. No pressure.”
“Well,
we just went to Lake Michigan and that set us back some serious change.”
Our
LA summer together was to be half fun and half work, while I did research for
my master’s thesis. No, Jeff might not be a big help with my research, but I
don’t know what I would have done without him in my early days of teaching. I
may still be time management impaired, but it was Jeff who saved my butt by
showing me how to write a clear syllabus, deal with students who said I didn’t
know what I was talking about, and helped me track down a way too
familiar-sounding term paper to a website called “E-Z A” where a
ready-to-turn-in paper on any subject can be downloaded for ten bucks a
page.
“I was really looking forward to being with you.”
He
gives me a smile worthy of a hottie. He’s been wearing his brownish-blond hair
shorter, which I like. It frames his face in a way that brings out the blue in
his eyes, despite his gold wire-rim glasses. “I’ll miss you,” he says.
“I
guess things just aren’t going my way. You won’t be coming to LA and Ruth
Fenton is dead.”
“Ruth
Fenton?” he says. “Who’s that?”
“I
haven’t the faintest idea.”
~~~
Find out more about Falling Uphill HERE.
Wendy
Nelson Tokunaga is the author of the novels, “Midori by Moonlight” and “Love in
Translation” (both published by St. Martin’s Press), and the original e-book
novels “Falling Uphill” and “His Wife and Daughters.” She’s also written a
nonfiction e-book, “Marriage in Translation: Foreign Wife, Japanese Husband.”
Her short story “Love Right on the Yesterday” is featured in “Tomo: Friendship
Through Fiction: An Anthology of Teen Stories” published by Stone Bridge Press,
and her essay, “Burning Up” appears in “Madonna & Me: Women Writers on the
Queen of Pop” published by Soft Skull Press. Wendy holds an MFA in Writing from
University of San Francisco (2008) and teaches novel writing for Stanford
University’s Online Writer’s Studio and has taught for USF’s MFA program. She
also does private manuscript consulting for novels and memoirs. She is
currently working on her fifth novel. Visit her at: www.WendyTokunaga.com and follow her on
Twitter: @Wendy_Tokunaga
You might not think it from the
title, but in my new book, Milkshakes,
Mermaids, and Murder, Ellie crosses paths with a celebrity paparazzi
photographer. The photographer was a hoot to write, using disguises, climbing
trees, and bribing hotel doormen to get the scoop on her celebrity quarry. 
A native Texan, Sara is the author
of the Ellie Avery mystery series and the On The Run suspense series. Publishers Weekly called Sara’s books,
"satisfying," "well-executed," and "sparkling." 
