Amanda Hocking

• Slept.
• Changed the light bulbs in my bathroom.
• Used Shazam to discover what that song is that I really like on that commercial (Alex Clare – “Too Close”).

• Opened boxes from agent and found foreign books, so I tried to translate Switched back into English from Portuguese (Trocada), even though I already know what the book said because I wrote it (the English version, anyway).
• Pre-ordered Motion City Soundtrack’s new album Go on vinyl.
• Watched Judge Judy.
• Decided that even though I believe that Pearl Jam’s album Ten is one of the greatest albums of all time, my favorite song performed by Eddie Vedder is “Hard Sun.”
• Told my cat she was my favorite thing ever.
• Told my cat she was my least favorite thing ever a few minutes later when she refused to sit with my anymore.
• Looked at pictures of Angelina Jolie’s ring on the internet and thought it sounded really silly to me that they were calling her “newly engaged.” I know she is, but she’s been with the father of her six children for seven years. It’s actually not that big of a deal to anyone but them and their family.
• Added more staples to my stapler.
• Went on Wikipedia to see who invented the stapler. (Wikipedia says that George McGill was the first to patent it, but apparently, somebody made one for King Louis XV in the 18th century.)
• Ate Taco Johns for supper after being shorted a burrito. 
• Tried to find out what The Jim Henson Company owns since they don’t own the Muppets or Seasame Street anymore. (According to henson.com, they work on a number of original children’s programming, including my favorites Sid the Science Kid and Dinosaur Train, as well as some new “adult” themed programming under Henson Alternative, and they have the Creature Shop, which makes creatures and special effects for movies and television. They also still own the rights to Fraggles, Labyrinth, and Dark Crystal.)
• Practiced my puppetering skills trying to make my muppet, Lemmy, talk to my dog. My dog tried to shake with him, so I’m counting it as a semi-success.  

Lemmy

• Spent a great deal of time trying to figure out if the slippers I put on my feet are in fact my slippers or my friend Valerie’s who is staying with me. Eventually, I decided that they’re probably mine, and even if they’re not, Val probably won’t want them back after my feet have been in them.
• Googled “how to get my Twitter account verified.”
• Thought about how I need to file my nails but did not actually file my nails.
• Tried to make the lights in my office stop flickering and failed horribly. I am beginning to believe that my office is haunted.
• Wrote this list of things I did instead of writing.

Now I’m going to unplug the internet and hopefully get to working. And that’s how I write a book.

Before I was a professional author, I used to imagine what my life might be like if I ever became an author or what life must be like for successful authors. I didn’t imagine a lot of glamorous things, because I figured that authors spent more time writing than they did at parties in Hollywood. Some of them probably spend more time authors, but I imagine that not that meant authors spend much hobnobbing with celebrities.

I’d always imagined this moment in my life. It was a big party, with all my friends and family, and there would be things hors d’oeuvres and champagne in flutes. This party would take place after something fabulous happened, like when I got a big book deal or made the NY Times Bestsellers list.

Here’s what actually happened the first time I made the NY Times Bestsellers list:

It was roughly 4:30 in the afternoon (Minnesota time), and I was sleeping. I do usually sleep quite late, but I actually wasn’t feeling good that day at all. I think I may have thrown up that morning (not related to the Bestseller list – I just wasn’t feeling well). My editor Rose called and woke me up. Here’s how the conversation unfolded:

Rose (very excited) : “You made the bestseller list! Switched is number (something. I can’t remember what number. Let’s say… eight.) Congratulations!”

Me (sleepy and not as excited): “Really? That’s cool.”

Rose (somewhat baffled my lack of excitement): “Yeah! How are you feeling? Are you excited? Everyone here is excited. Switched is doing so well.”

Me (trying to sound more excited): “Yeah. It’s great. I’m excited. (pause) I’ll probably be more excited later.”

Rose: “Okay. Good. Well, I’m going to have a drink to celebrate for you, and you should have one too!”

Me: “Okay. (bad fake laughter) I will. Thanks.”

Rose: “Congratulations, again!”

(Side note, Rose probably is the nicest person ever).

I remember lying in bed thinking I should’ve been more excited. And then I became worried I wasn’t excited, like I’d become too jaded and numb, and I was slowly going to morph into a Patrick Bateman-esque psychopath who has to kill hookers to feel anything real. I was not happy about that prospect because I don’t like blood, and I don’t even know where to find hookers.

This wasn’t anything new, either. In the beginning, like in 2010, when sales were beginning to take off, I’d been very excited and anxious and on a constant emotional roller coaster. But at some point, I’d just stopped reacting.

I could tell it was disappointing, or at least confusing to the people in my life, like my agent, my editor, my mother, my assistant. All these people were like, “Hey, something super awesome happened to you! Aren’t you excited?”

And I’d be like, “I guess. I mean, it is awesome, and I’m grateful for it.”

Then I would lapse into the same fear that I’d become jaded and lost the ability to feel.

But that wasn’t it either.  Because when I talked about Batman or Archer or really anything that wasn’t my career, I was very excitable. What I’d actually lost was the ability to get excited about myself.

I have this weird thing. Everything seems impossible or awesome until I do it. Then, the simple fact of me doing it leads me to believe that it must not be that hard or that neat. So even though it had been my goal most of my life to be on the NY Times Bestsellers list, when it happened, I was like, “Meh.”

It took me three days to tell anyone that it had happened. And then it was only Eric and my mom. And I was like, “Oh, hey, Rose said I made the NY Times list.”

Mom: “Really? Congratulations! That’s so great! I’m so proud of you honey.”

Me: “Yeah. I guess. I’m way back on the kid’s list on the last page, so nobody really sees it anyway.”

Mom: “Still, that’s quite the achievement.”

Me: “I don’t know. I mean, the list isn’t even compiled by total sales. There’s this whole weird secret process on how they make the list. There could be books way out selling mine that didn’t even make it.”

I didn’t say anything publicly about making the list for awhile, like on my Twitter or blog or even my personal Facebook. On one hand, I kinda wanted to, because I wanted to validate my decisions and my career and to show people that thought I would fail (or at least hoped I would) that I hadn’t (not yet anyway).

On the hand, I still couldn’t reconcile my own feelings about making the list (or my lack of feelings, as it were). And I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging. I thought talking about it would make sound all haughty, and people would be like, “Ooo, you think you’re hotshit now because you got some stupid list to validate you? Whatever. You’re a sell out, and your books suck.”

(It should be noted that my internal monologue is a complete asshole. That guy can never say anything nice). 

I eventually did start talking about it because I thought it be weird not to. And I feel this strange mixture of pride, shame, and apathy whenever I do. None of those emotions go together, so I don’t even know how it happens, but somehow it does.

I love writing. I still get very excited about projects. And there’s plenty of things in life that I’m passionate about and that I enjoy very much talking about. Just most of those things aren’t myself or my career. (If we’re at a party, and you try to talk to me about my books, I change the subject as quickly as humanly possible.)

I feel defective for not getting more excited about things the way people think I should, the way other people would. I always want to apologize to my agent and my publishers.

“What you’re doing is very good and other clients, I’m sure, would be jumping up and down. But I’m just going to sit here blankly and awkwardly until you stop looking at me, and then I’ll go back to working out the idea for my next book in my head or planning the design for a new tattoo. Thanks, though. Great work, guys.”

My gosh I love Australia. I probably love it more than any other place I’ve never been. In my mind, it is a magical land with insanely gorgeous reefs, unnaturally attractive people, and the most bizarre, awesome animals.

Did you know that the platypus is venomous? And something like 8 out of 10 of the world’s most deadly spiders or ants or snakes live in Australia? (I watched a show on Animal Planet once where I learned this fact, and it was something that was poisonous, but I can’t remember what anymore). If I recall correctly, there are a lot of poisonous animals in Australia though. And I think that’s awesome.

I think that’s what did it. Everything in Australia is clearly trying to kill everyone there. So it’s some kind natural selection where only the truly awesome people can survive it. It’s like a pressure cooker of amazingness.

Name one person from Australia that isn’t awesome. Do it. I dare you. You can’t. (Okay, there is that serial guy that I just watched a movie about, and some other douches I’m sure. No country is perfect. But I’m saying their “awesome” to “not awesome” ratio is staggering.)

That’s why Australians always marry Australians. Even when they move to the United States (i.e. Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman). Americans can’t live up to their awesomeness. It’s a well known fact that’s why Nicole Kidman’s and Tom Cruise’s marriage didn’t work. People blame it on the Scientology, but it’s really the Australian thing.

And in Australia, Daniel Johns is like a real celebrity, right? Not like here, where I go, “Hey, Daniel Johns is the neatest. Have you guys listened to Young Modern?” And then people have no idea what I’m talking about, and I get sad and go in my room to cuddle Young Modern and Diorama. 

(Related note – any word on his solo album? I’m stalking the internet for information, but last I’d heard he was working on. But that’s it).

I’m following this guy on instagram now, and he’s been taking all these stunning pictures of the Australian coast. I believe he’s in Perth, but don’t quote me on this. Anyway, it’s insanely gorgeous. I look at his pictures every day, salivating over the magical splendor of it.

Plus, if that wasn’t enough, the good folks in Australia have been doing a bananas job of promoting my books, and Australian readers have been incredibly welcoming. I really do need to thank all the people working in Australia to get my books out there, especially Dolly mag that was literally getting hundreds and hundreds of copies of Switched out there.

But there’s really just icing on the cake. Even if you guys all hated my book, I would still love you.

I’ve blogged of my Australia love in the past, and apparently it was around this time last year. There must be something in the air that gets me in an Australia frenzy.

I saw Cabin in the Woods tonight (fairly awesome, made me laugh, had a couple jumps, and it had the single greatest scene with a unicorn I’ve ever seen). The film starred Chris Hemsworh. Yeah, I know he was in Thor, but somehow that long hair threw me off and made me not realize he was attractive.

(I think it was cause it reminded me of that one guy I don’t like. But I don’t know know who that one guy is right now. I want to say Sean Bean, but I like Sean Bean, and he usually doesn’t have long hair. So basically I have no idea what I’m talking about.)

So then I found out that Chris Hemsworth was from Australia, and I was like, “Duh. Everybody is awesome from Australia.” Hence, this blog.

I should probably stop being a freak and go back to writing. In fact, I will do that now. But I just wanted to to say, “Hey, Australia, how you doin’?” and follow it up with a Joey Tribbiani smile.

Some writers like to pretend that words come from some magical place inside of them, and when a muse hits them, these wonderful words splatter all over the page and make novels like pixie dust makes flight. I say “pretend” because this has never happened for me, but I could be wrong and other writers may actually spew words in a flurry of rainbows and starlight.

I, however, am not one of those writers. I love writing, more than I love about 99% of things on Earth. But I also really love my dog (he falls into the 1% of things that I truly love), and there are times that he does things that make me curse not only his existence but my own, since I’m the one that brought him into my life.

Writing is a lot like that. But when I made a decision that I wanted writing to be my career and that I wanted to treat it like a career, I moved the box labeled “Writing” to a different part of my brain.

That’s important, or at least it was to me. For most of my life, “Writing” had lived in the part of my brain that harbored such things as unicorns, Peter Pan, and wedding pictures of me and Jonathan Taylor Thomas. It’s the part of the brain that I labeled “Happy Fun Time” and most other people would probably categorize as “Fantasy.”

That meant that I wrote when I felt like it. When I was consumed by some kind of fantasy that I wanted to get out on paper. I don’t like the word “fantasy” in this context very much, because to me, when you say “I was fantasizing” about anything, it immediately sounds dirty. So let me assure you that when I say was fantasizing about things, most of the time it is lame and completely nonsexual.

I have a thing called “pressured speech.” I wasn’t really “diagnosed” with it, because it’s not a condition so much as a symptom of one. I do have real conditions, though. Like “major depressive disorder.” And “anxiety disorder” coupled with “social anxiety.” I may also be “bipolar” but the mania and the depressive episodes seem to have leveled out, so who the hell knows anymore? Not me, that’s fore sure.

Anyway, pressured speech (as defined by Wikipedia) is a tendency to speak rapidly and frenziedly, as if motivated by an urgency not apparent to the listener. That means that I often talk very, very quickly, and I can also be hard to understand. (Both my mom and Eric say I’ve gotten much better about this in recent years. My mom thinks that doing interviews has it made it a lot better, because I learned to speak more slowly and deliberately).

If I had to define myself by one single quality, it would be pressured speech. I have always been filled with someone unknown, unreasonable urgency to get ideas out. When I speak, when I write, it all comes from the same manic, insistent place inside of me.

But I’d been told most of my life that that’s the way it is. When you hear of great writers, they’re always tormented by demons and write when the muse hits. So I thought, this is the way it is. My life will constantly be filled by manic highs, low lows, and I can only write when I feel like it. You cannot control the muse!

When I made one simple realization – that I could control the way I wrote, that I was in charge of the muse and not the other way around – everything in my life changed. I moved the “Writing” box to a different part of my brain, and then I began shuffling around all the boxes. I realized I’d just left them where I found them and had never bothered to organize the clutter of my mind (and there is a lot of clutter. There’s nothing I love more than useless facts and trivia).

I have at times suffered debilitating depression that had nothing to do with anything going on in my life. (This right here is the single most accurate description of depression I’ve ever read in my entire life.) It’s not a matter of choosing to be sad over happy, although I do think that is a small part of it.

But for me, I make choices every day that have kept my mood relatively stable for the past five years, and I’ve been able to write more often with more follow-through than ever before. I hardly ever start projects I don’t finish anymore. I make deadlines, and with few exceptions, I keep them.

I still tend to write in a way that is similar to “pressured speech.” I’m in more control of it than I was before. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be a person that does things in moderation. But I am controlling my levels of excess. I may write thousands of words in a night, but I do it because I decide to, and if I have to do something tomorrow instead of writing, I don’t freak out that I’m being taken away from it. I know it’ll be there when I get back, and I know I can make myself write again when it’s time to.

So what happened when I moved the “Writing” box inside my brain? I realized that I was in control. I decide when I am going to write, and I make myself write, even if I don’t want to. There is nothing magical about writing. It is wonderful, wonderful, difficult, mind-numbing work.

I don’t know why I decided to blog about this tonight. I wrote tonight on accident. I meant to just work on the outline a bit more, and I ended up writing two chapters. That almost never happens to me. It’s usually the other way around, where I sit down to right, and just end up tweaking the outline and screwing around on the internet. (The internet is literally the cause of and solution to all my problems).

So I was just feeling good about writing and life in general. Writing does always put me in a better mood, and it’s nice when things just … work. Sometimes it’s like Sisyphus pushing the same boulder up the hill every day, and other days it just flows.

But no matter what, it’s always work, it’s always a choice, and nobody ever sprinkles fairy dust on my laptop.

That means “One for the organ, one for me,” which is about getting drunk. I think. It’s lyrics from a band called Kaizers Orchestera, which I’ve been on and off listening to for while, but I’m obsessed with them now. Their song “En for Orgelet, En For Me” is currently stuck in my head. But the song “Hjerteknuser”(which translates to “Heartbreaker”) is prettier.

I downloaded “Hjerteknuser” a few months ago on the recommendation of something. I listened to it and I liked it, and I tried to guess what language it was. My first thought was French, which I immediately dismissed. Then I thought German, and I stayed with that one for awhile, but I realized that wasn’t right either. I don’t really know much German, but it didn’t sound Germanic enough for me.

So finally, I looked up. And I discovered that Kaizers Orchestra is Norwegian, which makes me love them about a hundred times more than I already did love them. According to Wikipedia, “Kaizers Orchestra are notable for being among the first non-black metal Norwegian bands or artists singing in their native language to become popular beyond Scandinavia.” But  a citation is needed for that, so who knows if it’s true or not.

Anyway, I love Scandinavia. The mythology for the Trylle books is based on Scandinavian folklore, and many of the words and names I use in the series are Scandinavian or are derived from Scandinavians words. (If you want to see a video of me pronouncing the words from the Trylle books, here’s a blog with a vlog that I did: here.)

This is partially because I just liked the folklore I found, and I thought that since the idea came from Scandinavia the actual heritage of the Trylle should come from there too.

The rest is because I grew up in Southern Minnesota. I don’t know about all of Minnesota, because it’s a big state and I haven’t lived in all of it, but where I’m from there are a LOT of people from Norway and Sweden. It’s definitely a part of the culture around here.

My dad grew up in Northern Minnesota along the iron range, and there were many people from Finland there that worked in the mines. (Side note: This book Seven Iron Men is about my family. My dad’s mother is a Merritt.) When I was a kid, he taught me some Finnish words, like bathroom, a few phrases, and I’m pretty sure some swear words. I’ve forgotten almost of all it, because language is one of those things that you lose if you don’t use it, and I didn’t have a lot of use for a few random Finnish words.

What I do remember is “suurenmoinen poika” and “suurenmoinen tyttö.” My dad told me that meant “good boy” and “good girl.” I looked up the correct spelling using Google translate, and that is not at all how I thought “tyttö” would be spelled. It’s pronounced more like “too – tuh.”

(I recommend you go to Google translate and put it in and listen to them say it, cause it sounds cool. But according to Google translate, that’s not a literal translation of  “good boy” or “good girl.” I finally found “suurenmoinen” under one of the alternate words for “great.” Or just click: here.)

But now, thanks to Kaizers Orchestra, I can learn some Norwegian. Which is fun.

Now for your enjoyment is the song “Hjerteknuser” with optional English subtitles. You have to click on the box to turn them on, but you should cause it’s fun and the song is pretty. You’re welcome.