Lori Roberts Herbst's Blog

My mother used to tell a story about a time when I was five years old, and my parents discovered I’d been giving away my toys to the little girl down the street. When asked why, I responded, “So she’ll be happy and like me.”

Perhaps that tale makes the young me sound a little pathetic, but it speaks volumes about a character trait with which I’ve wrestled my entire life.

I’m an innate people pleaser.

I realize I don’t usually come across that way. My former students would likely shake their heads in amazement at my confession. They knew me as a take charge, tell-it-like-it-is leader. But that façade has always concealed a deeply rooted need to keep the people around me happy and content, so much so that it manifests in intense stress when someone I care about is struggling. Or simply angry. Or sad. Or confused. Or…you get the picture.

I can make this people-pleasing thing sound like a loving, selfless attribute—and to be fair, that is a major feature. One part of people pleasing is…well, you sincerely want to see people pleased. But years of digging deeper into my psyche in a never-ending quest for insight has led to the realization that it’s also a selfish trait—and even ego-driven. Here’s the bottom line: I’m uneasy when someone else is troubled. And deep down, I believe I have the power to make them happy. If they’re not, it means I’ve failed.

My mind understands that you’re entitled to your own feelings and empowered to create your own happiness. But still, my gut clenches when I. CAN’T. FIX. IT. FOR. YOU. I’m better than I used to be at keeping my outer reaction to myself, but internally, my anxiety skyrockets, and my peace and serenity take a nosedive. I begin scrambling for solutions. My own mood darkens. There’s a word for that, and it’s not a pretty one. Co-dependency.

So, what to do? Wish I had a foolproof solution. The truth is, I doubt I’ll be able to completely transform what’s been so firmly embedded in my nature for fifty-nine years. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe the key is simply awareness. When someone expresses negative emotions (a human experience, to which they are fully entitled), I will allow myself a moment or two to experience my knee-jerk gut reaction. Then I will quietly acknowledge my response and let it go. I will be grateful at the inherent trust they’ve shown me, compassionate about their plight, but detached from their outcomes. That’s the respect they deserve.

I suspect this process will take many years and more than a little practice, but it’s okay. As the saying goes, I’m a work in progress. And that beats the alternative.

Thank you for attending my therapy session. Be sure to tune in next time when I delve into my passive-aggressive tendencies. :) 

When my husband and I watch a documentary or a recap regarding a 90s event, we usually look at each other and shrug. If something occurred in the 90s, it might as well be fresh news.

It seems the brain’s capacity (at least, my brain) is finite regarding the amount of information it can process. I’m guessing my mind was packed with raising kids, earning a paycheck, cleaning the house, cooking meals, going to kids’ basketball games and theater productions, doing laundry… well, you get the idea. The 90s whizzed by me in a flurry of diapers and daycares.

I still voted (at least I think I did). I still read the paper (after all, I taught journalism). But somehow so many important events found no permanent storage within my little gray cells. You mean a jury acquitted OJ? There was a baseball strike? And who’s this Monica Lewinsky person? Okay, okay. Of course I recall those people and places. But to be honest, the details are murky. And don’t even try to talk to me about the music of the 90s. If Garth Brooks didn't sing a particular song, I doubt I heard it.

My husband and I watched the Waco miniseries on Netflix a couple of months ago, and we were stunned at how little we’d remembered of the siege's circumstances—and that happened a hundred miles from where we lived. It makes me feel guilty that I wasn’t... a better citizen, I suppose. 

At the same time, though, it provides a sense of relief. After all, the world continued to spin without my intense attention and constant worry. These past few years, I’ve felt somewhat overburdened and even burned out with current event overload, so it’s good to remember that I can take a break and life will go on.

Maybe I just shouldn’t let that break turn into a decade.

I’m working on Book 3 in the Callie Cassidy Mystery series, and it’s causing me some serious anxiety. You see, my main character is about to have a fight with her boyfriend. I’m not sure yet, but it may even lead to a break-up.

And I can hardly stand the idea.

I understand that tension is integral to any good story, and it’s especially vital in a mystery. As a reader, tension keeps me turning pages. As a moviegoer, friction keeps me perched on the edge of my seat. My cuticles have paid the price for many a good high-pressure scene.

But as a writer, I find creating stress for my characters an agonizing necessity, especially when that stress involves their relationships. My heart palpitates, my teeth grind, and my fingers tremble as I type these fictional people into romantic distress.

I’ve spent a little time the past few days trying to examine why this aspect of storytelling causes me so much discomfort. What is it about my personality that makes me sweat when my characters squirm? And I think I’ve nailed the answer. I’m a pleaser.

There, I admitted it. Since I was a child, it’s been my nature to want people around me to be happy. I don’t feel quite settled if they’re not in sync. I realize that’s not necessarily a positive trait, nor is it always healthy or even helpful, but my knee-jerk response to conflict is to attempt to make things better. This is true even if I’m not part of the conflict. I’ve struggled against this aspect of my personality throughout my life. So writing these characters—people I’ve grown to care about despite their fictional status—into contention causes me existential angst.

It’s strange that my protagonist, Callie Cassidy, doesn’t seem to have the same internal stumbling block. Oh, she has issues of her own, many of which I don’t share, but being a pleaser isn’t one of them. Callie is stalwartly independent, sometimes to a fault, and she almost always does what she believes is right, even if it means someone else won’t be pleased with her. I wonder sometimes if I implant in Callie the qualities I’m trying to nurture in myself.

Who knew my writing career would become a journey into psychological self-analysis? But poor Callie and Sam—they’re about to face the consequences of my inner growth.

When I was fifteen, my journalism teacher told me I was talented enough to someday be editor of the school’s newspaper. He told me I was a gifted writer and a solid journalist, with the potential to be an exceptional leader. With those words, he helped write the plot of one of my life’s major storylines.

He saw these traits in me before I even had an inkling they existed.

That teacher, Thomas Toulmin, died this month, and I’ve been reflecting since about his role in my life, in the career paths I’ve chosen, in the vision I’ve built of myself—one he helped create.

Fun fact: in my original version of the previous sentence, I’d written “passed away” instead of “died.” But the Mr. Toulmin who taught me so much of what I know about journalism would have taken a red pen to that phrase. “Euphemism,” he would have written. “Be precise.”

His devotion to the concept of telling it like it is, his commitment to details and facts, once led to a huge blow up between us when I was a senior in high school and editor of The Lion’s Tale. He told me point blank that the paper was going to run a story about an important incident at the school involving a close friend of mine. I didn’t think we should cover it. Privacy, I insisted. We’d be like vultures feeding off someone’s misfortune.

Though he expressed deep empathy, Mr. Toulmin didn’t waver in his stance. “People will just spread gossip if we don’t print the facts,” he said (and of course I’m paraphrasing). “It’s a journalist’s job to get the truth in front of the public. It’s our ethical obligation.” I continued to balk, and he finally said, “I understand your concerns. You don’t have to be the one to write it, but it’s going in the paper.”

Mad as I was, I wrote the story myself and, in the process, learned a huge lesson—doing what’s easy isn’t always right, and doing what’s right isn’t always easy.

I also learned that you can treat people with kindness and compassion and still have expectations of them. I learned how to be a caring leader.

Over the years, Mr. Toulmin turned into Tom. We became colleagues, and then friends. I’m glad that over the course of that time, I was able to express what his influence meant to me.

I know I’m not the only one of his former students grieving. Hundreds of us—his sloths and later, I’m told, his vegetables—can tell similar stories of his impact on our lives. For all of us, the loss of his physical being leaves a void. But within that void, the steady light of his legacy continues to burn.

The other night, Elizabeth Shue and I were eating apples in my kitchen.

She said something amusing, and when I chuckled, a tiny stream of juice trickled down my chin. I reached up and wiped it away with the back of my hand. 

It was a dream, of course. I’ve never met Elizabeth Shue, haven’t even thought about her in passing in at least five years. Yet there she was, big as life in my kitchen, enjoying a nice red apple.

For those of you who don’t recognize the name, Elizabeth Shue is an actor. I first became aware of her as Tom Cruise’s love interest in the oh-so-steamy Cocktail. I remember really enjoying her performance opposite Robert Downey, Jr., in Heart and Souls. Later, she earned an Oscar nomination for her role in Leaving Las Vegas. She’s still acting—I looked her up after her visit—but the last thing I recall seeing her in was CSI, which ended in 2015.

Despite this gap, Elizabeth (or perhaps given the intimacy of our mutual apple-eating, I should call her Liz) made an appearance in my dream 

Where did that dream come from? What cell within the memory banks of my brain jiggled into life when I was submerged in REM?

I’ve always been fascinated by dream interpretation and the architecture of the dream world. In my sleep, I’ve ridden on rollercoasteresque elevators that have no basis in reality. I’ve exchanged witty banter with and given advice to the Avengers. I’ve flown among the clouds. Not to mention the recurring dreams that to this day find me late for high-school final exams or frantic over missed yearbook deadlines. 

Dreams prove that our sleeping brains are capable of spectacular, unlimited creativity. 

Why, then, does my conscious brain find it so difficult to come up with a synonym for “know”?

This spring will mark ten years since I lost my mother, but even a decade later, barely a day goes by that I don’t think about her. I wish I could talk to her about the big things—the great grandchildren she never got to meet, her granddaughters, our extended family. Even as I veer toward my own senior citizen status, I still crave her wisdom and advice. I’d love to laugh with her again, to do a little harmless gossiping, to hear her vent over the current state of the world. 

Mom was a force of nature, and when such a force departs the world, it leaves a vacuum in its wake.

The release of my first book tomorrow makes me especially yearn for her. Mom was a voracious reader, and I think she would have been crazy proud of me for writing and publishing a novel. She dabbled at writing herself, creating essays and a few short fiction pieces that were pretty remarkable. She never tried to publish, though, and I believe she would have seen her own passions blossom in the fulfillment of my dream. Sometimes, when I’m pecking away at my keyboard, it’s as if I feel her presence, her genes running through my fingers and into my writing.

I wonder if Mom would have recognized herself in Maggie Cassidy, my protagonist’s mother. Even if she didn’t see the obvious similarities, I know she would have loved the sarcastic, funny, headstrong, fiercely protective character. She would have raised an eyebrow and nodded when Maggie scolds her daughter for taking too many risks, at the same time as she encourages her to do what she knows is right. 

In a way, this book is a gift to my mother, an offering to her legacy.

She’s not here to read it, but I hope somehow she knows about it, and that it gives her a smile.  

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I haven’t been inside a movie theater since February.

I haven’t eaten in a restaurant since March (though we do plenty of takeout and tip generously!)

I haven’t attended a sporting event since March.

I haven’t seen my best friends in person since before that.

I haven’t been able to take my grandchildren to the zoo—or anywhere else.

And I haven’t been able to step out of my front door without a mask covering my nose and mouth.

These are all things I love to do, and I miss them. But my friends, these sacrifices and inconveniences PALE in comparison to what so many people have faced over these past months. So instead of whining about my petty grievances, I’d like to offer some gratitude.

Thank you to the health care workers, who have been working so tirelessly to keep us alive.

Thank you to teachers and educators, who despite great odds have struggled to keep children engaged in learning.

Thank you to delivery personnel, who bring packages that allow me to shop safely from home.

Thank you to grocery store employees, who risk their own health on a daily basis so I can put food on my table.

Thank you to police officers and firefighters, who help keep me safe even in a pandemic.

Thank you to food bank volunteers, and to those who donate to food banks.

Thank you to all who continue to think of the greater good as you sacrifice activities and traditions you love. Please know that it’s worth it—even one life spared is worth it. We have lost more than 340,000 Americans to this virus—so many people that I sometimes fear we are becoming numb to the vastness of this count. These are sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, siblings and friends. To those of you who have suffered this ultimate pain and loss, I am sending virtual hugs. I wish I could do more. And to those of you suffering in other ways—finances, mental health, etc.—my heart goes out to you as well.

I hope for an end to this, very soon. Until then, I pledge to do everything I can to help keep you and yours safe. Thank you for doing your part too.

May we all find peace, health, and joy in 2021!

Don’t you just love that sense of relief you get when you’ve finally made a big decision? Even if it means you’re facing a lot of hard work, and even if it leads you into an unknown, uncertain place, at least it’s a decision.

For me, limbo is akin to Sisyphus, eternally damned to roll a boulder uphill in Hades, only to watch the boulder descend and having to start all over. Once I come to a decision about something, that boulder can go to hell (see what I did there?) and stay put wherever it lands. Because at that point, I’ve given the middle finger to the gods of the underworld and departed for a place of hope and action.

All that is to lead to an announcement. I’ve made a decision.

I’m going the self-publishing route.

After much self-reflection, I’ve concluded that I am maybe, just maybe, a bit of a control freak. Those of you who know me undoubtedly find yourselves with your mouths hanging open in shock at that revelation, but there you have it. And as a control freak, the thought of traditional publishing ramps up my anxiety to unsustainable levels. 

Yes, I admit it: I want what I want when I want it. I’m excited to choose my own cover design. I love the knowledge that I can work with the professional editor of my choice (the aforementioned Lisa Mathews of www.KillYourDarlingsEdit.com). And I’m thrilled at the prospect of controlling my own timeline. I’m not getting any younger, you know. The prospect of the years it takes to get published traditionally have hovered above me like the blade of a guillotine 

(Side note: I said something to my husband the other night about being middle aged. “Honey,” he said. “We’re fifty-eight years old. Middle aged means we’d live to be a hundred and sixteen.” So, I suppose the “middle aged” ship has sailed. 

The fear of the journey, of course, comes because this is something I’ve never done before. It’s the equivalent of setting out in a covered wagon for the untamed West. (Except, of course, I’m at home in a comfortable chair and air conditioning.) Still, I’m staring into uncharted territory—for me, at least.

Luckily, I am surrounded by giants upon whose shoulders I can stand. Many people have tackled the self-publishing world before me, and help abounds. (Thank you Nicki Huntsman Smith and Erika Yeagy Biddix, for starters.) Now, it’s just a matter of plunging forward, knowing I’ll make some wrong turns along the route, but safe in the knowledge that my mentors have GPS, and I can give them a call on my cell phone. This is, after all, a modern version of Western migration.

My plan is to publish Suitable for Framing, the first book in my Callie Cassidy Cozy Mystery series, around Thanksgiving. The second book, Double Exposure, should follow sometime in the spring. And from there, we’ll see how it goes. 

Thank you for following me on my journey. I can’t wait for you to see my new cover—coming by Oct. 1!

As a journalism teacher, I would tell my students that writing is a craft, one that can only be honed through constant practice. 

That they shouldn’t expect to sit down at the keyboard and immediately create Pulitzer-prize winning works. 

That ego must be sacrificed in the pursuit of greatness.

How I hate when my own words come back to haunt me.

They’re not just my words, of course. They are based on thoughts and wisdom passed down through generations of writers. And the fact that they percolated in my subconscious as I started my journey as a writer certainly helped me keep going when my mind tried to tell me I couldn’t cut it.

Last week, I outlined things I could have done differently. But not all my efforts were in vain. 

What I’ve done right:

Given grace to my perfectionistic nature. Being a perfectionist can be crippling. Those of us who suffer from the malady are prone to extreme thinking: Either this comes easily, or it’s not meant to be. Either my first effort is fabulous, or I’ll never be any good. Either I get rave reviews, or I’m a dismal failure. The magnetic pull of perfectionistic thinking might be my partner forever. In some areas of life, it even serves me well. But when I find it hindering my progress, I’ve learned that, like Voldemort, I must call it by name to defeat its power over me.

Studied the craft and my chosen genre. I’ve been a student of writing and writers for as long as I can remember. I love to watch the interplay between words, phrases, sentences. I love the way beautiful prose and poetry can flutter around my soul like butterflies. But I never took the time to decipher how this happened—what the wordsmith did to create language that brought me to laughter or to tears. Nor did I spend significant time studying fiction writing in particular, or the cozy mystery genre. Diving into that analysis enables me to first mimic, then fashion my own original perspective. 

Joined Sisters in Crime. This is a no-brainer. Anyone who wants to write mysteries should immediately join this fantastic organization. I’ve also joined the sub-group called Guppies, geared toward new writers like myself. Within that sub-group lie even more sub-groups for help with the agent search, self-publishing, writing cozies, and so much more. The support I’ve found in this group has been beyond compare. Many places also offer local chapters, such as Sisters in Crime North Dallas, of which I am currently secretary.

Used a top-notch editor. When I completed my first book, I sought out beta readers, people who would read my manuscript and provide feedback. That was extremely helpful, and it also helped quell the nerves associated with actually putting your baby out there for critique. Then, as suggested by my Sisters in Crime friends, I procured the services of a professional editor. I got incredibly lucky when I found Lisa Mathews of Kill Your Darlings Editing Services (www.killyourdarlingsedit.com) Her guidance and suggestions are giving my revised work a polished, professional status I couldn’t have gained on my own.

Just kept swimming.  Not literally, of course. Last time I put on a bathing suit, well…I won’t go there. But I’ve discovered anew that persistence is the answer to almost every moment of lingering self-doubt I face. When I start to question my talent, my ability, even my willingness, I simply write my way through it. The more I persist, the better I seem to get. 

This new life, this new pursuit—it’s just so much fun when I let it be!

When I was a teacher, I remember lamenting that everyone who has ever been a student believed they could do the job themselves. That by virtue of sitting in a classroom for twelve years (or so), they’d been gifted with the competence to run one. It was one of the (many) frustrations of being an educator—despite your degrees, despite your training, despite the time and energy you put into bettering your craft, everyone thinks they could do your job, and likely better than you’re doing it.

 Then I retired and decided I wanted to try my hand at being a writer.

 After all, I’ve read a lot of books, right? I taught journalism; I spent much of my career evaluating the written word. This should come naturally, right?

 Hahahahaha! Joke’s on you, Lori Roberts Herbst. I owe a profound apology to authors who have toiled over their craft. This gig ain’t easy. 

 But this old woman is learning. The Trial-and-Error teacher is a grueling taskmaster as she clutches her red pen, but ultimately she is a fabulous coach. In the two years I’ve journeyed on this quest, I’ve come to realize that…wait for it…being a voracious reader doesn’t make you a gifted writer.

 I’ve made a lot of mistakes along this path. In fact, I still make a lot of mistakes. Just not the same ones, thankfully. And I’m getting better with every week that passes, with every chapter I write. But if I’d known when I started what I know now…

 What I’d do differently

 Understand my genre. I’m not interested in writing the Great American Novel. I want to write lovely, fun, puzzling, character-driven cozy mysteries. If I had realized that from the get-go, I would have saved myself a lot of false starts. I would have studied the genre, immersed myself in it. Now that I have, my path is a lot clearer.

 Lower my self-expectations. When I decided to write a novel, I expected the words to flow from my brain to my fingertips like inspired rays of sunshine. When that didn’t happen, I spent more than a little time mired in self-doubt. Wasted time, of course. Once I started seeing myself as a beginner rather than an expert, the task became so much more fun.

 Wait to spend money on a cover. The cover I had designed is lovely, but it is not suitable for the genre I’m writing. Jumping the gun cost me not only a few dollars but a bit of frustration as well.

 Revise more before querying agents. I’m a little iffy on whether I’d really do this one differently. I definitely started querying agents before my book was ready. But the querying process did help me improve the book, so maybe it was a “good” mistake. Still, knowing what I do now, I better understand the level of revision that needs to happen before putting the work out there for public consumption.

 In my next blog, I’ll explore what I did right—and there were a few things. But now, off to work on the book.

 Feel free to send comments and messages: what are some of the things in your own life, career, craft that you would do differently?