I'm back after disappearing for the last nine days. I've been traveling and without internet access, which, for a Gen Y type like myself, is fairly painful (What if someone new friends me on Facebook? What if I have important emails instead of my usual spam about travel deals and cooking lessons?). But I did manage to do some writing.
And, even if was not a productive week plus on the blogging/writing front, I am back in the states after a year abroad, which is good in and of itself. Man, I love California. I have had my In & Out burger (which, much as I love kebab, remains the best fast food in the whole wide world). I have seen the ocean (although it's far too cold to go in) and verified that there's still a lot of water in the world, even if I spent my last year far away from it. And best of all, of course, I can haz huzband. Sorry - I look at to many lolcats.
Update to come with excerpts and some interesting stuff from the industry front. But for now, I leave you with the extinct (but the archives are wonderful) Miss Snark's Blog. It's advice and derision from a literary agent... and also highly entertaining.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
So, 10 queries out to agents so far, and I've gotten back a few rejections and one request for a full, followed by a rejection (grr). Maybe it's time for yet another look at my query letter?
Well? If you were a saavy New York literary agent, would you be interested in representing it?
Dear Agent,
April Mitchell killed her father while Mom was at a PTA meeting.
Six years later April is a pathological liar, a pattern that began when she lied about assisting her terminally ill father in his suicide. April's worst lie was telling her mother that Dad died alone, something Mom never forgave. Now April lies about the most insignificant things, putting an extra gloss on her already "perfect" life, as a shiny blond medical student with a gorgeous boyfriend. But appearances may soon be destroyed, because someone found out about April's role in Daddy's death. Between blackmail threats, an estranged mother who nonetheless sometimes offers unsolicited advice or pie, an investigation for life insurance fraud, the reappearance of an old flame, and April's new sociopathic and bubbly rocker chick arch-enemy, life just got very, very messy (again). But how does April put her life back together – as more than just a lovely façade this time? SHARDS OF GLASS (127,000 words) is commercial fiction with intelligence and quirk. This is a novel for the woman whose bookshelf contains both Jane Austen and Clive Cussler.
I have been previously published in Cicada and Windhover.
Thank you for your time and consideration,
Sincerely,
GuinevereWell? If you were a saavy New York literary agent, would you be interested in representing it?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I want to share a little piece of my novel with you. I have impressively hearty self-esteem (despite recent rejections of my writing, my grandmother once asking me why I'd ever think Harvard would want me, and the fact that I have gained 10 lbs in the past year, drat it), but still, when I find myself doubting SHARDS, I find it helpful to go back and look at it again.
I just really think this novel doesn't suck.
So check it out - my first chapter - and let me know if you think it sucks or not. Don't worry, you can be critical and you won't destroy my self-esteem. Not if those 10lbs haven't.
High School.
April killed her father while Mom was at a PTA meeting.
Her teachers were probably saying great things about her. April was the kind of teenager who makes adults wish they could go back and try high school over again. She was (in order of ascending importance) intelligent, funny, athletic, beautiful and popular.
And she was also, at the moment, searching for poisonous mushrooms.
April stepped delicately over the splayed branches of a fallen tree, stopping to pull a puff mushroom out of the dark, moist innards of rotten wood. She thought about it for a second, brushing her light bangs out of her placid blue eyes. Then she dropped it on the ground and continued through the woods. Lot of people knew that “puff” mushrooms, or amanita phalloides, were poisonous, and they weren’t as easy as many poisonous mushrooms to confuse with edible ones. Just in case someone found her out, she didn’t want any doubt that this was purely accidental.
She found what she was looking for at another downed tree; its trunk had become a farm for galerina mushrooms, whose deadly toxins quickly destroy your liver. Other edible fungi were spotted throughout the bunches of little brown mushrooms. She plucked them all, dropping them into the white mixing bowl she had used throughout her childhood to collect blackberries from the woods behind their farmhouse.
Tears blurred her vision as she worked, but it didn’t matter; she wanted a mixture of safe and deadly mushrooms, so it didn’t matter which ones she twisted off the dead tree.
In the kitchen, she quickly sautéed the Italian sausage, onions and mushrooms together, then turned down the heat and left them simmering on the stove as she walked down the hall to her father’s room. She worried just leaving her toxic dish alone for a minute; it was unlikely anyone would wander into the house and taste-test, but the burden of one death was quite enough for her.
“Daddy?” she asked, sticking her head in the door. He looked up and smiled when he saw her. His face was so thin now that his smile seemed too big, oddly jarring. But April smiled back, her wide smile the mirror image of what his had been.
“Come on in, Princess,” he said, patting the bed besides him weakly. “Is dinner ready?”
April nodded as she went to adjust the covers over him, fussing with the blue-and-white quilt on the transplanted hospital bed. “It’s ready. But are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “We’ve got a solid plan. I’m sure this will work.”
With the sheets and quilt straightened, she made herself sit down, even though she was buzzing with nervous energy. “Well. I must say I’m disappointed with you, Daddy. I always thought you were too much of a bastard to ever die.”
“That hardly seems fair,” he said. “I’m nothing but proud of you. You’re gorgeous, very bright – despite that one incident with the toaster – and you grew into one tough young woman, to do this for me.”
She got up, leaned to kiss him on top of the head. His thick sandy-blond hair had come out as easily as new grass, almost a year ago; it had been replaced with white puffs, dandelion seeds across his scalp.
“I’ll get your dinner,” she said.
In the kitchen she poured him a glass of sweet tea and filled a bowl with the food she had made. The smell of cooked onions and mushrooms made her mouth water, and she had to remind herself not to sample her own cooking.
She had to open the bedroom door with her foot, since her hands were full. Dad seemed pleased when she set his dinner down on the bedside table and dragged it over, positioned it over his lap.
“I’m glad I taught you how to cook,” he said. “At least I can die with a good meal in my belly, instead of starving to death as a lunatic in that damn hospital.”
There was a pause for a second, April awkward at the mention of the death that loomed before them both and the hospital he was so desperate to avoid. Then she said, “Well, it’s not like you really taught me how to cook. You’ve been keeping your chili recipe a bigger secret than our country’s nuclear information has ever been.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gestured towards the dresser. “Bring me that paper and pen.”
April had to search through the rubble on the top of the dresser; his ties and briefcase from work were still parked there, even though it had been months, and so were the novels he had been reading and National Geographics and Scientific America. She finally dug out the legal pad and found a blue Stilton pen in the pocket of his briefcase.
He wrote busily for a few minutes, then ripped the paper off the pad. “Here,” he said, handing it to April for her perusal.
She wanted to read it, but she couldn’t focus then. “Thanks, Dad,” she said. “I’m sure this’ll help me catch some man someday.”
“You won’t have any problem catching a man. Only cook if you want to keep them.”
“I’ll remember that. So much wisdom, you’ve given me: nothing in life is fair, nothing in life is free, it’s fine if people call you a bitch. I’m all set to succeed in life.”
“I did what I could.” He picked up his fork, speared the first mushroom. “Do you have the letter I wrote?”
“Still sealed, hidden in my sports bag under my cleats and shin guards. Mom’ll never wander across it there; she’s strongly against smelly things.”
“Good, good. And where are you going to open it?”
“Hopefully never.”
“Good,” he said. And he ate his first mushroom. “This is funny, you know. Back in the seventies I damn near lived by the ‘shrooms, and now I’m going to die with them.”
April put her hands on her hips and heaved a sigh. “You were all up in the ‘shrooms, and I’m not allowed to smoke up or pierce my belly-button?”
“Times have changed.”
“How have times changed so much?”
“I became a father,” he said, winking at her.
“Happiest day of your life.”
“So you keep telling me.”
He ate his dinner, calmly, drank his sweet tea. It was the first time April had seen him eat a normal meal in what seemed like ages; he was always sick after, and it was hard to find anything he was even willing to attempt. She sat next to him, making small talk, her hands twisting and worrying beneath the side of the bed.
“You should go,” he said, when he was done.
“I want to stay.”
“But you should go. Otherwise you’ll move something, it’ll be obvious that you were here at the end—”
She cut him off. “I’m smarter than that. I won’t change anything. But I’ve never been particularly obedient, and I don’t know why you think I would start now.”
It was his turn to sigh. Then he acquiesced. “Fine. I don’t have any particularly strong desire to die alone.”
“Good boy,” she said, patting him on top of the head. It made him smile.
“I should have died in ‘Nam, you know,” he said easily, settling back into the pillows. “Anything after that is, as you like to say, ‘money’.”
“Don’t try to be a thug, Daddy.” She laid down on the narrow strip of the mattress next to him, her head against his painfully thin shoulder.
“I’m just quoting you. You’re the thug,” he said. And then she felt him shudder, felt his knees start to pull up involuntarily towards his belly as it started. He drew in a shaky breath, but managed to say, “Take care of your mother. And stay tough. The world needs more women like you.”
“Women who can cook?” April asked, but he was shuddering again, and even for the two of them, the time for bantering had come to an end.
By the time he was still, the sheet had fallen off his shoulder and it was the shoulder of his pajamas wet with her tears. His cheek was still warm as she kissed him goodbye, then went to fix her face, to head over to Ben’s house. He was supposed to be the alibi for a crime she never wanted to commit.
I just really think this novel doesn't suck.
So check it out - my first chapter - and let me know if you think it sucks or not. Don't worry, you can be critical and you won't destroy my self-esteem. Not if those 10lbs haven't.
Chapter One: Live and Die by the ‘Shrooms
High School.
April killed her father while Mom was at a PTA meeting.
Her teachers were probably saying great things about her. April was the kind of teenager who makes adults wish they could go back and try high school over again. She was (in order of ascending importance) intelligent, funny, athletic, beautiful and popular.
And she was also, at the moment, searching for poisonous mushrooms.
April stepped delicately over the splayed branches of a fallen tree, stopping to pull a puff mushroom out of the dark, moist innards of rotten wood. She thought about it for a second, brushing her light bangs out of her placid blue eyes. Then she dropped it on the ground and continued through the woods. Lot of people knew that “puff” mushrooms, or amanita phalloides, were poisonous, and they weren’t as easy as many poisonous mushrooms to confuse with edible ones. Just in case someone found her out, she didn’t want any doubt that this was purely accidental.
She found what she was looking for at another downed tree; its trunk had become a farm for galerina mushrooms, whose deadly toxins quickly destroy your liver. Other edible fungi were spotted throughout the bunches of little brown mushrooms. She plucked them all, dropping them into the white mixing bowl she had used throughout her childhood to collect blackberries from the woods behind their farmhouse.
Tears blurred her vision as she worked, but it didn’t matter; she wanted a mixture of safe and deadly mushrooms, so it didn’t matter which ones she twisted off the dead tree.
In the kitchen, she quickly sautéed the Italian sausage, onions and mushrooms together, then turned down the heat and left them simmering on the stove as she walked down the hall to her father’s room. She worried just leaving her toxic dish alone for a minute; it was unlikely anyone would wander into the house and taste-test, but the burden of one death was quite enough for her.
“Daddy?” she asked, sticking her head in the door. He looked up and smiled when he saw her. His face was so thin now that his smile seemed too big, oddly jarring. But April smiled back, her wide smile the mirror image of what his had been.
“Come on in, Princess,” he said, patting the bed besides him weakly. “Is dinner ready?”
April nodded as she went to adjust the covers over him, fussing with the blue-and-white quilt on the transplanted hospital bed. “It’s ready. But are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “We’ve got a solid plan. I’m sure this will work.”
With the sheets and quilt straightened, she made herself sit down, even though she was buzzing with nervous energy. “Well. I must say I’m disappointed with you, Daddy. I always thought you were too much of a bastard to ever die.”
“That hardly seems fair,” he said. “I’m nothing but proud of you. You’re gorgeous, very bright – despite that one incident with the toaster – and you grew into one tough young woman, to do this for me.”
She got up, leaned to kiss him on top of the head. His thick sandy-blond hair had come out as easily as new grass, almost a year ago; it had been replaced with white puffs, dandelion seeds across his scalp.
“I’ll get your dinner,” she said.
In the kitchen she poured him a glass of sweet tea and filled a bowl with the food she had made. The smell of cooked onions and mushrooms made her mouth water, and she had to remind herself not to sample her own cooking.
She had to open the bedroom door with her foot, since her hands were full. Dad seemed pleased when she set his dinner down on the bedside table and dragged it over, positioned it over his lap.
“I’m glad I taught you how to cook,” he said. “At least I can die with a good meal in my belly, instead of starving to death as a lunatic in that damn hospital.”
There was a pause for a second, April awkward at the mention of the death that loomed before them both and the hospital he was so desperate to avoid. Then she said, “Well, it’s not like you really taught me how to cook. You’ve been keeping your chili recipe a bigger secret than our country’s nuclear information has ever been.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gestured towards the dresser. “Bring me that paper and pen.”
April had to search through the rubble on the top of the dresser; his ties and briefcase from work were still parked there, even though it had been months, and so were the novels he had been reading and National Geographics and Scientific America. She finally dug out the legal pad and found a blue Stilton pen in the pocket of his briefcase.
He wrote busily for a few minutes, then ripped the paper off the pad. “Here,” he said, handing it to April for her perusal.
She wanted to read it, but she couldn’t focus then. “Thanks, Dad,” she said. “I’m sure this’ll help me catch some man someday.”
“You won’t have any problem catching a man. Only cook if you want to keep them.”
“I’ll remember that. So much wisdom, you’ve given me: nothing in life is fair, nothing in life is free, it’s fine if people call you a bitch. I’m all set to succeed in life.”
“I did what I could.” He picked up his fork, speared the first mushroom. “Do you have the letter I wrote?”
“Still sealed, hidden in my sports bag under my cleats and shin guards. Mom’ll never wander across it there; she’s strongly against smelly things.”
“Good, good. And where are you going to open it?”
“Hopefully never.”
“Good,” he said. And he ate his first mushroom. “This is funny, you know. Back in the seventies I damn near lived by the ‘shrooms, and now I’m going to die with them.”
April put her hands on her hips and heaved a sigh. “You were all up in the ‘shrooms, and I’m not allowed to smoke up or pierce my belly-button?”
“Times have changed.”
“How have times changed so much?”
“I became a father,” he said, winking at her.
“Happiest day of your life.”
“So you keep telling me.”
He ate his dinner, calmly, drank his sweet tea. It was the first time April had seen him eat a normal meal in what seemed like ages; he was always sick after, and it was hard to find anything he was even willing to attempt. She sat next to him, making small talk, her hands twisting and worrying beneath the side of the bed.
“You should go,” he said, when he was done.
“I want to stay.”
“But you should go. Otherwise you’ll move something, it’ll be obvious that you were here at the end—”
She cut him off. “I’m smarter than that. I won’t change anything. But I’ve never been particularly obedient, and I don’t know why you think I would start now.”
It was his turn to sigh. Then he acquiesced. “Fine. I don’t have any particularly strong desire to die alone.”
“Good boy,” she said, patting him on top of the head. It made him smile.
“I should have died in ‘Nam, you know,” he said easily, settling back into the pillows. “Anything after that is, as you like to say, ‘money’.”
“Don’t try to be a thug, Daddy.” She laid down on the narrow strip of the mattress next to him, her head against his painfully thin shoulder.
“I’m just quoting you. You’re the thug,” he said. And then she felt him shudder, felt his knees start to pull up involuntarily towards his belly as it started. He drew in a shaky breath, but managed to say, “Take care of your mother. And stay tough. The world needs more women like you.”
“Women who can cook?” April asked, but he was shuddering again, and even for the two of them, the time for bantering had come to an end.
By the time he was still, the sheet had fallen off his shoulder and it was the shoulder of his pajamas wet with her tears. His cheek was still warm as she kissed him goodbye, then went to fix her face, to head over to Ben’s house. He was supposed to be the alibi for a crime she never wanted to commit.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Today I received a form email back from the agent who asked me for a full. And we all know what a form letter means. "Thanks for your work, it's great... for someone else."
Le sigh.
I really wonder... is SHARDS ready? Do I need to change the ending? Is there too much action? Is it just too... out there?
The problem with taking this whole writing thing seriously is that it makes it like a job. And I've never had a job that was as fun as it seemed in the abstract!
Le sigh.
I really wonder... is SHARDS ready? Do I need to change the ending? Is there too much action? Is it just too... out there?
The problem with taking this whole writing thing seriously is that it makes it like a job. And I've never had a job that was as fun as it seemed in the abstract!
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I've been quite delinquent on blog entries lately. Jeesh. Well, I've been reading a lot, writing less, which is a trend I need to change (I want to read AND write a lot, but I'm not sure time stretches that way...). I just finished "Marley and Me", and am currently reading Jon Krakauer's "Into the Wild".
I did begin to jot down some fragments for a future memoir - about this past year in Iraq and about my father's time in the Marine Corps, too - but I realize I need to do some research to talk about Daddy. I have a short written account of his experience in the battle of Ban Lan II - from a letter he wrote to a friend - and my vague memories of the stories he told me as a child, but that's hardly enough to write from. Luckily I am sure the Alfred Grey library in Quantico will have more background for me on Viet Nam in general and Ban Lan in particular (one time when Google failed me), and Daddy has a twin brother I can bug for stories as well.
There are so many little things to write about from this year, but I don't see how it will really string into a coherent narative. That's all right; SHARDS actually began as a short story and a couple of scenes I wrote, all based around my dad's death. It seems that for me, at least, a novel needs some time to develop. It's like a compost heap - lots of random crap thrown together, and the next thing you know, you have great fertilizer for the real work!
Well, now you know that, while I have snappy dialogue and strong characterization, my analogies suck. :p
I did begin to jot down some fragments for a future memoir - about this past year in Iraq and about my father's time in the Marine Corps, too - but I realize I need to do some research to talk about Daddy. I have a short written account of his experience in the battle of Ban Lan II - from a letter he wrote to a friend - and my vague memories of the stories he told me as a child, but that's hardly enough to write from. Luckily I am sure the Alfred Grey library in Quantico will have more background for me on Viet Nam in general and Ban Lan in particular (one time when Google failed me), and Daddy has a twin brother I can bug for stories as well.
There are so many little things to write about from this year, but I don't see how it will really string into a coherent narative. That's all right; SHARDS actually began as a short story and a couple of scenes I wrote, all based around my dad's death. It seems that for me, at least, a novel needs some time to develop. It's like a compost heap - lots of random crap thrown together, and the next thing you know, you have great fertilizer for the real work!
Well, now you know that, while I have snappy dialogue and strong characterization, my analogies suck. :p
Friday, January 16, 2009
I'm always writing the wrong story.
The problem, as a writer, isn't inspiration; it's perseverance. Because eventually, that neat story with the great characters and witty dialogue that you're almost a third into? It turns into something more annoying than a flock of mosquitoes after you've spilled lemonade all over yourself. And that's when the other story, the new shiny story that's faster, slicker, sexier, makes its move.
And right now, when I'm trying to get deep into another project, I keep getting distracted by faster, sexier stories. What is it today? Of all things, it's an idea for a horror story, and I don't even LIKE horror movies or stories. I've only written one my whole life, and that was cheating (I had a bad dream with neat resolution, woke up and wrote it. My conscious mind only had to spend about an hour on the story. I love cheating!).
Anyway, I am outlining the story now, so I won't lose it, and then shelving it.
Perhaps to be resurrected for this?
I know, I know, the last thing I need is a movie script to try and market. That's even worse than trying to market the bloody novel.
I wish I could just be commercial, writing to sell, or just be an artist, and (frankly, my dear) not give a damn. But I want it all. If you know me in real life, that probably comes as no surprise.
The problem, as a writer, isn't inspiration; it's perseverance. Because eventually, that neat story with the great characters and witty dialogue that you're almost a third into? It turns into something more annoying than a flock of mosquitoes after you've spilled lemonade all over yourself. And that's when the other story, the new shiny story that's faster, slicker, sexier, makes its move.
And right now, when I'm trying to get deep into another project, I keep getting distracted by faster, sexier stories. What is it today? Of all things, it's an idea for a horror story, and I don't even LIKE horror movies or stories. I've only written one my whole life, and that was cheating (I had a bad dream with neat resolution, woke up and wrote it. My conscious mind only had to spend about an hour on the story. I love cheating!).
Anyway, I am outlining the story now, so I won't lose it, and then shelving it.
Perhaps to be resurrected for this?
I know, I know, the last thing I need is a movie script to try and market. That's even worse than trying to market the bloody novel.
I wish I could just be commercial, writing to sell, or just be an artist, and (frankly, my dear) not give a damn. But I want it all. If you know me in real life, that probably comes as no surprise.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Yesterday morning, I woke up to my first request for a full from one of the literary agents I had queried (a “full” being the complete manuscript). She was amazingly quick to return my query. I am surprised by how fast some of the responses are (I didn’t like the quick rejection nearly so much, though).
This led to a little bit of frantic effort, since I had not thought all the way through to someone wanting to READ my manuscript (not due to a lack of confidence in the thing itself… I mean, it is pretty brilliant… but more because I refuse to get too excited and ahead of myself. Unfortunately, getting ahead of yourself can also be categorized as “planning”).
Luckily I found some excellent advice on AQ, which I blogged about recently. Not only do they have a very helpful FAQ that covers things like this, but even better, they have a very helpful online community. I posted my question, and people responded with directions on how to set up my cover page, how to format the document, and even a template for the letter to the agent. It made me so happy – I love that sense of community.
Oh, and you know what else I love? A beautifully formatted cover sheet on a beautiful novel, especially the part that says:
Mmmm.
Anyway, I am continuing to Not Get Ahead of Myself. I am not expecting that this whole business is going to be that easy, that the first agent that reads the first finished draft of Shards is ready to represent it…
[cue fantasy]
Scene: Literary Agency in New York City. Book-lined conference room, decorated warmly (this is how the pictures on the agency’s website looked).
GUINEVERE, AGENT, PUBLISHER are sitting around conference table.
PUBLISHER (holding up manuscript): This is absolutely brilliant!
AGENT: I know! That was what I said the first time I read it too!
GUINEVERE: Oh, stop, guys…
AGENT: She's promoting the book on Oprah in two weeks.
PUBLISHER: We need to talk about movie rights!
(Cut to 5th Avenue, New York City)
GUINEVERE: Hmm, this royalty check is burning a hole in my pocket. I think I’ll buy myself something pretty…
(Fantasy fades out)
Cough.
Well, I’ll be over here, going back to writing away in the real world…
This led to a little bit of frantic effort, since I had not thought all the way through to someone wanting to READ my manuscript (not due to a lack of confidence in the thing itself… I mean, it is pretty brilliant… but more because I refuse to get too excited and ahead of myself. Unfortunately, getting ahead of yourself can also be categorized as “planning”).
Luckily I found some excellent advice on AQ, which I blogged about recently. Not only do they have a very helpful FAQ that covers things like this, but even better, they have a very helpful online community. I posted my question, and people responded with directions on how to set up my cover page, how to format the document, and even a template for the letter to the agent. It made me so happy – I love that sense of community.
Oh, and you know what else I love? A beautifully formatted cover sheet on a beautiful novel, especially the part that says:
SHARDS OF GLASS
BY
GUINEVERE ROBIN
BY
GUINEVERE ROBIN
Mmmm.
Anyway, I am continuing to Not Get Ahead of Myself. I am not expecting that this whole business is going to be that easy, that the first agent that reads the first finished draft of Shards is ready to represent it…
[cue fantasy]
Scene: Literary Agency in New York City. Book-lined conference room, decorated warmly (this is how the pictures on the agency’s website looked).
GUINEVERE, AGENT, PUBLISHER are sitting around conference table.
PUBLISHER (holding up manuscript): This is absolutely brilliant!
AGENT: I know! That was what I said the first time I read it too!
GUINEVERE: Oh, stop, guys…
AGENT: She's promoting the book on Oprah in two weeks.
PUBLISHER: We need to talk about movie rights!
(Cut to 5th Avenue, New York City)
GUINEVERE: Hmm, this royalty check is burning a hole in my pocket. I think I’ll buy myself something pretty…
(Fantasy fades out)
Cough.
Well, I’ll be over here, going back to writing away in the real world…
Monday, January 5, 2009
Back from my irresponsibly long Christmas/NYE break (not that I was doing anything fun, but that's a story for a different blog)... I just have to give a little testimonial for a helpful resource I had to share (which is also, delightfully, free... except for the blood, sweat, tears and remote possibility of success, this writing is such a cheap business!).
http://www.agentquery.com
This is a wonderful place to search for agents, and also a great online community for help with the business side of the writing gig. In the community, you can have your query, synopsis, first sentence/paragraph/page critiqued (the things that an agent or editor sees first). You can also find great links to industry blogs you might not have found on your own… as I explore these, I may blog about some of these blogs (Something about that delights me, but I’m easily amused).
So if you’ve made it to the “finished” stage and have a manuscript in hand (a place many writers never seem to get to), I highly recommend checking out this website. You can even friend me once you’re there… leave me a comment here with your AQ screen name and I will add you.
http://www.agentquery.com
This is a wonderful place to search for agents, and also a great online community for help with the business side of the writing gig. In the community, you can have your query, synopsis, first sentence/paragraph/page critiqued (the things that an agent or editor sees first). You can also find great links to industry blogs you might not have found on your own… as I explore these, I may blog about some of these blogs (Something about that delights me, but I’m easily amused).
So if you’ve made it to the “finished” stage and have a manuscript in hand (a place many writers never seem to get to), I highly recommend checking out this website. You can even friend me once you’re there… leave me a comment here with your AQ screen name and I will add you.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Today I sent in a story to The First Line, which is a rather neat literary magazine. All the stories start with the same line, which you can check out at:
The First Line
The spring 2009 first line was, "Herman Sligo was a bit actor who who played Uncle Emil in three episodes of the popular television series The Five Sisters." I wrote a short story titled STARLETS AT WORK AND PLAY to go with the line. Originally I didn't think I could come up with anything around that line, but I really liked the short story I wrote. And I banged it out in a motivated hour and a half, so if The First Line doesn't like it, it was some good practice, not a big loss.
On the bad news front, I got my first rejection back from an agent. That was fast, huh? Girlfriend knew what she didn't want... But I don't mind. It's a numbers game.
An unpleasant numbers game, but still just a numbers game. :)
The First Line
The spring 2009 first line was, "Herman Sligo was a bit actor who who played Uncle Emil in three episodes of the popular television series The Five Sisters." I wrote a short story titled STARLETS AT WORK AND PLAY to go with the line. Originally I didn't think I could come up with anything around that line, but I really liked the short story I wrote. And I banged it out in a motivated hour and a half, so if The First Line doesn't like it, it was some good practice, not a big loss.
On the bad news front, I got my first rejection back from an agent. That was fast, huh? Girlfriend knew what she didn't want... But I don't mind. It's a numbers game.
An unpleasant numbers game, but still just a numbers game. :)
Friday, December 19, 2008
Since sending out multiple queries is acceptable to literary agents (unlike most magazines, which get all P.O.'d about your reluctance to leave your brilliant work in their queue alone for eight months), I launched Query No. 2 today.
I haven't talked at all about my strategy yet, which (if it actually turns out to work) might be helpful. I'm following a similar method with agents, that worked with my first published poems, and that is: ignore advice.
You see, I was told that it was a waste of effort and SASE's to send out a query letter to a magazine you have not studied (studied as in, purchased and reviewed at least 3 back issues). Right. Well, that would be super if my local Borders or B&N stocked the good lit magazines, so I could do my research for the cost of an Italian cherry soda, but no. They don't.
So I said, screw it. I flipped through my Writer's Digest (which is the most absolutely key book for an aspiring writer), I picked out some good matches for material I wanted to launch, I took a quick browse through the magazine's or publisher's websites, and I wrote up ten queries. I launched a couple short stories, a query for a novel (The Wheaties Year, which is up for a re-write before I mail it out again), and half-a-dozen poems. And I got back two acceptance letters for my poems. A 20% success ratio... in this biz, I don't think that's half bad.
And so I'm trying pretty much the same thing with agents, although I am mildly daunted by the fact that many reputable agents receive hundreds of queries a week. I am using a great site:
http://www.agentquery.com
(It's free, which is a requirement in my book to be a "great site")
On Agent Query, you can look up agents by who represents particular authors, or by genre. I then look for an agent who appeals to me, and who represents some writers I know of and respect.
And then I follow their submissions requirements to build a package to suit them, which is a big PITA itself. I hope like hell they get to my sample pages -- I feel much more confident in allowing my first few chapters to speak for themselves, than in my abilities to write a query letter.
Then I wait.
Hey, I know I'm not playing the game perfectly yet - I have a lot to learn - but at least I'm showing up. I'm even moderately sure my sneakers are on the right feet.
P.S. I recently finished re-reading Jane Austen's 'Emma' for the first time in a few years, and it is positively brilliant. Just perfect. And while Mrs. Elliot is supposed to be just one big PITA, I know, I have the hugest temptation to start using her dyslexic Italian phrase, "cara sposo", to describe my significant other.
That PS had nothing to do with the writing, but I had to get it out of my system. I am a little obsessed with Jane Austen right now.
I haven't talked at all about my strategy yet, which (if it actually turns out to work) might be helpful. I'm following a similar method with agents, that worked with my first published poems, and that is: ignore advice.
You see, I was told that it was a waste of effort and SASE's to send out a query letter to a magazine you have not studied (studied as in, purchased and reviewed at least 3 back issues). Right. Well, that would be super if my local Borders or B&N stocked the good lit magazines, so I could do my research for the cost of an Italian cherry soda, but no. They don't.
So I said, screw it. I flipped through my Writer's Digest (which is the most absolutely key book for an aspiring writer), I picked out some good matches for material I wanted to launch, I took a quick browse through the magazine's or publisher's websites, and I wrote up ten queries. I launched a couple short stories, a query for a novel (The Wheaties Year, which is up for a re-write before I mail it out again), and half-a-dozen poems. And I got back two acceptance letters for my poems. A 20% success ratio... in this biz, I don't think that's half bad.
And so I'm trying pretty much the same thing with agents, although I am mildly daunted by the fact that many reputable agents receive hundreds of queries a week. I am using a great site:
http://www.agentquery.com
(It's free, which is a requirement in my book to be a "great site")
On Agent Query, you can look up agents by who represents particular authors, or by genre. I then look for an agent who appeals to me, and who represents some writers I know of and respect.
And then I follow their submissions requirements to build a package to suit them, which is a big PITA itself. I hope like hell they get to my sample pages -- I feel much more confident in allowing my first few chapters to speak for themselves, than in my abilities to write a query letter.
Then I wait.
Hey, I know I'm not playing the game perfectly yet - I have a lot to learn - but at least I'm showing up. I'm even moderately sure my sneakers are on the right feet.
P.S. I recently finished re-reading Jane Austen's 'Emma' for the first time in a few years, and it is positively brilliant. Just perfect. And while Mrs. Elliot is supposed to be just one big PITA, I know, I have the hugest temptation to start using her dyslexic Italian phrase, "cara sposo", to describe my significant other.
That PS had nothing to do with the writing, but I had to get it out of my system. I am a little obsessed with Jane Austen right now.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Sorry I've been out of the loop so long (though I have no known readers at this point, not even my mother). I've been busy with the writing, which, while still not my day job, is first in the not-my-day-job priorities list.
So, I have edited Shards for continuity, made some small changes, formatted. I don't know if it will ever feel entirely "done" -- I think it's really good, don't get me wrong, but it's a lot to say of some 650 pages that yes, I'm quite sure every word, every sentence, is as perfect as I could ever write.
I'm not a perfectionist, though (ask anyone who has ever seen my housekeeping) and I think "really good" is quite enough to begin shopping it out to agents.
Today I submitted my first query to an agent. It was actually quite an interesting process. It seems like every agent wants things some different way -- this one wants a complete synopsis + first three chapters, this one just wants a query, this one wants an outline and one sample chapter... they don't make it easy.
This particular agent wanted a proposal with a commercial perspective: not just a summary and sample chapters, but a page or three on the target audience, competing books in the genre and how this one differentiates itself, and opportunities for the author to self-promote.
With my interest in business - and in making money - as well as my craft, I was intrigued by this aspect. The questions they asked in their proposal were, to some extent, new to me. And I enjoyed building a profile of my target reader (young, female, thinks she's smarter than everyone else... hmm...) and wracking my brain for books that resemble Shards for its material (serious) and tone (darkly humorous).
Hopefully this material will help with the next query I send out. Because while I am both a gifted writer and generally lucky, I'm not thinking this is going to be an easy or quick process. Luckily agents don't mind simultanous queries, so as I find good fits, I'll be able to write up and send new queries. I have an Excel spreadsheet created for just that...
By the way, the agent I applied to today not only fit all my requirements from a business sense (represents several excellent and well-known authors already, good literary agency, represents both chic lit and sci-fi/fantasy stuff), but also won my attention because - she's a Red Sox fan. Living in NYC. Respect!
So, I have edited Shards for continuity, made some small changes, formatted. I don't know if it will ever feel entirely "done" -- I think it's really good, don't get me wrong, but it's a lot to say of some 650 pages that yes, I'm quite sure every word, every sentence, is as perfect as I could ever write.
I'm not a perfectionist, though (ask anyone who has ever seen my housekeeping) and I think "really good" is quite enough to begin shopping it out to agents.
Today I submitted my first query to an agent. It was actually quite an interesting process. It seems like every agent wants things some different way -- this one wants a complete synopsis + first three chapters, this one just wants a query, this one wants an outline and one sample chapter... they don't make it easy.
This particular agent wanted a proposal with a commercial perspective: not just a summary and sample chapters, but a page or three on the target audience, competing books in the genre and how this one differentiates itself, and opportunities for the author to self-promote.
With my interest in business - and in making money - as well as my craft, I was intrigued by this aspect. The questions they asked in their proposal were, to some extent, new to me. And I enjoyed building a profile of my target reader (young, female, thinks she's smarter than everyone else... hmm...) and wracking my brain for books that resemble Shards for its material (serious) and tone (darkly humorous).
Hopefully this material will help with the next query I send out. Because while I am both a gifted writer and generally lucky, I'm not thinking this is going to be an easy or quick process. Luckily agents don't mind simultanous queries, so as I find good fits, I'll be able to write up and send new queries. I have an Excel spreadsheet created for just that...
By the way, the agent I applied to today not only fit all my requirements from a business sense (represents several excellent and well-known authors already, good literary agency, represents both chic lit and sci-fi/fantasy stuff), but also won my attention because - she's a Red Sox fan. Living in NYC. Respect!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Writing a new novel is like the first day of school. You don't know your new characters, and you don't know if you'll like them. You don't know if everything is going to work out.
I'm trying to sketch out two new ideas. But honestly, they make me miss Shards a little. I might not have always liked that novel in times, in the thick of trying to finish the damn thing when none of the characters would be shoehorned into doing what they were supposed to do when I originally outlined... but at least I always knew what was coming.
Oh well. I just need to keep writing, and give myself some time to fall into As-Of-Yet-Undeclared Novel No. 2.
I'm trying to sketch out two new ideas. But honestly, they make me miss Shards a little. I might not have always liked that novel in times, in the thick of trying to finish the damn thing when none of the characters would be shoehorned into doing what they were supposed to do when I originally outlined... but at least I always knew what was coming.
Oh well. I just need to keep writing, and give myself some time to fall into As-Of-Yet-Undeclared Novel No. 2.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Today I found a free (though rather dated) book on succeeding as a professional novelist, written by an active literary agent, Donald Maass. I'm still reading through it but thought it was something interesting to pass on:
http://www.2morrow.bc.ca/documents/career_novelist_DonaldMaass.pdf
It gives some of the "hard info" I'm always looking for, to better understand the literary world. For instance, some numbers:
-5,000 (fiction novels published in the U.S. every year);
-5 (books on average, to be considered an established author);
-10 (average number of years from initial manuscript to established author status).
Although that is very YMMV, of course.
Dated or not, it's interesting to get an agent's perspective. I skimmed some of the early chapters (Persistence is key to a successful career? Really? I never would have guessed that) but I really liked the chapter on successfully pitching an idea.
I love to write, but I am also really intrigued by the business aspect of the writing process. Right now am I so motivated to make my desired changes to Shards (just a few bits of re-writing to do) so I can start contacting agents. More on the agent search to follow. :)
http://www.2morrow.bc.ca/
It gives some of the "hard info" I'm always looking for, to better understand the literary world. For instance, some numbers:
-5,000 (fiction novels published in the U.S. every year);
-5 (books on average, to be considered an established author);
-10 (average number of years from initial manuscript to established author status).
Although that is very YMMV, of course.
Dated or not, it's interesting to get an agent's perspective. I skimmed some of the early chapters (Persistence is key to a successful career? Really? I never would have guessed that) but I really liked the chapter on successfully pitching an idea.
I love to write, but I am also really intrigued by the business aspect of the writing process. Right now am I so motivated to make my desired changes to Shards (just a few bits of re-writing to do) so I can start contacting agents. More on the agent search to follow. :)
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Re-reading the novel is an adventure. Towards the end of its writing, I did not want to continue. I felt uninspired (of course if I only wrote when I felt inspired, I'd pretty much only break out my laptop during dull work meetings). It seemed like the writing was dull and I had lost the "sparkle" that is so key to my M.C. (Main Character).
But it's not like that. So far on the re-read I feel like an eager and interested reader. I didn't have that much time today but I was looking forward to getting back into the book. I really want someone else to read this, but I have to make it MY best first.
Speaking of adventures, I have a little culinary adventure to take soon. I never knew such a thing existed, and I am a little afraid to put this into my microwave:
But it's not like that. So far on the re-read I feel like an eager and interested reader. I didn't have that much time today but I was looking forward to getting back into the book. I really want someone else to read this, but I have to make it MY best first.
Speaking of adventures, I have a little culinary adventure to take soon. I never knew such a thing existed, and I am a little afraid to put this into my microwave:
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
How do I begin the re-write? By reading… and that’s certainly the least painful part of this process. Right now I am just reading for flow and continuity, trying to get a general sense for my story. And so far, I like what I am reading (I always feel like I’m writing absolute crap while I’m in the midst of the creative process, so I’m never too sure what I will find at the end).
I will say, though, I feel this novel (Shards of Glass) has a strong opening sentence:
April killed her father while Mom was at a PTA meeting.
Tell me that doesn’t make you want to read the second sentence?
Here’s a favorite quote of mine from a few pages (and in the story, a few years) later—
She picked up one of the paperbacks. “So why do you need a secondhand copy of The Great Gatsby, which sold for-” she checked the inside cover. “Three dollars?”
“There are a few things you need to have a home,” Nick said. “A good stock of breakfast cereal. Curtains in the bedroom windows. And a copy of The Great Gatsby.”
You can tell how I feel about Fitzgerald.
And from a little later on in that same chapter, here’s another favorite quote:
He always seemed to have a lot to apologize for, even though there wasn’t much he regretted.
The idea in Shards of Glass is that April helps her father kill himself, than covers it up to protect the family’s insurance money. She never tells her mother, and part of the staging involves pretending that her father died alone while she visited her boyfriend. Her mother never forgives her. April goes from lying about this one terrible thing, to lying about everything. When the story picks up again, five years later, she has a great life. She’s a student in med school, dating a great guy. But everything she has is about to be endangered by her pathological lying – and the all-too-temporal ghosts of her past.
The book’s an odd one – chick lit with lots of action (an armed bank robbery, blackmailing, kidnapping, a hostage rescue). The typical love triangle between April, her current boyfriend and her old flame – but without the predictable ending on that one. And really flawed characters, guaranteed to make you want to yell at the pages at times. I know I want to sometimes, and I created them.
I will say, though, I feel this novel (Shards of Glass) has a strong opening sentence:
April killed her father while Mom was at a PTA meeting.
Tell me that doesn’t make you want to read the second sentence?
Here’s a favorite quote of mine from a few pages (and in the story, a few years) later—
She picked up one of the paperbacks. “So why do you need a secondhand copy of The Great Gatsby, which sold for-” she checked the inside cover. “Three dollars?”
“There are a few things you need to have a home,” Nick said. “A good stock of breakfast cereal. Curtains in the bedroom windows. And a copy of The Great Gatsby.”
You can tell how I feel about Fitzgerald.
And from a little later on in that same chapter, here’s another favorite quote:
He always seemed to have a lot to apologize for, even though there wasn’t much he regretted.
The idea in Shards of Glass is that April helps her father kill himself, than covers it up to protect the family’s insurance money. She never tells her mother, and part of the staging involves pretending that her father died alone while she visited her boyfriend. Her mother never forgives her. April goes from lying about this one terrible thing, to lying about everything. When the story picks up again, five years later, she has a great life. She’s a student in med school, dating a great guy. But everything she has is about to be endangered by her pathological lying – and the all-too-temporal ghosts of her past.
The book’s an odd one – chick lit with lots of action (an armed bank robbery, blackmailing, kidnapping, a hostage rescue). The typical love triangle between April, her current boyfriend and her old flame – but without the predictable ending on that one. And really flawed characters, guaranteed to make you want to yell at the pages at times. I know I want to sometimes, and I created them.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I just finished National Novel Writing Month (hereby NaNoWriMo, because nonsensical acronyms are better than typing four whole words) 2008. The goal of NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org) is for each author who signs up to write 50,000 words during the month of November.
This would have been a lot more fun if I was home in the states (or anywhere civilized, really) since there is a big social component to NaNoWriMo. You can get together with other writers to talk about your writing and write together… supposedly this boosts productivity, which I find hard to imagine (given a choice between talking and writing, or talking and anything, really, I always choose talking). But it certainly is fun.
Nonetheless, I am now a proud NaNo finisher. Not a novel finisher, though. 50,000 words is more a novella than a novel itself – not that anyone with a dayjob is likely to write more than that in a month. The novel I finished at the end of October weighed in around 120K at draft completion, and since the new novel is a fantasy, it’s apt to be a bit more verbose. We all know how fantasy writers are… never write one book when you can write three. Or seven. Or fourteen.
I’m not saying it isn’t smart, but it annoys me as a reader. I generally avoid fantasy epics for just that reason. My attention span is not long enough to wait for my lasagna to microwave, it is certainly not long enough to wait four years to find out what happened next to our intrepid heroes, who never seem to get any closer to completing their mission no matter how many cliffhanger endings they survive.
I just realized, I am the grinch of the fantasy epic.
Anyway, one last note on NaNoWriMo. I was interviewed by the lovely Diane Bock from WriMo Radio for their series of podcasts. You can hear me (sounding both younger and dumber than I think I sound in real life, it must be a trick of the radio…) at this link:
Guin's NaNo Interview
Here I talk about what it’s like to novel in Baghdad, in the great nation of Iraq. I especially like the part where I say deployment means living in a "frat house environment", hopefully my male co-workers do not take that personally. Actually, I hope they just never hear it. I would also prefer they not hear the part where I confessed to writing at work sometimes about "werewolves and warrior princesses" (really a gross simplification... but accurate in its own right).
So, that is it for the day… I finished NaNo yesterday, I took today off from writing (a rare thing for me, I figured if I don’t take time off, I don’t have the chance to remember how much I like not writing). Given that I just finished this semester of school (also yesterday), today was my first time in a long time with nothing to procrastinate on. I realized today that many things (shopping on Amazon for things I don't need, reading other people's blogs, cleaning - a sure sign of a task I am reluctant to start) are not nearly as much fun without something else I should be doing.
Tomorrow I begin the editing process on the novel finished in October… check back tomorrow, as I write more about writing (my most brilliant form of procrastination yet).
I feel first entries in a blog are always awkward (Hi! I’m a really charming person you don’t know, but I’m on the internet, don’t you want to read about me? Let me tell you about how interesting and clever I am, in a clever and interesting way!). I was tempted to skip over this one, because really, I am a prolific churner-out of words intended to make myself sound charming, interesting and clever. I expect few people will ever click ‘Previous Page’ enough times to view this but the time I have a hefty readership.
But I am writing a first entry anyway. What can I say? I need a clearly delineated beginning and end when I write. This is why I am probably doomed to write popular, rather than literary, fiction.
So this is the reason for this blog: I am going to become a professional writer. Although this is, as you may have noticed from my blog title, not my day job, I am going to turn it into a day job. And I plan to do this within the next five years.
All I have to do is write an amazing novel, be the one author in a hundred with an amazing novel to be noticed, and maybe go on Oprah.
Now, I know I am not the only person out there who dreams of doing this. And this writing business is always presented as such a game of chance. You could be the next J.K. Rowling, or you could write eighteen amazing novels and never even receive a nice handwritten comment on the side of a rejection letter. But I wonder if this perception is really even accurate. What would happen if you made a truly dedicated effort, as a writer:
• To produce – not just to write when you feel like it, but to write consistently, as if it were, in fact your second job, even if not your day job;
• To hone your craft in a dedicated and disciplined fashion – reading, researching, re-writing.
• To market yourself and your writing. To network. To send out your query letters and outlines. Maybe even to start a self-serving writing blog to help enhance your visibility. ;)
If you really put forth a concerted effort, will the literary world - as happens in most human endeavors - eventually succumb to the pure force of will?
So this blog is a gamble. I’m betting that I can make it in five years. And I am going to chronicle the process – the writing, the editing, the rejection letters, the break-throughs.
I may crash and burn, and seek out a career and lifesyle where I never write anything longer than “Happy birthday” for the rest of my life. I may make it into Oprah’s Book Club or write the next Twilight book. And there’s a whole spectrum between those two extremes. However it works out, you may learn something from reading, and I promise, I’ll do my best to make the ride entertaining.
But I am writing a first entry anyway. What can I say? I need a clearly delineated beginning and end when I write. This is why I am probably doomed to write popular, rather than literary, fiction.
So this is the reason for this blog: I am going to become a professional writer. Although this is, as you may have noticed from my blog title, not my day job, I am going to turn it into a day job. And I plan to do this within the next five years.
All I have to do is write an amazing novel, be the one author in a hundred with an amazing novel to be noticed, and maybe go on Oprah.
Now, I know I am not the only person out there who dreams of doing this. And this writing business is always presented as such a game of chance. You could be the next J.K. Rowling, or you could write eighteen amazing novels and never even receive a nice handwritten comment on the side of a rejection letter. But I wonder if this perception is really even accurate. What would happen if you made a truly dedicated effort, as a writer:
• To produce – not just to write when you feel like it, but to write consistently, as if it were, in fact your second job, even if not your day job;
• To hone your craft in a dedicated and disciplined fashion – reading, researching, re-writing.
• To market yourself and your writing. To network. To send out your query letters and outlines. Maybe even to start a self-serving writing blog to help enhance your visibility. ;)
If you really put forth a concerted effort, will the literary world - as happens in most human endeavors - eventually succumb to the pure force of will?
So this blog is a gamble. I’m betting that I can make it in five years. And I am going to chronicle the process – the writing, the editing, the rejection letters, the break-throughs.
I may crash and burn, and seek out a career and lifesyle where I never write anything longer than “Happy birthday” for the rest of my life. I may make it into Oprah’s Book Club or write the next Twilight book. And there’s a whole spectrum between those two extremes. However it works out, you may learn something from reading, and I promise, I’ll do my best to make the ride entertaining.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
