The First Line, Continued

Obviously, I cannot share my current work-in-progress for The First Line's slush pile at present, but here's a story that I wrote and submitted for your reading pleasure. I love this story. I believe in this story.

I cannot imagine where I can possibly submit this story for publication. You'll see why in a minute.

Perfect Girl

Sometimes the name they give you is all wrong. That's certainly true for Alberta Helstein. That's one unglamorous name for a very glamorous girl. She gets around it by calling herself Ali, which is almost pretty enough for a girl like her.

She's glamorous, like I said, but down to earth. Like now. She's been on the track for the past forty-five minutes, doing the workout she missed because she was scheduled to work at the restaurant over practice. She's resting after one of her sprints, leaning forward with her hands on her knees, and her gray Nike t-shirt has dark spots at the top of her sports bra, at the small of her back. Her sleek brown ponytail has fallen forward into her damp, red-cheeked face. But she is still heartbreakingly pretty, with her delicate bonestructure and full lips and impossibly bright smile. She has a good face, I mean a really open and honest one; and of course you can't be sure a person is really as good as they look, but I've been watching her for a while and I think I know. She lives with her mom because her mom is sick, even though the dorm is more fun, and she works part-time to pay for her car to get to and from the college. She holds hands and kisses her boyfriend but doesn't go father than that, which is pretty rare and special for a nineteen-year-old these days. Most girls you just can't respect.

Her boyfriend is down there now, as well as two of the female friends. Such is Ali's magnetic personality that even though the other two girls are not fond of running - she goes to the gym with them on occasion, and they are Stairmaster types, not runners - she has persuaded them to come out with her.

They line up, laughing, for another lap. The two girls make a show of coming out hard but then immediately slow as soon as Ali and that guy have passed. Ali, on the other hand, is all running grace, an elegant efficiency in her long-limbed loose movements. Her pink-and-white running shoes deign to touch the ground for a fraction of a second each time she lands, and in between each propulsion forward, she flies above the track. That guy lumbers alongside her, good-naturedly trying to beat her; he doesn't seem to care if he proves himself worthy. Probably wise for him, because when they take the final bend at the 300 meter mark she leans forward into the run, pumps her arms, throws her angular body forward at the finish. She trains like she races and she races like she takes on the world. I want some of her energy and life.

When she makes it across the finish she turns back, panting, and throws her arms around him. He picks her up and walks with her to where their gym bags and Nalgene bottles are waiting on the turf. The four of them gather up their things and walk from the track up the hill to the parking lot. This is where her guy makes a mistake, one of the big ones that proves he doesn't deserve her anyway. He doesn't walk with her to the car to make sure she will make it home safely. Instead, he kisses her goodbye and he and the two girlfriends turn and amble away towards the dorms on the other side of campus. Ali walks between the cars, her blue duffel bag banging against her leg, jingling her car keys in one hand, humming Maroon 5 to herself. That's her favorite group; when I snagged her IPod while she was studying in the library, she had every single song of theirs.

I follow her between the cars. I'm parked in the next row, which took some waiting. I can't wait to be close to her again. Once, in Borders, I brushed gently past her when she was leaning over to survey the lower shelves in the chic-lit section; she smelled like vanilla, spice, warmth and home. I touched the back of her gray wool coat. She turned her head over her shoulder, surprised, and said, "Excuse me", but with a smile. She has the most vibrant blue eyes, and the smile she gave me - it was a smile of sharing. I think she knew then that we were soulmates, like I do.

But in case she doesn't, and it takes some time, I have a taser, and duct tape in the back of the car.

She stops at her car door, keys in the lock - it's almost time to reveal myself now, but I freeze when she stops. She looks around her, slowly looking right and left in a studiedly casual way. My heart pounds in my chest. She's looking for someone - looking for me. She must feel the nearness of her soul mate, the soon-to-be reveal.

Then she looks down, as if she has decided there is no one around after all, and puts her finger in her nose.

She looks disgusting, standing there, with one finger shoved into a nostril, crinkling up her cute little nose. Picking her nose, like a dirty-handed little kid. I almost gag.

She must not get it with her finger, because she tries with her thumb instead.

I turn around and walk away.

The First Line

The deadline for The First Line's summer 2009 issue is rapidly approaching (May 1st). After my last rejection letter from them for the spring issue, I was debating not submitting to them anymore. At least my first two submissions both included nice personal notes encouraging me to submit again even though my story wasn't quite right for this particular issue. Since the last one I got back was a plain-jane form letter, though, maybe they're getting a bit tired of me.

And yet - The First Line offers a fun creative writing prompt. Then you can submit whatever you come up with for possible inclusion, and even if that doesn't work out - you still have a jaunty new story completed. So it's hardly a bad deal.

For the uninitiated, you can find The First Line here. Here's how it works: each issue has a wide variety of stories, but they all begin with the same opening line. For instance, I have the summer 2007 issue here in front of me. The first line for that issue was, "My first impression of Phillip was that he was blessed with ignorance."

It is such fun to read the divergent directions writers take from their one line. For instance, from Phillip the stories include: a story about an old man with two left hands, who makes a difference in a young person's life; a tale about the end of a relationship, told from the POV of both Phillip and Sheila; and the story of a family finally coming to terms with a daughter's sexuality. It also helps that the stories in The First Line are usually first rate.

So, I guess I'm going to give this most recent issue's first line a shot before the deadline; this means I only have a few days to write the damn thing, compose my cover letter and send it out, but that's all right. It usually only takes me a few hours to pound out a short story once I get down to it (I might not have quality down, but I sure can do quantity), so I might as well give it a chance.

For anyone else who wants to play, the first line that is due by May 1st is:
"For two weeks now, I’ve been trying to figure out if people are laughing with me or at me. "

I have no idea where I want to go from that. But I know from experience, I don't do my best plotting in front of a Word document and a blinking cursor. My story ideas always come up when I'm out on a long run, in the shower or about to drift off to sleep. You know. Whenever it's inconvenient to find pen and paper. My muse is a real jerk sometimes.

From another creative writing prompt...

Because the smallest memory can be turned into a short story... I took a soft and sweet childhood memory (my older boy cousin giving me a pair of his old PJs) and turned it into a darker fragment of story. What do you think?

The prompt was to write about your earliest childhood memory:

First Memories:
Uncle J and Aunt M's house in Brooklyn (?). Pancakes for breakfast. Joe running down the stairs into the kitchen to give me his outgrown pajamas, which were covered in little pictures of sailboats: pants with an elastic waist and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar and little sailboat-shaped blue buttons.

Add learning-to-read angst and a hint of a controlling, scary parental figure, neither of which existed for me, and this is the result:

Story:
"No, you don't need to read her a bedtime story," Dad said. "She's old enough to be able to read on her own. She can read her own bedtime stories when she's ready." The way he looked at Jamie when he said this, obviously meant for her ears, was affectionate enough. Jamie felt hurt and embarrassed in front of her cousins, the familiar weight of being the black sheep of the family at seven. Tom seemed to feel sad for her too and patted her shoulder.

"Oh," Tom said, "I have a present for you. I outgrew my pajamas!"

"What are you talking about, Tom?" Aunt Tina asked.

"I outgrew my sailboat pajamas," he said. "I want to give them to cousin Jamie."

Aunt Tina and Dad shared a look, meant to be over the children's heads. Tom was already running from the living room though, to the two small bedrooms in the back of the house. He came back a minute later, clutching the sailboat pajamas that were, in fact, a little too small for him. He had worn them for almost two years now, steadily rejecting new blue-and-yellow striped pajamas, Superman pajamas, pajamas at Chrismas and pajamas at Birthdays and pajamas for just-because-he-really-needs-pajamas.

"Here, Jamie," Tom said. "You can wear these to bed tonight." He thrust them at her, obviously excited by his own generosity.

"It's okay," Aunt Tina said to Dad. "I'll be glad to get rid of them. And she is very small for her age."

"All right," Dad said. "What do you said, Jamie?"

"Thank you, Tom," Jamie said. she took the pajamas from Tom. There were pants with an elastic waistband and a short-sleeved top with a collar and little blue sailboat buttons down the front. They were colorfully splashed with red, yellow and blue sailboats, cars and airplanes.

"Go brush your teeth, both of you, and make sure you do a good job - use the timer, two minutes at least," Aunt Tina said, even though she must have known Dad would follow them into the bathroom to supervise. Jamie followed Tom to the bathroom, clutching in her arms her new pajamas, in their print of fly-away, sail-away dreams.

20 Things That Annoy Me

Shared as promised. Please don't hate me.

20 Things That Annoy Me:

1. Static on the radio.

2. People who don’t use their inside voices while inside.

3. Drivers who travel up the exit lane (or even the breakdown lane) so they can cut in front of other drivers.

4. Atheist misrepresentations of the Bible.

5. Christian misrepresentations of the Bible.

6. Women who try to use feminism as another way to force women to conform. Um, an oppressive matriarchy would be better than an oppressive patriarchy how?

7. Badly behaved children. Which seems to be the majority, these days. Man, I am getting old.

8. Crappy parents, which seem to be the corollary to the above badly behaved children. Actually, it’s not just bad parenting – it is poor examples of human beings parenting poorly.

9. Lousy service/attitude when I’m paying for a product or service. It’s really not my problem that you didn’t go to college, and I don’t care that working at T.G.I. Fridays is not the dream job you used to envision playing with your Barbies. Bring me my water and my burger… your tip is dwindling, honey.

10. “Texting” type communications anywhere other than, well, texts. If you have ever typed “UR” in an email, you are a moron. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules.

11. People who act like going into the military isn’t good enough for them or their kids. Hey, guess what, serving your country is for everyone, even the entitled children of yuppies.

12. Being touched by people who are not welcome into The Bubble of Trust. When I am in foreign countries, I adapt to their customs, but... this is America. We are supposed to like our personal space. Back the F up.

13. The size of soft drinks nowdays. A large at Wendy’s is what, 32 ounces now? That is, minimum, 400 liquid calories to wash down your 900 calorie meal. And you want me to support socialized health care? Maybe when we impose a sin tax on high fructose corn syrup.

14. People who act like you’re a heathen for not supporting their cause/party/ideology. Because vitriolic though I may sound here, I really don’t give a crap what it is you want out of life – even if that is to raise entitled brats or to gain a new Guinness World Record for fattest human being – as long as you’ll just leave me alone. Thanks.

15. Ice on the ground. It’s slippery and dangerous and, sometimes when you fall, there isn’t even someone you can sue.

16. Diet anything. Because a) it’s been scientifically proven that it just makes your body crave more calories to replace the ones you aren’t eating, and b) wouldn’t going out for a nice run just make a lot more sense than putting all those chemicals into your body? But that’s OK. Convince yourself it won’t make you fat.

17. Twitter. Because really? Nobody should care.

18. Celebrity gossip mags. See 17.

19. Political commentary in magazines like Cosmo and Glamour. Um, if I read your crap magazine, it’s to check out the ridiculous fashions in this season, maybe some mascara recommendations… not for some silly party line I’m supposed to fall in line with (right after I blow $600 on a trendy-ugly purse, right?).

20. Lukewarm food on buffets. Because it tastes disgusting, and it could give you food poisoning. And also it just tastes disgusting.

Creating Writing Prompts

Lately, to try and get in my word count, I've been using two sources to write something, anything. The first is a fun little website:
http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/#
As you hover over the number of each prompt, it displays what it is -- they aren't brilliant, but they're a start. It is amazing what can develop once you start writing about something.

Growing up religious, I was told that the law of Physics that stated that objects at rest tended to remain at rest was also true for people -- that it was easier for God to get us moving in the right direction as long as we got started moving first in ANY direction. I think the same thing is true with the muse... you might start out writing about automatic pencils or chocolate cupcakes, but the story burning within you will find an outlet from there.

The other prompt I've been using is Novakovich's "The Fiction Writer's Workshop". Each chapter discusses a different concept - dialogue, character development, viewpoint, etc., with examples from literature. Then the end of chapter gives several writing prompts. It's like a little creative writing class, but without the fun of reading aloud and hearing your peer's work. Still good stuff, though. He also wrote one for novel writers, which I am dying to read - I'll have to add that to my birthday wish list!

Tune in tomorrow for my answer to Creative Writing Prompt No. 40 from the website - 20 Things That Annoy Me. I still haven't figured out how to parlay any of those into a story, but I had fun writing it. :) Although, I am somewhat inspired by the exercise to write a tale of a young woman crotchety before her time...

Off Subject

So I know this is my writing job, but I'd like to take a minute to go off subject and vent about my in-progress Master's degree. That's my other project, you see, besides working full-time and trying to start a career as a novelist (and also training for a marathon, diet-and-exercising my way back to my college weight... two pounds down so far, it's going to be a while... and keeping my house tidy enough that I don't feel like a complete domestic failure).

I am getting my Master's in Finance, because grad school is a must when you decide to get your bachelor's in History because, well, you like the subject and you want plenty of time for varsity sports and drinking. Now, I don't have any interest in teaching (actually, that's not true. I love the idea of teaching. It's the teacher's SALARY that loses me), so that history degree is not helping me out. So, as much as I wanted to do a MFA program in Creative Writing, I decided to be practical with my MS.

But sometimes I wonder, what in the world am I doing? I have eighteen credits down so far, five more classes and a thesis to go. It's not fun doing homework after work and on weekends. I can't imagine what in the field of finance I'm going to write my thesis on -- a lot of the material is, you know, a little dry (as fascinating as it all is in practice). And while I'd like to become a stockbroker and dream of being on the board of directors of a bank I helped start (yes, there are people who dream of such a thing, oddly enough), I picked one hell of a time to enter the finance industry.

Man, this blog is really just me being a big whiney-pants most of the time, isn't it? Fine. I am going to shut up and go do my homework now...

Shot.

My concentration, that is. Shot. I bounce from project to project. Yesterday I eked out almost 400 words on one novel, the day before that it was 1200 on another. I outlined a short story, but can't manage to write it in a way that even makes me want to re-read it. My obsession with professionalism, with writing every day with discipline and consistency and finishing my projects, is starting to seem laughable.

Ghaaa. Maybe we're meant to take vacations between big, soul-baring, world-changing (at least theoretically) writing projects? Or maybe I'm just too distracted by dueling piano bars, searching for the perfect Indian food, and my all-too-practical Master's degree in Finance.

Well. No one ever promised me a rose garden, as they say.

The latest thing to read when you should be writing

What I'm addicted to now?

Query Shark

Writers submit their query to literary agent for analysis. Agent posts with her comments. Not only informative, but way more fun than it sounds.

The nice folks over at Query Connect already went through my query letter and gave me some helpful advice, but I'm curious to see what the Shark would say. And a little afraid, as well.

Do you enjoy writing?

That's my question of the day: Do you enjoy writing?

I read a few interesting articles today. First, Nathan Bransford, a literary agent, wrote this on his blog:
Writers are dreamers, and dreamers tend to daydream about the future while concocting wildly optimistic scenarios that involve bestsellordom, riches, and interviews with Ryan Seacrest. In doing so they forget to enjoy the present. I call this the "if only" game. You know how it goes: if only I could find an agent, then I'll be happy. When you have an agent, then it becomes: if only I could get published, then I'll be happy. And so on. The only way to stay sane in the business is to enjoy every step as you're actually experiencing it. Happiness is not around the bend. It's found in the present. Because writing is pretty great -- otherwise why are you doing it?
Linked on his blog, nathanbransford.blogspot.com.

But then I also read this article from the Guardian, where authors who write for a living talked about how they felt about writing. And their milage certainly varied.

For instance, John Banville: "The struggle of writing is fraught with a specialised form of anguish, the anguish of knowing one will never get it right, that one will always fail, and that all one can hope to do is 'fail better', as Beckett recommends. The pleasure of writing is in the preparation, not the execution, and certainly not in the thing executed. The novelist daily at his desk eats ashes, and if occasionally he encounters a diamond he is likely to break a tooth on it. Money is necessary to pay the dentist's bills."

and cheerful Amit Chaudhuri: "Writing novels is no fun; nor is, generally speaking, reading novels. Reading people writing about novels is not always fun, either, because relatively little of this kind of writing is any good. Then there's the group of people who don't enjoy being novelists, to which I probably belong; whose lives are at once shaped and defined by, and to some extent entrapped in, the act of writing fiction."

I think I enjoy writing. But sometimes, I just don't want... it's so much effort and so much frustration.

Do you enjoy writing? And if so, what do you enjoy about it?

Writers' Group

I went back to my writers' group last night after a year away. We meet in the upstairs of a sweet coffee shop in a distinctly sketchy part of town - definitely the kind of place where you carry your keys in your hand on your way to the car and lock the doors behind you as soon as you're in. But then, I am also a little paranoid.

HOWEVER, walking through the Valley of Sketch is hardly the point. The writers' group had changed composition from last year, with a few people I still know and more that I did not. I guess there is a natural ebb and flow - the group gets too big, not everyone gets to read in the time allotted for the meeting, people drop out and the group gets smaller, and then more people come.

I read chapter seven of SHARDS. I got some good feedback: great dialogue, need more visual description, love the characters, the female character in the scene could be more hostile and angry. I tend to downplay the female characters a little, I guess, because I don't want them to be just another irrational, stereotypical woman. My characters are a little neurotic and quirky, but honestly, that is how I see everyone. If you met my family, this would make sense.

I enjoyed the other readings too. There was a pretty rousing chapter of an action-adventure novel, a beautiful piece about observing gulls on the beach (the kind of detailed description that I don't think I could ever settle down enough to write myself), a chapter from the memoir of a former priest who left the church with a nun he had fallen in love with... overall, just good stuff. It's fun to hear such a variety of stories in one place.

The problem with writers' groups (for me) is they are most effective for short pieces - a story, a scene, a poem - something that can be read in your fifteen-minute spot of fame that week. Several of us are reading novels, in excerpts, which allows you to polish a scene (and ensures it stands on its own), but it doesn't give you a good sense of the overall flow of your piece. I have some friends reading the novel for fun, but I wish I could get a good literary critique of it.

I do love the group, though. Writing is so solitary, it's fun to socialize and talk about your writing. In small doses, of course... eventually you have to shut up and get back to the keyboard. :)

Write Now?

Obviously, I lied and, after my last post, promptly disappeared again. I've spent the last few weeks enjoying all sorts of lovely food, learning to snowboard, getting manicured/pedicured/massaged and generally girlified again, wandering around the beautiful city of San Diego and exploring happy hours throughout the entire SoCal region - as well as bonding with my gorgeous and fun husband.

Which brings me to a question. I read a magazine article once that suggested that writing was not for the young. In it, the author suggested that you should first concentrate on living your life, observing and coming to understand human beings and their interactions with each other and their environment, accumulating experiences. Then, not only well-stocked with ideas but also with a more mature understanding of how people act and interact, THEN you are ready to sit down and create fiction.

But, while I think that more mature writing is probably better writing, I think there is much to be said for writing at every stage in your life. Because the story that you will tell now, this week, this month, this year, is a different story than the one you would write in the future. Now there's a particular thought nagging at you, a particular bit of youthful angst; or a newspaper story you read this morning and will have forgotten by next Tuesday; or a bit of dialogue you overhear at work, that will find its way into THIS story, but only if you write it now, before you change. Because we are always changing, if only in tidbits and dabs.

Sometimes, however, I think maybe there's something to be said for living now, writing later. Mostly when I find myself joyously overwhelmed by life in the moment, and not so eager to return to my keyboard...

Back from hiatus

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.

My Query Letter

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?

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,

Guinevere

Well? If you were a saavy New York literary agent, would you be interested in representing it?

Sharing Is Caring: Shards of Glass, Chapter One

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.

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.

Man, I Don't Want to Blog This

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!

Delinquent!

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

Writing the Wrong Story

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.

25% is not so bad

Just an update on the query letters for Shards. I've submitted nine query letters so far. This past week I received two more rejections. That brings me up to one request for a full, and three rejections, so I'm at 25%. Or at 75% rejected, but let's not go all glass-half-empty.

The Manuscript's Day Out

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:

SHARDS OF GLASS

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…

Great site to check out!

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.