Another day, another rejection.
I'm pretty much done querying, but every now and again I get the urge to send one out. Just for fun. Because I'm the kind of person who considers getting her hopes slammed into the wall repeatedly 'fun'- which is to say- sadistic. But I just can't seem to stop. It's kind of like slamming your hand in a car door. The first few times it hurts like a bitch. But once you've had all your bones pulverized, it doesn't do much anymore. Just kind of leaves you with you a not entirely unpleasant tingling sensation.
Here's the latest in rejection, I think it's lovely so I wanted to share it:
Dear Randine,
Thank you for your interest in (redacted). Though your novel
sounds like it has potential for the women's fiction market, I regret that
(redacted) must decline a reading of HAVING GRACE. Her fiction list is
keeping her working at capacity, and she would unfortunately not be able
to give your manuscript the attention that it deserves.
I wish you all the best with finding an excellent agent to represent your
work.
It's sad to say because I'm at the point where I actually get pretty pumped about rejection sometimes.
If the rejection letter contains: a) my name
b)the name of my book
c) any kind of statement which seems specific to my project
or d) the trifecta: ALL OF THE ABOVE!!
I get really excited.
Which is rather pitiful, but with so many agents these days moving towards the no response means no, getting a response at all seems like- I don't know- a privilege. And any kind of personalized response is all the better. And honestly, I can't say that I blame them for going toward not responding. The sheer amount of queries they receive must be totally overwhelming.
So then I try to reconstruct what happened in the office:
October 25: Query received by assistant, Chloe - which ,by the way, love that name. Love it. I even thought about naming Payton Chloe, so I feel like I'm connected her on some level. Mind you, I feel connected with just about anyone who emails me. Even the spammers. Because I don't totally hate the idea of discount Vicodin.
Anyways.
At some point after: Query read by Chloe and flagged as a 'maybe'
(This I deduce because, statistically, most rejections from this agent come faster than mine did. Of course, this could just mean that it was caught in a spam filter, or the assistant was on holidays, or who knows what else. But I dream of a mystical maybe pile that I've heard of in query folklore, which is a step above the slush pile.)
Some point later on: Query passed on to agent as a maybe. Maybe she forwards all of the 'maybe's' as an attachment. Maybe she prints them off and puts them on her desk. Maybe she brings them at some kind of a team meeting. I don't know. Either way, it gets passed along.
Some point later on: Agent reads query, considers it (briefly) but then decides to pass, telling Chloe to reject it, but nicely.
I think I could have made it as a profiler.
Maybe I was a maybe, I tell myself, after reading it. It sounds pathetic, but hey, at this point, I have to take whatever props I can, meager though they are.
Anyways, at this point, whatevs.
It matters not to me, and I can say this honestly. The fact is, I realized only recently, I trust this crazy process. Trust it like I trust my own mother, which may be understating things since my own mother once almost let me drown to my death in my grandparents swimming pool, but that's beside the point.
The point is, I believe that when I am ready to be published, I will be. And if I'm not ready, I won't be. Simple as that.
Maybe I'm just not quite there yet.
And that's OK.
Stephen King says the first million words are just practice. Even with all that I've written, this blog included, I'm not quite at a million yet. But I'm getting closer every day.
And when I query again for my next project, I will be much more informed, much more prepared.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Not Feeling the Flow
I don't call it 'writers block.'
I call it: not feeling the flow.
It sounds nicer that way.
And I have this superstition like if I say I have writers block, then I have it. If I don't say it, then I don't have it. It's like- say, OCD. If I say I don't have it, and say it three times fast after tapping my nose three times in a row with my left pinky finger, then I don't have it.
It's called magical thinking, and I love it, don't care if it's a sign of mental illness or not.
Google it. It's a thing. For real.
Besides, I don't really consider myself to be blocked.
I mean, I could write, if I really wanted to. I'm writing right now.
But I simply don't want to- in either of my WIPs.
Writing isn't always easy, and I think that this is where I sometimes feel misunderstood.
People have said to me "I wish I could do that! Just sit down and write a book!"
Well, ya. You and me both, baby.
I can't just sit down and write a book. It takes weeks and months of dedication, of commitment and sacrifice. Of blood, sweat and tears.
OK. Maybe not blood.
But it can be long, and it can be lonely-- shutting yourself away from theTV shows people you love.
And this is a difficult thing.
I used to put a lot of pressure on myself to write. Even if I didn't feel like it. I would make myself. "Just one page..."
But lately I have let a lot of that go, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
On the one hand, I tell myself that I should focus on the things that are real in my life.
By real I mean- the things that can give back to me.
Like my kids.
Like my husband.
Like my job.
If I become successful at writing, I'll look back all those months and years I spent writing and call it 'perserverence.'
If I don't become successful, I'll call it what?
A waste of my time?
Time that could of been better spent with my kids? Or my family? Or my friends?
Or, perhaps, more importantly- finally getting acquainted with Jersey Shore??
Honestly, I feel like such a loser sometimes at the water cooler. I don't even know who Snooky is!!
"Oh, sure you do!" my coworkers insist. "She's the orange one!"
"Oh," I say with a slow nod, although this does nothing and I mean NOTHING to clarify things for me. The orange one- what the fuck?? How am I missing this??
They take in my expression and then exchange quick, wary glances. I can practically hear their thoughts: "she hasn't got a clue...Just drop it."
And then they change the subject, ask me, sort of sadly "How's the- erm, book, coming?" (like they're scared to say the word 'book', like maybe they don't believe that there even is one) and then exchange other, nervous glances, that seem to say to me "just indulge her on this."
Anyways.
I don't know.
First of all- who says what "being successful at writing" means, exactly.
Does it mean- simply the act of completing a manuscript?
Finding representation for it?
Getting it published?
And if it gets published, and it tanks, are you successful still?
Maybe.
I don't know.
It just seems that there's always another hurdle.
How do you define being successful?
I call it: not feeling the flow.
It sounds nicer that way.
And I have this superstition like if I say I have writers block, then I have it. If I don't say it, then I don't have it. It's like- say, OCD. If I say I don't have it, and say it three times fast after tapping my nose three times in a row with my left pinky finger, then I don't have it.
It's called magical thinking, and I love it, don't care if it's a sign of mental illness or not.
Google it. It's a thing. For real.
Besides, I don't really consider myself to be blocked.
I mean, I could write, if I really wanted to. I'm writing right now.
But I simply don't want to- in either of my WIPs.
Writing isn't always easy, and I think that this is where I sometimes feel misunderstood.
People have said to me "I wish I could do that! Just sit down and write a book!"
Well, ya. You and me both, baby.
I can't just sit down and write a book. It takes weeks and months of dedication, of commitment and sacrifice. Of blood, sweat and tears.
OK. Maybe not blood.
But it can be long, and it can be lonely-- shutting yourself away from the
And this is a difficult thing.
I used to put a lot of pressure on myself to write. Even if I didn't feel like it. I would make myself. "Just one page..."
But lately I have let a lot of that go, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
On the one hand, I tell myself that I should focus on the things that are real in my life.
By real I mean- the things that can give back to me.
Like my kids.
Like my husband.
Like my job.
If I become successful at writing, I'll look back all those months and years I spent writing and call it 'perserverence.'
If I don't become successful, I'll call it what?
A waste of my time?
Time that could of been better spent with my kids? Or my family? Or my friends?
Or, perhaps, more importantly- finally getting acquainted with Jersey Shore??
Honestly, I feel like such a loser sometimes at the water cooler. I don't even know who Snooky is!!
"Oh, sure you do!" my coworkers insist. "She's the orange one!"
"Oh," I say with a slow nod, although this does nothing and I mean NOTHING to clarify things for me. The orange one- what the fuck?? How am I missing this??
They take in my expression and then exchange quick, wary glances. I can practically hear their thoughts: "she hasn't got a clue...Just drop it."
And then they change the subject, ask me, sort of sadly "How's the- erm, book, coming?" (like they're scared to say the word 'book', like maybe they don't believe that there even is one) and then exchange other, nervous glances, that seem to say to me "just indulge her on this."
Anyways.
I don't know.
First of all- who says what "being successful at writing" means, exactly.
Does it mean- simply the act of completing a manuscript?
Finding representation for it?
Getting it published?
And if it gets published, and it tanks, are you successful still?
Maybe.
I don't know.
It just seems that there's always another hurdle.
How do you define being successful?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Rejection #41 (or thereabouts. I'm losing track. They're all starting to blur together in a big jumble of misery. Sort of like high school.)
Randine,
Thank you for your query. Although your story sounds interesting, I'm not looking for debut fiction at this time.
I appreciate you thinking of (redacted) and me and I wish you luck with your literary pursuits.
The fact that she states she's not looking for debut fiction softens the blow.
This may just be her form, I don't really know.
Anyways, I so love the words "debut fiction" in reference to myself.
It makes it sound sort of awesome.
Anyways, that's all for today.
Have a good weekend.
Randine,
Thank you for your query. Although your story sounds interesting, I'm not looking for debut fiction at this time.
I appreciate you thinking of (redacted) and me and I wish you luck with your literary pursuits.
The fact that she states she's not looking for debut fiction softens the blow.
This may just be her form, I don't really know.
Anyways, I so love the words "debut fiction" in reference to myself.
It makes it sound sort of awesome.
Anyways, that's all for today.
Have a good weekend.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
You Never Forget Your First
Forgive me for misleading you, but I'm talking about manuscripts.
I just thought it would be a catchy title.
It might bring me a lot of traffic, although it may not be exactly the kind of traffic I want.
Once, someone stumbled across my blog by googling "here we go again nipple shot"
Really? I thought. Do I write about nipples on here?
Apparently I do, in My Life As A Shadowy Figure.
Which might explain why that post boasts the most page views, and continues to get new page views every day.
Unfortunately, I don't think it was exactly what they were looking for.
I feel kind of bad about that. Whoever googled that and came up with this blog must have been totally disappointed. Probably felt like throwing something at the computer.
Oh, well. You can't please everyone, can you?
Anyways, manuscripts.
It might surprise you to learn, Internet, that Having Grace was not my first.
My first manuscript was completed in 2006 or thereabouts, and the genre was romantic suspense.
It was called Blood Relative. I wrote in an attempt to prove to myself that I could, having had, to that point, several projects abandoned at various points in the story, mostly near the beginning.
I didn't query very widely for it. I think I queried maybe four people. (And my query letter sucked HARD, BTW. I don't have a copy of it anymore, which is good because I wouldn't even want to look at it. I think it started with "To Whom It May Concern." I shouldn't even be telling you about that. You'll probably hate me now, probably judging me like that lazy eyed cashier at 7-11 on the weekend. But we're cool like that, aren't we, Internet? Anyways. It was bad, and I think I want to shoot my four years ago self. If they ever invent time travel I think I'm going to do that. Except I wouldn't be here right now. Time travel is so complicated.)
The problem was, I wasn't in love with the manuscript myself, so how could I expect anyone else to be?
I might have been able to revise it, but I wasn't even sure where or how to start.
After sitting on it for a while I finally had a revelation. I needed to just start over. Blank slate.
And so I opened my laptop and began anew, on Page 1. The idea for Having Grace was burning in my mind, and so I wrote it.
But, I still had feelings for my first, at least the idea of it. Eventually, I reworked it into what is now my work in progress, Deal Breaker.
In Blood Relative-- basic plot summary: a young girl gets involved, for various reasons- most of which are boring and have to do with her back story, with an older man and gets married after only a brief courtship. Problems ensue when his estranged teenaged son shows up on their door step one night. The teenaged boy has problems, which quickly become evident. Things begin to go wrong- dismembered animals, missing local girls. She begins to suspect her stepson, but her husband doesn't support her, makes her feel like she's losing her mind, and eventually she begins to suspect her husband as well.
Anyways, the concept of the prodigal child returning speaks to me still, and I decided to rewrite it as a rom-com. Put a shady, sulky male as the step child and you have a ready made romantic suspense.
But substitute it for a sulky teenage girl and you have a ready made romantic comedy.
So I began writing Deal Breaker, which has- essentially, the same set up- a young girl who gets married- for reasons that have to do with her back story- to an older man after only a brief courtship (Although, ICK, I hate to use the word 'courtship'. It makes me think of Mormon Fundamentalists or something for some reason. Oh, God, I hope no one finds this blog by googling "Mormon Fundamentalists". I'll get hate mail for sure.)
The setting, I guess, sets the two apart.
In Blood Relations, the setting was in a remote, rural location characterized by heavy snow storms and frequent road closures.
Deal Breaker is in an urban setting.
It didn't seem like a big switch to go from romantic suspense to romantic comedy.
I think it's because when you have conflict, you have comedy. Or, at least, the potential for it.
Well, depending on the conflict.
If the conflict is being chased by an axe murderer, comedy might be a hard sell.
But I'm exactly that person that who sees the humour in even gruesome scenarios. "We'll laugh about this some day," I often find myself saying.
Throw something bad at me and I laugh at it.
Seriously, I've laughed at funerals.
I've laughed when Alex was locked in a car.
I've laughed when my kids tried out their first swear words.
My husband gets mad at me about that, and I laugh at that, too. "Go take your blood pressure pills," I tell him when he gives me that look. "I'm not going to do CPR on you if that throbbing vein in your forehead explodes. I'm too tired for it. Makes my arms sore."
Because damn it if it isn't fucking hilarious to hear a two year old say "Shit!" when he spills his juice, or whatever.
Anyways, sorry about the length of this post.
I hope it wasn't too boring for you.
I just thought it would be a catchy title.
It might bring me a lot of traffic, although it may not be exactly the kind of traffic I want.
Once, someone stumbled across my blog by googling "here we go again nipple shot"
Really? I thought. Do I write about nipples on here?
Apparently I do, in My Life As A Shadowy Figure.
Which might explain why that post boasts the most page views, and continues to get new page views every day.
Unfortunately, I don't think it was exactly what they were looking for.
I feel kind of bad about that. Whoever googled that and came up with this blog must have been totally disappointed. Probably felt like throwing something at the computer.
Oh, well. You can't please everyone, can you?
Anyways, manuscripts.
It might surprise you to learn, Internet, that Having Grace was not my first.
My first manuscript was completed in 2006 or thereabouts, and the genre was romantic suspense.
It was called Blood Relative. I wrote in an attempt to prove to myself that I could, having had, to that point, several projects abandoned at various points in the story, mostly near the beginning.
I didn't query very widely for it. I think I queried maybe four people. (And my query letter sucked HARD, BTW. I don't have a copy of it anymore, which is good because I wouldn't even want to look at it. I think it started with "To Whom It May Concern." I shouldn't even be telling you about that. You'll probably hate me now, probably judging me like that lazy eyed cashier at 7-11 on the weekend. But we're cool like that, aren't we, Internet? Anyways. It was bad, and I think I want to shoot my four years ago self. If they ever invent time travel I think I'm going to do that. Except I wouldn't be here right now. Time travel is so complicated.)
The problem was, I wasn't in love with the manuscript myself, so how could I expect anyone else to be?
I might have been able to revise it, but I wasn't even sure where or how to start.
After sitting on it for a while I finally had a revelation. I needed to just start over. Blank slate.
And so I opened my laptop and began anew, on Page 1. The idea for Having Grace was burning in my mind, and so I wrote it.
But, I still had feelings for my first, at least the idea of it. Eventually, I reworked it into what is now my work in progress, Deal Breaker.
In Blood Relative-- basic plot summary: a young girl gets involved, for various reasons- most of which are boring and have to do with her back story, with an older man and gets married after only a brief courtship. Problems ensue when his estranged teenaged son shows up on their door step one night. The teenaged boy has problems, which quickly become evident. Things begin to go wrong- dismembered animals, missing local girls. She begins to suspect her stepson, but her husband doesn't support her, makes her feel like she's losing her mind, and eventually she begins to suspect her husband as well.
Anyways, the concept of the prodigal child returning speaks to me still, and I decided to rewrite it as a rom-com. Put a shady, sulky male as the step child and you have a ready made romantic suspense.
But substitute it for a sulky teenage girl and you have a ready made romantic comedy.
So I began writing Deal Breaker, which has- essentially, the same set up- a young girl who gets married- for reasons that have to do with her back story- to an older man after only a brief courtship (Although, ICK, I hate to use the word 'courtship'. It makes me think of Mormon Fundamentalists or something for some reason. Oh, God, I hope no one finds this blog by googling "Mormon Fundamentalists". I'll get hate mail for sure.)
The setting, I guess, sets the two apart.
In Blood Relations, the setting was in a remote, rural location characterized by heavy snow storms and frequent road closures.
Deal Breaker is in an urban setting.
It didn't seem like a big switch to go from romantic suspense to romantic comedy.
I think it's because when you have conflict, you have comedy. Or, at least, the potential for it.
Well, depending on the conflict.
If the conflict is being chased by an axe murderer, comedy might be a hard sell.
But I'm exactly that person that who sees the humour in even gruesome scenarios. "We'll laugh about this some day," I often find myself saying.
Throw something bad at me and I laugh at it.
Seriously, I've laughed at funerals.
I've laughed when Alex was locked in a car.
I've laughed when my kids tried out their first swear words.
My husband gets mad at me about that, and I laugh at that, too. "Go take your blood pressure pills," I tell him when he gives me that look. "I'm not going to do CPR on you if that throbbing vein in your forehead explodes. I'm too tired for it. Makes my arms sore."
Because damn it if it isn't fucking hilarious to hear a two year old say "Shit!" when he spills his juice, or whatever.
Anyways, sorry about the length of this post.
I hope it wasn't too boring for you.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Beautiful Distractions
Tonight I bathed my kids, rinsing suds from their hair, water rushing down their backs in soft, streaming rivulets, the scent of Johnsons soap hanging in the air.
I put their pyjamas on. We sat down and read stories. Payton is learning to read. I pointed words out to her carefully. I cleaned the kitchen. I put a load of laundry in. And for once in my life, I was grateful for these tasks. These wonderful distractions that smell of baby soap and laundry detergent and bubble gum toothpaste. Their warm bodies that press against me when we read in a slow cadence. Their incessant, sometimes overlapping, chatter.
My beautiful, noisy, distractions.
I reflected tonight on the irony that I complained bitterly that these same distractions made it nearly impossible for me to write Having Grace.
And now that the writing is done, it is these same distractions that keep me sane while I watch and wait for word on my full.
Life has a certain structure to it. A loose and chaotic, but charming nonetheless, structure.
What am I so afraid of? I asked myself as I tucked my little kids into their respective Princess and Toy Story beds, hair spilling across their faces, back lit by the soft glow of a Sesame Street Night Light.
In many ways, I am already rich.
In many ways, I am already successful.
In many ways- in most ways, actually, I've already made it.
I remind myself why I write.
Not to be represented.
Not to see my name in print (although, OK, I wouldn't totally hate that.)
Not to get rich.
But simply because I enjoy doing it.
And because I honestly don't know how not to do it.
So I've let it go. Whatever happens, happens. With Tricia, with anyone. With Having Grace, with any future projects.
My manuscript is my baby, yes, to a certain extent. But I have real babies.
My beautiful, wonderful, distractions.
I put their pyjamas on. We sat down and read stories. Payton is learning to read. I pointed words out to her carefully. I cleaned the kitchen. I put a load of laundry in. And for once in my life, I was grateful for these tasks. These wonderful distractions that smell of baby soap and laundry detergent and bubble gum toothpaste. Their warm bodies that press against me when we read in a slow cadence. Their incessant, sometimes overlapping, chatter.
My beautiful, noisy, distractions.
I reflected tonight on the irony that I complained bitterly that these same distractions made it nearly impossible for me to write Having Grace.
And now that the writing is done, it is these same distractions that keep me sane while I watch and wait for word on my full.
Life has a certain structure to it. A loose and chaotic, but charming nonetheless, structure.
What am I so afraid of? I asked myself as I tucked my little kids into their respective Princess and Toy Story beds, hair spilling across their faces, back lit by the soft glow of a Sesame Street Night Light.
In many ways, I am already rich.
In many ways, I am already successful.
In many ways- in most ways, actually, I've already made it.
I remind myself why I write.
Not to be represented.
Not to see my name in print (although, OK, I wouldn't totally hate that.)
Not to get rich.
But simply because I enjoy doing it.
And because I honestly don't know how not to do it.
So I've let it go. Whatever happens, happens. With Tricia, with anyone. With Having Grace, with any future projects.
My manuscript is my baby, yes, to a certain extent. But I have real babies.
My beautiful, wonderful, distractions.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
State of Disaster
I spent seven hours last night reading my manuscript.
I recant what I said yesterday about still laughing out loud when I read it.
There was no laughing out loud. I have now, officially, read it too many times. I'm kind of starting to hate it.
It makes me sick. Literally. I got motion sickness from scrolling through the document, and a headache as well.
And my house looks like a pack of rabid animals ransacked it, which in a way- is exactly what happened.
At one point, I glanced into the living room to check on this kids. They were supposed to be watching Marmaduke. Alex was sitting, sans diaper, on a pot.
And no, when I say 'pot' I do not mean 'potty.'
I mean an actual pot.
"Where's your diaper?" I asked him, alarmed.
"In the wagon," he said.
Naturally.
"Why did you take it off?"
"Because I pooped."
Oh God. Which was bad enough.
But then I caught the dog in a compromising position with the diaper.
This morning when I woke up and opened the fridge I found the entire crate of juice boxes I had bought for back to school opened, with straws poked in them, some in various states of emptiness.
"I did it!" Alex said, proudly.
Note to self: do not leave two year old unattended.
Well, in retrospect that should go without saying.
It was with some happiness that I hit the send button and sent that blasted manuscript away.
But then when I crawled into bed, I started second guessing everything. I should have changed that, I should have looked at this or that- even though I did, but I should have looked harder. I remember that feeling of intense vulnerability from the last time I sent out the full.
It almost made me wish that I hadn't brought any of this on myself at all.
Almost.
But not quite.
Anyways, at least I didn't have to print it off this time.
But then I started to become paranoid and agitated that it got lost in the cyber world. I still don't completely trust my hotmail account since it was hacked, though I did recover everything and they say it's OK.
Note to self: Never give your password to so called Hot Mail Account Manager.
In retrospect, that, too sounds like it should be obvious.
Anyways, things are out of my hands, at least for the time being.
And now we wait.
And restock the juice boxes.
And the cookware.
I recant what I said yesterday about still laughing out loud when I read it.
There was no laughing out loud. I have now, officially, read it too many times. I'm kind of starting to hate it.
It makes me sick. Literally. I got motion sickness from scrolling through the document, and a headache as well.
And my house looks like a pack of rabid animals ransacked it, which in a way- is exactly what happened.
At one point, I glanced into the living room to check on this kids. They were supposed to be watching Marmaduke. Alex was sitting, sans diaper, on a pot.
And no, when I say 'pot' I do not mean 'potty.'
I mean an actual pot.
"Where's your diaper?" I asked him, alarmed.
"In the wagon," he said.
Naturally.
"Why did you take it off?"
"Because I pooped."
Oh God. Which was bad enough.
But then I caught the dog in a compromising position with the diaper.
This morning when I woke up and opened the fridge I found the entire crate of juice boxes I had bought for back to school opened, with straws poked in them, some in various states of emptiness.
"I did it!" Alex said, proudly.
Note to self: do not leave two year old unattended.
Well, in retrospect that should go without saying.
It was with some happiness that I hit the send button and sent that blasted manuscript away.
But then when I crawled into bed, I started second guessing everything. I should have changed that, I should have looked at this or that- even though I did, but I should have looked harder. I remember that feeling of intense vulnerability from the last time I sent out the full.
It almost made me wish that I hadn't brought any of this on myself at all.
Almost.
But not quite.
Anyways, at least I didn't have to print it off this time.
But then I started to become paranoid and agitated that it got lost in the cyber world. I still don't completely trust my hotmail account since it was hacked, though I did recover everything and they say it's OK.
Note to self: Never give your password to so called Hot Mail Account Manager.
In retrospect, that, too sounds like it should be obvious.
Anyways, things are out of my hands, at least for the time being.
And now we wait.
And restock the juice boxes.
And the cookware.
Monday, September 13, 2010
State of Shock
I had completely abandoned any and all hope that I had for my manuscript, Having Grace. The querying process was wearing me down.
So I was surprised to open up my inbox this morning and see this:
Dear Randine,
Thank you for your query. I enjoyed reading the pages you sent of HAVING GRACE and would love to read more — would you please send me the full MS as a pdf attachment?
Many thanks, I’ll be back in touch after I’ve had a look.
I read the first sentence, thinking 'here we go again', another rejection: "Thank you for your query, however..."
I about fell off my chair to see the complete and utter lack of that hated word "however."
It's against my better judgement to post anything on here about it.
If the agent reads this (Tricia, her name is. Don't you just love it? I could really see myself bonding with her, calling her "Trish" someday.), it makes me look - or sound- desperate.
I mean, if a guy asked you out on a date, and you said yes but then you read on his website that he nearly fell off his chair when you said yes, you might start wonder about him. Personally- I might run the other way.
But I think it should be OK.
No one from New York is reading this.
So I will spend tonight reading through my manuscript for the billionth time.
I just can't send it out without reading it first, once again.
But no matter how many times I read it, I still laugh out loud, which you wouldn't think I would since I wrote the thing and I know exactly what's coming next.
And then we will wait and see.
This is my third request. I'm expecting another rejection.
Sometimes, honestly, I wonder what I'm more afraid of- being rejected, or not. It sounds stupid. Maybe it is. But sometimes I wonder: can I really bring it?
But, we'll cross that bridge when we get there-- and I'll use 'when' instead of 'if', even though I'm kinda tempted to use 'if.'
And I'm using 'we' instead of "I"-because whatever happens next, you guys will be there to help me through it.
Right?
So I was surprised to open up my inbox this morning and see this:
Dear Randine,
Thank you for your query. I enjoyed reading the pages you sent of HAVING GRACE and would love to read more — would you please send me the full MS as a pdf attachment?
Many thanks, I’ll be back in touch after I’ve had a look.
I read the first sentence, thinking 'here we go again', another rejection: "Thank you for your query, however..."
I about fell off my chair to see the complete and utter lack of that hated word "however."
It's against my better judgement to post anything on here about it.
If the agent reads this (Tricia, her name is. Don't you just love it? I could really see myself bonding with her, calling her "Trish" someday.), it makes me look - or sound- desperate.
I mean, if a guy asked you out on a date, and you said yes but then you read on his website that he nearly fell off his chair when you said yes, you might start wonder about him. Personally- I might run the other way.
But I think it should be OK.
No one from New York is reading this.
So I will spend tonight reading through my manuscript for the billionth time.
I just can't send it out without reading it first, once again.
But no matter how many times I read it, I still laugh out loud, which you wouldn't think I would since I wrote the thing and I know exactly what's coming next.
And then we will wait and see.
This is my third request. I'm expecting another rejection.
Sometimes, honestly, I wonder what I'm more afraid of- being rejected, or not. It sounds stupid. Maybe it is. But sometimes I wonder: can I really bring it?
But, we'll cross that bridge when we get there-- and I'll use 'when' instead of 'if', even though I'm kinda tempted to use 'if.'
And I'm using 'we' instead of "I"-because whatever happens next, you guys will be there to help me through it.
Right?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Hell at 8 Sharp.
I still remember my first day back to work following my year long maternity leave.
Geoff and I both woke up at six, had coffee together, got stuff ready for the kids, checked the weather forecasts, selected outfits for ourselves and the kids, showered, woke the kids up, made breakfast, ate breakfast with the kids, walked them to daycare, since it was a nice morning, came home and then left for work in our separate vehicles after a hug and some softly spoken words.
Fourteen months have interceded.
And things have gone to hell in a hand basket.
No more chit chat over coffee before the kids wake up.
No more early morning walks to daycare.
This morning went like this:
The blare of the alarm clock, which I promptly shushed with the most wonderful invention in the world:: Snooze. Finally get out bed, grumbling, at 7:30, throwing objects at Geoffs snoring head to get him out of bed (not sharp objects- just little things).
Go into the kids room, give them their first gentle shake that it's time to wake up.
Quick shower.
Second, not so gentle, shake for the kids to get up. Lights on in the bedroom.
The cats meow at me, circling my feet, waiting not so patiently by their food dish. "Shut it," I tell them.
(Oh, I feed them- eventually, so don't be getting all humane society on me.)
Do my hair haphazardly.
Pull the one or two shirts that is hanging limply in my closet out and get dressed.
Extract the kids from their beds by force.
Throw a pair of clothes at them, grabbed at random.
Payton throws her dress back at me. "I don't want to wear this dress. I want to wear this dress," she says, pulling out a dress that's two sizes too small. "It doesnt' fit," I tell her, bracing myself for it.
She throws herself on the floor, crying. No, not crying. Shrieking. Howling. Wailing.
Alex looks at her. "Sisters crying," he tells me, as though I can't hear her. As though everyone within a five mile radius can't hear her. I walk away from that scene, closing the door behind me. The thought crosses my mind: I wonder if they still perform exorcisms?
I start browning beef to throw in the crock pot to make chili for supper tonight.
Payton yells at me from her room, demanding something.
I rush to help her get dressed. I comb the snarls out of her hair. I put a bow in it. I watch at the window with Alex on my hip as the Garbage Truck comes, a weekly must see spectacle in our house.
I give the kids cold cereal for breakfast and a half a banana for Alex. Payton regards the banana with loathing. "I hate bananas" she says.
Yesterday, she liked them. I can't keep up.
Finish making the chili.
Look all over the house for a stray shoe. Find the stray shoe in the laundry hamper, of course, where else??
Help Payton pack for her field trip today.
"She has a field trip today?" Geoff asks me as Payton and I discuss it.
He is so out of the loop sometimes. I give him a look.
Rush out the door ten minutes before I'm expected at work.
And my husband?
His schedule?
Wake up. Go to garage for a cigarette. Come inside for long shower. Shave-- lengthy process. Get dressed-- another lengthy process. Grab a cup of coffee and leave.
I think I need to start drinking something stronger than coffee in the morning.
Geoff and I both woke up at six, had coffee together, got stuff ready for the kids, checked the weather forecasts, selected outfits for ourselves and the kids, showered, woke the kids up, made breakfast, ate breakfast with the kids, walked them to daycare, since it was a nice morning, came home and then left for work in our separate vehicles after a hug and some softly spoken words.
Fourteen months have interceded.
And things have gone to hell in a hand basket.
No more chit chat over coffee before the kids wake up.
No more early morning walks to daycare.
This morning went like this:
The blare of the alarm clock, which I promptly shushed with the most wonderful invention in the world:: Snooze. Finally get out bed, grumbling, at 7:30, throwing objects at Geoffs snoring head to get him out of bed (not sharp objects- just little things).
Go into the kids room, give them their first gentle shake that it's time to wake up.
Quick shower.
Second, not so gentle, shake for the kids to get up. Lights on in the bedroom.
The cats meow at me, circling my feet, waiting not so patiently by their food dish. "Shut it," I tell them.
(Oh, I feed them- eventually, so don't be getting all humane society on me.)
Do my hair haphazardly.
Pull the one or two shirts that is hanging limply in my closet out and get dressed.
Extract the kids from their beds by force.
Throw a pair of clothes at them, grabbed at random.
Payton throws her dress back at me. "I don't want to wear this dress. I want to wear this dress," she says, pulling out a dress that's two sizes too small. "It doesnt' fit," I tell her, bracing myself for it.
She throws herself on the floor, crying. No, not crying. Shrieking. Howling. Wailing.
Alex looks at her. "Sisters crying," he tells me, as though I can't hear her. As though everyone within a five mile radius can't hear her. I walk away from that scene, closing the door behind me. The thought crosses my mind: I wonder if they still perform exorcisms?
I start browning beef to throw in the crock pot to make chili for supper tonight.
Payton yells at me from her room, demanding something.
I rush to help her get dressed. I comb the snarls out of her hair. I put a bow in it. I watch at the window with Alex on my hip as the Garbage Truck comes, a weekly must see spectacle in our house.
I give the kids cold cereal for breakfast and a half a banana for Alex. Payton regards the banana with loathing. "I hate bananas" she says.
Yesterday, she liked them. I can't keep up.
Finish making the chili.
Look all over the house for a stray shoe. Find the stray shoe in the laundry hamper, of course, where else??
Help Payton pack for her field trip today.
"She has a field trip today?" Geoff asks me as Payton and I discuss it.
He is so out of the loop sometimes. I give him a look.
Rush out the door ten minutes before I'm expected at work.
And my husband?
His schedule?
Wake up. Go to garage for a cigarette. Come inside for long shower. Shave-- lengthy process. Get dressed-- another lengthy process. Grab a cup of coffee and leave.
I think I need to start drinking something stronger than coffee in the morning.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
My Favorite Rejections
I have, by now, accumulated quite a few rejection letters.
Rejection is rejection, no matter what the wording. But still, some have stung less than others. Some have even made me smile.
These are my two favorite ones:
Randine,
This sounds promising but I'm not really looking for this kind of book right now so have decided to pass. Don't be discouraged -- I'm looking for dark crime and thrillers right now. Your query is quite appealing and I'm positive other agents will reply to it with interest, so keep trying elsewhere.
Best of luck.
Ann Collette
Dear Author,
Thank you for writing to me about your project. I'm so sorry for the impersonal response, I hate to do this. The Friedrich Agency used to respond directly to each query, but the letters have now reached a volume that is frankly unmanageable. Writing a good book or a good proposal is among the hardest things in the world to do; I promise, we're not unsympathetic! You have our word that we are reading every single query letter that comes our way, but from now on, we're only responding personally if we're sufficiently curious and would like to read further. Please don't take offense at this Draconian measure-- there is undoubtedly a wonderful agent out there for whom your book might just be the perfect match. Toward that end, I wish you all the best of luck!
Take care,
Lucy Carson
I really like the last one here, how it manages to side step an actual rejection.
Clever.
And the first one- so sweetly worded.
That is all for now.
Sorry for the lack of blogging, but life is getting in the way.
Life's a bitch, sometimes. It can be that car that pulls up beside you and smiles politely. Or it can be that car that comes careening into your lane head on, leaving you swerving and breathless and swearing, which is sort of how I'm feeling right now.
Issues for another day, perhaps.
Good night.
Rejection is rejection, no matter what the wording. But still, some have stung less than others. Some have even made me smile.
These are my two favorite ones:
Randine,
This sounds promising but I'm not really looking for this kind of book right now so have decided to pass. Don't be discouraged -- I'm looking for dark crime and thrillers right now. Your query is quite appealing and I'm positive other agents will reply to it with interest, so keep trying elsewhere.
Best of luck.
Ann Collette
Dear Author,
Thank you for writing to me about your project. I'm so sorry for the impersonal response, I hate to do this. The Friedrich Agency used to respond directly to each query, but the letters have now reached a volume that is frankly unmanageable. Writing a good book or a good proposal is among the hardest things in the world to do; I promise, we're not unsympathetic! You have our word that we are reading every single query letter that comes our way, but from now on, we're only responding personally if we're sufficiently curious and would like to read further. Please don't take offense at this Draconian measure-- there is undoubtedly a wonderful agent out there for whom your book might just be the perfect match. Toward that end, I wish you all the best of luck!
Take care,
Lucy Carson
I really like the last one here, how it manages to side step an actual rejection.
Clever.
And the first one- so sweetly worded.
That is all for now.
Sorry for the lack of blogging, but life is getting in the way.
Life's a bitch, sometimes. It can be that car that pulls up beside you and smiles politely. Or it can be that car that comes careening into your lane head on, leaving you swerving and breathless and swearing, which is sort of how I'm feeling right now.
Issues for another day, perhaps.
Good night.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
That Explains It
I think I may have stumbled across the reason I have not yet been able to get an agent when I stumbled across this website: You Say Weird Like It's a Bad Thing.
According to this list of rules for writers, I have done nearly everything wrong.
Which means, I think, that I've actually done something right.
It's a good time.
Just so you know: it will give you a content warning before you enter the site, which made a little nervous. I wondered for a second if I was going to be bombarded with images of weird sex stuff, stuff that might actually get me fired from my job for merely having it on my browser history.
But it's not bad. So don't worry.
It's interesting, I thought, that the way they tell you to query an agent runs completely contrary to everything I've read on agency websites. But I guess that's because the agents aren't going to spell out the secret to success. They want you to dig for it yourself.
If only I had read this before I started querying...
According to this list of rules for writers, I have done nearly everything wrong.
Which means, I think, that I've actually done something right.
It's a good time.
Just so you know: it will give you a content warning before you enter the site, which made a little nervous. I wondered for a second if I was going to be bombarded with images of weird sex stuff, stuff that might actually get me fired from my job for merely having it on my browser history.
But it's not bad. So don't worry.
It's interesting, I thought, that the way they tell you to query an agent runs completely contrary to everything I've read on agency websites. But I guess that's because the agents aren't going to spell out the secret to success. They want you to dig for it yourself.
If only I had read this before I started querying...
Monday, August 9, 2010
Mission Accomplished.
I am happy to say that I have now successfully impregnated my MC.
Okay. First of all: new rule.
'MC' no longer stands for Miley Cyrus on here.
It now stands for main character.
I am referring to my main character, Cynthia Jacobson. I've struggled with her from the get-go because she is not at all like me. She's all sharp angles, hard edges, cat eye glasses,Versace suits,Virginia Slims and obnoxious eye rolling.
So to write a sex scene involving her seemed daunting to me.
But I was surprised to find out that was friskier than I thought.
I do not write with an outline, which means that I am learning as I go about my characters and their motivations. Just like I do on here, I just write about whatever flits into my head.
Somehow, eventually, it's always something, even when I sit down and think "I've got nothing. Nada."
Anyways.
Cynthia, as it turns out, is not nearly as unlikeable as I portrayed her in Having Grace.
In fact, I think there might be a part of me in her, after all.
I can probably come off as all sharp angles and hard edges sometimes, too.
I think it's mainly because I suck at small talk. I do not know why our society demands so much of it of us.
For example, my doomed relationship with Jane.
I think I might have alienated her with the first sentence that came out of my mouth.
"I'm so! glad! Payton lives on the same block as us!" she said when we first discovered that we were (ick) neighbours. "Some of the kids that live around are here sort of... rough," she whispered.
"I know," I said, trying to be nice. "I saw a little boy across the street playing with a cap gun. Like, where are his parents, hey?"
"That's my son, Zach," she replied, defensively.
"Oh. Well. I didn't mean anything by it. I just. I didn't think they sold cap guns anymore."
But I think the damage was done.
And then, of course, there was the ill fated elevator conversation with the hot guy.
Technically, I guess I can't really call it a conversation. Since, technically, I didn't actually say anything.
One of the reasons that I suck at small talk, I think, is because I'm a nurse. In nursing, there is no small talk.
Example:
"Hello, Mrs. Chester. How are you today?"
"Ugh. I'm shitting blood again. My husband thought I delivered a baby in the toilet this morning."
"The hemorrhoids are back, you mean? I thought the banding surgery went so well?"
I'm not saying that I would rather talk about what or what not may be hanging our of your ass than say, the weather or how fast the summer's going (which- OK, it is going fast, I'll give you that) or what have you.
I'm just saying.
Let's be real.
Okay. First of all: new rule.
'MC' no longer stands for Miley Cyrus on here.
It now stands for main character.
I am referring to my main character, Cynthia Jacobson. I've struggled with her from the get-go because she is not at all like me. She's all sharp angles, hard edges, cat eye glasses,Versace suits,Virginia Slims and obnoxious eye rolling.
So to write a sex scene involving her seemed daunting to me.
But I was surprised to find out that was friskier than I thought.
I do not write with an outline, which means that I am learning as I go about my characters and their motivations. Just like I do on here, I just write about whatever flits into my head.
Somehow, eventually, it's always something, even when I sit down and think "I've got nothing. Nada."
Anyways.
Cynthia, as it turns out, is not nearly as unlikeable as I portrayed her in Having Grace.
In fact, I think there might be a part of me in her, after all.
I can probably come off as all sharp angles and hard edges sometimes, too.
I think it's mainly because I suck at small talk. I do not know why our society demands so much of it of us.
For example, my doomed relationship with Jane.
I think I might have alienated her with the first sentence that came out of my mouth.
"I'm so! glad! Payton lives on the same block as us!" she said when we first discovered that we were (ick) neighbours. "Some of the kids that live around are here sort of... rough," she whispered.
"I know," I said, trying to be nice. "I saw a little boy across the street playing with a cap gun. Like, where are his parents, hey?"
"That's my son, Zach," she replied, defensively.
"Oh. Well. I didn't mean anything by it. I just. I didn't think they sold cap guns anymore."
But I think the damage was done.
And then, of course, there was the ill fated elevator conversation with the hot guy.
Technically, I guess I can't really call it a conversation. Since, technically, I didn't actually say anything.
One of the reasons that I suck at small talk, I think, is because I'm a nurse. In nursing, there is no small talk.
Example:
"Hello, Mrs. Chester. How are you today?"
"Ugh. I'm shitting blood again. My husband thought I delivered a baby in the toilet this morning."
"The hemorrhoids are back, you mean? I thought the banding surgery went so well?"
I'm not saying that I would rather talk about what or what not may be hanging our of your ass than say, the weather or how fast the summer's going (which- OK, it is going fast, I'll give you that) or what have you.
I'm just saying.
Let's be real.
Friday, August 6, 2010
On Writing, Part Two (AKA- But Stephen King has a Penis, Yo.)
I was originally going to write this as a reply to Joanns' comment (Joann's blog, BTW, is super hilarious. She had me at the title: Laundry Hurts My Feelings. Oh, how it hurts my feelings, too. Actually, it doesn't just hurt my feelings. It made me its bitch in prison.) about men not knowing dick about writing like a woman, but then I thought it would be too long winded. On top of that, I feel it rightly deserves its own post.
I had the exact same thoughts about Steve's advice on writing. In fact, I toyed with the idea of calling the post "But Stephen King has a Penis, Yo." but then thought better of it because a) I'm not sure if Blogger will let me use the word 'penis' in a title, b) even if they do, I feel a little self conscious about doing so and c) ultimately I decided that I didn't want to come across as one of those people that feels enslaved by their gender, or like I was making excuses for myself and d) I wondered if Steven King might sue me. So I called it "On Writing" and left it at that.
As far as a) goes: I guess we're about to find out if Blogger will let me use "penis" in a title. As for d) if Stephen King does decide to sue me: jokes on you, Steve. The only thing I have of any value is a frying pan that looks like a robot and can boil water in sixty seconds.
But anyways.
It's a great book. Don't get me wrong. In fact, I told my husband just this evening that I think I would marry Stephen King if I had the chance. Even though I know he's already married to Tabitha. But still.
He's awesome. But he does possess a definitively male viewpoint on writing. When he describes his daily schedule (writing 2000 words each morning, "naps and letters" in the afternoon, and relaxing and revisions in the evening) I noted with some irritation the glaring absence of several items that consume most of my days.
Pesky but time consuming things like:
-meal preparation three times a day
-grocery shopping
-planning your six year old's up coming birthday (My Little Pony themed, apparently)
-taking your kid to their third dental appointment this week
-unloading the dishwasher. Again.
-washing the floors
-cleaning up the pool of urine your proudly gotchy clad toddler is standing in (which, incidentally, I had to do three times today.)
-bath time
-that endless stretch of time called 'bed time'
-taking your cat for her annual shots
-looking for a half an hour for your daughters favorite Barbie
-trying, in vain, to tackle the ever present mountain of laundry
-taking your kids school supply shopping
-taking your kids to the spray park just because it's kind of nice to see your children splashing in the sun-- the way the sunlight plays on the beads of water that rolls down their face, the way they smell damp but sweet like sunscreen afterwards, the way their laughter is so uninhibited.
-Giving your reluctant dog a bath after she rolled in crap
-Scouring out the bathtub after giving said dog a bath
-Bathing your two year old after he stepped in the crap that the dog rolled in. (Yes, this is my real life. It's awesome.)
-and then of course, as if that weren't enough: work forty hours a week outside of the house to contribute to the household income.
Two thousand words a day sounds not merely difficult, but also, possibly, indulgent for those of us that possess, as my Aunt Becky would delicately put it, hamburgers instead of hot dogs.
Anyways, thanks Joann, for validating my feelings on that subject.
And as always, thanks for reading.
And PS- Lorrie, I liked your comment, too. THANK YOU for your constant comments. You never let me down.
I had the exact same thoughts about Steve's advice on writing. In fact, I toyed with the idea of calling the post "But Stephen King has a Penis, Yo." but then thought better of it because a) I'm not sure if Blogger will let me use the word 'penis' in a title, b) even if they do, I feel a little self conscious about doing so and c) ultimately I decided that I didn't want to come across as one of those people that feels enslaved by their gender, or like I was making excuses for myself and d) I wondered if Steven King might sue me. So I called it "On Writing" and left it at that.
As far as a) goes: I guess we're about to find out if Blogger will let me use "penis" in a title. As for d) if Stephen King does decide to sue me: jokes on you, Steve. The only thing I have of any value is a frying pan that looks like a robot and can boil water in sixty seconds.
But anyways.
It's a great book. Don't get me wrong. In fact, I told my husband just this evening that I think I would marry Stephen King if I had the chance. Even though I know he's already married to Tabitha. But still.
He's awesome. But he does possess a definitively male viewpoint on writing. When he describes his daily schedule (writing 2000 words each morning, "naps and letters" in the afternoon, and relaxing and revisions in the evening) I noted with some irritation the glaring absence of several items that consume most of my days.
Pesky but time consuming things like:
-meal preparation three times a day
-grocery shopping
-planning your six year old's up coming birthday (My Little Pony themed, apparently)
-taking your kid to their third dental appointment this week
-unloading the dishwasher. Again.
-washing the floors
-cleaning up the pool of urine your proudly gotchy clad toddler is standing in (which, incidentally, I had to do three times today.)
-bath time
-that endless stretch of time called 'bed time'
-taking your cat for her annual shots
-looking for a half an hour for your daughters favorite Barbie
-trying, in vain, to tackle the ever present mountain of laundry
-taking your kids school supply shopping
-taking your kids to the spray park just because it's kind of nice to see your children splashing in the sun-- the way the sunlight plays on the beads of water that rolls down their face, the way they smell damp but sweet like sunscreen afterwards, the way their laughter is so uninhibited.
-Giving your reluctant dog a bath after she rolled in crap
-Scouring out the bathtub after giving said dog a bath
-Bathing your two year old after he stepped in the crap that the dog rolled in. (Yes, this is my real life. It's awesome.)
-and then of course, as if that weren't enough: work forty hours a week outside of the house to contribute to the household income.
Two thousand words a day sounds not merely difficult, but also, possibly, indulgent for those of us that possess, as my Aunt Becky would delicately put it, hamburgers instead of hot dogs.
Anyways, thanks Joann, for validating my feelings on that subject.
And as always, thanks for reading.
And PS- Lorrie, I liked your comment, too. THANK YOU for your constant comments. You never let me down.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
On Writing
My husband played in a golf tournament yesterday. The grand prize was $28,000.
He came home with a frying pan.
Oh, I suppose I should be more excited about the frying pan. Apparently, as my husband says, it can boil water in less than sixty seconds.
Which is great for those need water boiled STAT situations, like if someone gives birth on my kitchen floor.
Although I'm not sure, what precisely, the boiled water is for.
I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get there.
Anyways, today I took the kids school supply shopping.
Alex is now officially a night mare to shop with. I realized this a mere five minutes into the event when he started pulling every back pack off the shelf and loading it into the cart. Trying to remove the back packs from the cart produced high pitched squealing. Other people were giving me that look, the one that says "Can't you DO something with your children."
"Just leave them in there," I told the kids. "We'll take them out later when he's not looking."
Meanwhile I'm shopping with a cart FULL of Buzz Lightyear back packs, like I'm one of those people with a TLC reality show about having fifteen kids. Then I started getting that other look, the one that says "heard of birth control much??"
The next stop was the mall for school clothes. I had a plan. Get a stroller from the mall -they have little steering wheels and Alex likes to drive them. Then go to Kernels and buy a bag of popcorn and then I can shop virtually uninterrupted. (And if you're saying to me now- give popcorn to a two year old?? Neglect your children much?? I say to you: yes. If it keeps them quiet, I'm willing to try it, even if there is a moderate choking risk attached to it. I do know the Heimlich, after all.)
Easy peasy.
I wasn't pleased, suffice it to say, that after hefting him half way across the mall to the stroller depot, to see a makeshift "Out of Order" sign taped to the machine.
Somehow, I think that the sign is wrong. As though, maybe, there was some kind of a typo. It was meant to say "In order."
It had to be wrong!
I tried in vain to extract a stroller. I asked the security guard to fix it. He replied enthusiastically that the part might be in next Monday, as though this could possibly help me.
From then on out I alternated between carrying Alex and extricating items from him while trying to herd him into stores that he seemed averse to going into.
Our last stop was the bookstore.
For some reason, I felt vaguely flaky asking the salesperson for Stephen King's "On Writing."
(I've already read enough of the book to know that Steve would not like that sentence. "Adverbs are not your friends," he would say. But there it is, modifying the word "flaky." But, Steve, I can't help it. I want to use that adverb so bad. I need it. Because I didn't feel totally flaky, I only felt flaky in some murky way that's hard to define.)
I don't know why I should feel flaky asking an acne prone teenager for a book at a bookstore. But I didn't want to come across as one of these people that has the notion to write a book, picks up a paper back copy of "On Writing" for ten dollars and thinks that publication will ensue.
I simply wanted to read the book.
So far it's going pretty good.
He says this of writing: that you need a room to write in- any room, even. But it must have one thing- a door which you are willing to shut. "The closed door is your way of telling the world and yourself that you mean business."
This makes a lot of sense. The first commitment I made to my writing was the buying of my laptop, "Lappy."
I thought that I needed it to write, because with the kids being all up in my bidness all the time, I wanted something that could be portable. I could take it to the park, or to the lake, or write outside when the kids were playing out there, or write at the kitchen table if I could settle the kids for a few minutes with a craft or something.
And by craft I mean: popcorn.
But this has not been very effective. The kids know now exactly which button to press to turn the thing off. I literally have to hit "save" after every word, having lost many chapters to their impromptu fits of not so random button pressing. And even short of turning the computer off they are absolute terrible distractions. They climb on me and shriek in my ear and ask endlessly for things that they NEVER want when I'm not writing, for example "mom, can you cut me up some carrot sticks and celery."
What's wrong with popcorn, kids?? What??
Anyways. I think that my next commitment might be a dedicated writing space.
Although where I'm going to put it is another issue. A three bedroom house and five people=no space for a writing room. But I guess I can always put a small computer desk in our bedroom. The key is the door.
Bloody brilliant.
He came home with a frying pan.
Oh, I suppose I should be more excited about the frying pan. Apparently, as my husband says, it can boil water in less than sixty seconds.
Which is great for those need water boiled STAT situations, like if someone gives birth on my kitchen floor.
Although I'm not sure, what precisely, the boiled water is for.
I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get there.
Anyways, today I took the kids school supply shopping.
Alex is now officially a night mare to shop with. I realized this a mere five minutes into the event when he started pulling every back pack off the shelf and loading it into the cart. Trying to remove the back packs from the cart produced high pitched squealing. Other people were giving me that look, the one that says "Can't you DO something with your children."
"Just leave them in there," I told the kids. "We'll take them out later when he's not looking."
Meanwhile I'm shopping with a cart FULL of Buzz Lightyear back packs, like I'm one of those people with a TLC reality show about having fifteen kids. Then I started getting that other look, the one that says "heard of birth control much??"
The next stop was the mall for school clothes. I had a plan. Get a stroller from the mall -they have little steering wheels and Alex likes to drive them. Then go to Kernels and buy a bag of popcorn and then I can shop virtually uninterrupted. (And if you're saying to me now- give popcorn to a two year old?? Neglect your children much?? I say to you: yes. If it keeps them quiet, I'm willing to try it, even if there is a moderate choking risk attached to it. I do know the Heimlich, after all.)
Easy peasy.
I wasn't pleased, suffice it to say, that after hefting him half way across the mall to the stroller depot, to see a makeshift "Out of Order" sign taped to the machine.
Somehow, I think that the sign is wrong. As though, maybe, there was some kind of a typo. It was meant to say "In order."
It had to be wrong!
I tried in vain to extract a stroller. I asked the security guard to fix it. He replied enthusiastically that the part might be in next Monday, as though this could possibly help me.
From then on out I alternated between carrying Alex and extricating items from him while trying to herd him into stores that he seemed averse to going into.
Our last stop was the bookstore.
For some reason, I felt vaguely flaky asking the salesperson for Stephen King's "On Writing."
(I've already read enough of the book to know that Steve would not like that sentence. "Adverbs are not your friends," he would say. But there it is, modifying the word "flaky." But, Steve, I can't help it. I want to use that adverb so bad. I need it. Because I didn't feel totally flaky, I only felt flaky in some murky way that's hard to define.)
I don't know why I should feel flaky asking an acne prone teenager for a book at a bookstore. But I didn't want to come across as one of these people that has the notion to write a book, picks up a paper back copy of "On Writing" for ten dollars and thinks that publication will ensue.
I simply wanted to read the book.
So far it's going pretty good.
He says this of writing: that you need a room to write in- any room, even. But it must have one thing- a door which you are willing to shut. "The closed door is your way of telling the world and yourself that you mean business."
This makes a lot of sense. The first commitment I made to my writing was the buying of my laptop, "Lappy."
I thought that I needed it to write, because with the kids being all up in my bidness all the time, I wanted something that could be portable. I could take it to the park, or to the lake, or write outside when the kids were playing out there, or write at the kitchen table if I could settle the kids for a few minutes with a craft or something.
And by craft I mean: popcorn.
But this has not been very effective. The kids know now exactly which button to press to turn the thing off. I literally have to hit "save" after every word, having lost many chapters to their impromptu fits of not so random button pressing. And even short of turning the computer off they are absolute terrible distractions. They climb on me and shriek in my ear and ask endlessly for things that they NEVER want when I'm not writing, for example "mom, can you cut me up some carrot sticks and celery."
What's wrong with popcorn, kids?? What??
Anyways. I think that my next commitment might be a dedicated writing space.
Although where I'm going to put it is another issue. A three bedroom house and five people=no space for a writing room. But I guess I can always put a small computer desk in our bedroom. The key is the door.
Bloody brilliant.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Abandoning Hope
I am officially abandoning hope for Having Grace.
When I first started querying for it, I began with high hopes. "How to negotiate an offer of representation" I googled, once upon a time. It seems an utterly pretentious thing to google, doesn't it?? But honestly, I have a tendency to screw the pooch in situations which require intelligent conversation. It comes to mind the time when I got on an elevator with an extremely hot guy. I was carrying up a case of beer. "Big party tonight?" the guy asked me.
A fricking yes or no question.
But all I could think of was the fact that the beer was for my mom, but I didn't want to say "No I'm just carrying this for my mom" cuz that would make me sound like an even bigger loser, so I kind of hesitated, but then it sort of got to the point where it was too late for my to say anything at all.
And then we had to ride seven floors up in silence.
Hence I had visions of myself on the phone with an agent, silence permeating my end of the conversation interrupted briefly by utterances of "Me... Randine"
"Sorry wrong number," they would say.
And click.
I'm sure I could hold my own much better than that. I'm not, after all, a total idiot.
Only a partial one.
Anyways.
Now, three months after sending out my first query and thirty four rejection letters later I google this: "How to get discount Zoloft delivered to my door." Cuz I ain't getting out my pyjamas to go out and buy no Zoloft properly. (Thanks for the heads up on the Zoloft, Nikki)
So at this point I have to consider the fact that either a)it's my query letter or b)it's the genre or c) it's my writing itself.
I don't think it's 'a', because I have had a partial request and a full, and a personalized rejection letter that explicitly states that it isn't my query letter. So that leaves either 'b' or 'c'.
Either prospect is not good.
"Maybe you should write something else. Write about alien abduction, for example," my husband said.
"Alien abduction? Oh, ya, and why don't I just write about lassoing a horse out on the range? Maybe throw a meth lab in there for good measure. An explosion or two and bingo, bango, bestseller."
Although how I could possibly string together a meth lab, an alien abduction and a horse lasso into a plausible story line I have no idea. Again, I was just making a point. The point, in case you're confused, is that I don't and/or can't really choose what I write about.
It chooses me.
And what chooses me tends to be more women's related issues.
Anyways. I'm fine with that. I'll finish Having Faith and then start querying again.
I might also, at some point, try something different, more literary fictiony.
But with a meth lab.
Just kidding.
I don't know.
In the mean time, there's always my day job.
Such as it is.
Anyways- the good news: He changed the light bulb, which is to say- he bought the light bulb!!
So YAY. Now I can laundry well into the evening hours.
Yes, y'all. That's the good news.
F the Zoloft.
Now I'm going to Google"How to get discount razor blades delivered to my door."
When I first started querying for it, I began with high hopes. "How to negotiate an offer of representation" I googled, once upon a time. It seems an utterly pretentious thing to google, doesn't it?? But honestly, I have a tendency to screw the pooch in situations which require intelligent conversation. It comes to mind the time when I got on an elevator with an extremely hot guy. I was carrying up a case of beer. "Big party tonight?" the guy asked me.
A fricking yes or no question.
But all I could think of was the fact that the beer was for my mom, but I didn't want to say "No I'm just carrying this for my mom" cuz that would make me sound like an even bigger loser, so I kind of hesitated, but then it sort of got to the point where it was too late for my to say anything at all.
And then we had to ride seven floors up in silence.
Hence I had visions of myself on the phone with an agent, silence permeating my end of the conversation interrupted briefly by utterances of "Me... Randine"
"Sorry wrong number," they would say.
And click.
I'm sure I could hold my own much better than that. I'm not, after all, a total idiot.
Only a partial one.
Anyways.
Now, three months after sending out my first query and thirty four rejection letters later I google this: "How to get discount Zoloft delivered to my door." Cuz I ain't getting out my pyjamas to go out and buy no Zoloft properly. (Thanks for the heads up on the Zoloft, Nikki)
So at this point I have to consider the fact that either a)it's my query letter or b)it's the genre or c) it's my writing itself.
I don't think it's 'a', because I have had a partial request and a full, and a personalized rejection letter that explicitly states that it isn't my query letter. So that leaves either 'b' or 'c'.
Either prospect is not good.
"Maybe you should write something else. Write about alien abduction, for example," my husband said.
"Alien abduction? Oh, ya, and why don't I just write about lassoing a horse out on the range? Maybe throw a meth lab in there for good measure. An explosion or two and bingo, bango, bestseller."
Although how I could possibly string together a meth lab, an alien abduction and a horse lasso into a plausible story line I have no idea. Again, I was just making a point. The point, in case you're confused, is that I don't and/or can't really choose what I write about.
It chooses me.
And what chooses me tends to be more women's related issues.
Anyways. I'm fine with that. I'll finish Having Faith and then start querying again.
I might also, at some point, try something different, more literary fictiony.
But with a meth lab.
Just kidding.
I don't know.
In the mean time, there's always my day job.
Such as it is.
Anyways- the good news: He changed the light bulb, which is to say- he bought the light bulb!!
So YAY. Now I can laundry well into the evening hours.
Yes, y'all. That's the good news.
F the Zoloft.
Now I'm going to Google"How to get discount razor blades delivered to my door."
Friday, June 25, 2010
Rejection
Rejection can be difficult, which is a bad understatement. Maybe even more so than this: "Childbirth may be uncomfortable."
Let me see how many rejections I have to date: 20
Well, that plus literally every agency in Canada.
Which sounds pretty bad but there are only like seven agencies in Canada who rep. my genre so it really isn't that bad. And one of those rejections was on the full manuscript, so at least I got somewhere. But alas, apparently in Canada we are freaking serious about our books. I might have had better luck if my genre was "a brief history of the floundering flounder industry in Nova Scotia during 1993-1999", although I'm pretty sure that's not a genre, strictly speaking. But in any event, for some reason I am ill inclined to write about that.
And yes, I am inclined to use the term 'ill inclined', since I used it as well in my last post.
Anyways. Today I got an email from an agency, which was another one of those "you forgot to send your sample pages" (Really, Randine?? Really??) Although, in my defense- once again, an ambiguous website and my philosophy is when in doubt- query only. Sending sample pages is a formatting problem and if I don't think I need to send them then I don't.) So that was a releif. At least it wasn't rejection.
Yet.
But there's always a moment where I see the message in my inbox, where I'm both hopeful and terrified. Today, in that instant, I wondered what I was really so afraid of??
Another rejection?
Well, kind of, I guess, but not really.
Sometimes I think that I'm just as afraid of success as I am of rejectin. It means putting myself out there and making myself (and my work) vulnerable. Not to mention the amount of work that goes into editing and revisions and then of course, the next book. But I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get there.
If I get there.
No.
Let's say when and leave it at that, in keeping with my new favorite slogan "What would Donald Trump Do" which I stole, blatanly, from this website: http://jennybent.blogspot.com/
And by the way- I know nothing of the flounder market conditions so please don't quote me on that. So far as I know, it is flourishing.
But don't quote me on that, either.
Let me see how many rejections I have to date: 20
Well, that plus literally every agency in Canada.
Which sounds pretty bad but there are only like seven agencies in Canada who rep. my genre so it really isn't that bad. And one of those rejections was on the full manuscript, so at least I got somewhere. But alas, apparently in Canada we are freaking serious about our books. I might have had better luck if my genre was "a brief history of the floundering flounder industry in Nova Scotia during 1993-1999", although I'm pretty sure that's not a genre, strictly speaking. But in any event, for some reason I am ill inclined to write about that.
And yes, I am inclined to use the term 'ill inclined', since I used it as well in my last post.
Anyways. Today I got an email from an agency, which was another one of those "you forgot to send your sample pages" (Really, Randine?? Really??) Although, in my defense- once again, an ambiguous website and my philosophy is when in doubt- query only. Sending sample pages is a formatting problem and if I don't think I need to send them then I don't.) So that was a releif. At least it wasn't rejection.
Yet.
But there's always a moment where I see the message in my inbox, where I'm both hopeful and terrified. Today, in that instant, I wondered what I was really so afraid of??
Another rejection?
Well, kind of, I guess, but not really.
Sometimes I think that I'm just as afraid of success as I am of rejectin. It means putting myself out there and making myself (and my work) vulnerable. Not to mention the amount of work that goes into editing and revisions and then of course, the next book. But I guess I'll just cross that bridge when I get there.
If I get there.
No.
Let's say when and leave it at that, in keeping with my new favorite slogan "What would Donald Trump Do" which I stole, blatanly, from this website: http://jennybent.blogspot.com/
And by the way- I know nothing of the flounder market conditions so please don't quote me on that. So far as I know, it is flourishing.
But don't quote me on that, either.
Monday, June 21, 2010
I received this (sort of) rejection letter today:
Dear Ms. Sorowski.
Thank you for reaching out to me. I do ask that a sample accompany all queries. Please feel free to resubmit.
First of all- I'm surprised that this isn't a straight out rejection, since I evidently failed to read their submission criteria properly, or even at all, possibly, for all she knows. I'd probably reject myself on that basis alone. Although in my defense, on their website they say "we do not accept unsolicited material", and I thought that meant sample pages, maybe. I didn't know.
And then I thought, wow, I really like the tone of this- "thank you for reaching out to me."
But then I thought- shit. What did I send her, exactly?? Did I somehow, inadvertently, drunkenly, send her the draft of my suicide letter??
Just kidding.
There is no draft.
I just plan on winging it when the time comes. Off the cuff. More real that way. More raw.
Anyways.
That is all for now.
Dear Ms. Sorowski.
Thank you for reaching out to me. I do ask that a sample accompany all queries. Please feel free to resubmit.
First of all- I'm surprised that this isn't a straight out rejection, since I evidently failed to read their submission criteria properly, or even at all, possibly, for all she knows. I'd probably reject myself on that basis alone. Although in my defense, on their website they say "we do not accept unsolicited material", and I thought that meant sample pages, maybe. I didn't know.
And then I thought, wow, I really like the tone of this- "thank you for reaching out to me."
But then I thought- shit. What did I send her, exactly?? Did I somehow, inadvertently, drunkenly, send her the draft of my suicide letter??
Just kidding.
There is no draft.
I just plan on winging it when the time comes. Off the cuff. More real that way. More raw.
Anyways.
That is all for now.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Hard to Genre-alize...
Did you see what I did just there?? It's like the word 'generalize,' but it's not.
Clever, isn't it??
Anyways, I have been having a hard time lately with ascribing a genre to my manuscript.
I have been calling a romantic comedy, which, strictly speaking, isn't exactly a genre.
It's all very confusing because, for example, some literary agencies say they do not represent romance. Personally, when I think of romance I think of this:
"Betsy, trembling, looked into Hugo's eyes- a deep sea of azure desire. They were imploring her to kiss him. Her heart thundered wildly as she pressed her fingertips to his lips- so perfectly sculpted they were."
This is not what I write. Well, except for that. But as a rule, this is not what I write, nor what I read. First of all, it sucks. Secondly- who puts their fingers to someone's lips before they kiss them? I think I would probably start laughing. Just me, maybe, but still. Thirdly, the one and only time my heart has ever 'thundered wildly' was the time that two stray Rottweilers chased me home. I dont' know what that says about me or the state of my marriage, but... Anyways, my book does not have any such scenes of cheesy melodrama. So when an agent says that they don't represent 'romance' I don't know whether my writing would fall under that umbrella or not. I mean, my definition of 'romance' is fairly narrow, but maybe theres is broader and includes all of it's sub genres?- romantic suspense, rom-com, paranormal romance.
I could also categorize my book as chic lit. Which is confusing as well- because there is also womens fiction. Some say they represent chic lit but not womens fiction or vise versa. My take on it is that 'chic lit' is lighter and breezier where 'women's fiction' tackles more serious issues. Although I am not exaclty sure.
I think I'm just going to call it commercial fiction.
Clever, isn't it??
Anyways, I have been having a hard time lately with ascribing a genre to my manuscript.
I have been calling a romantic comedy, which, strictly speaking, isn't exactly a genre.
It's all very confusing because, for example, some literary agencies say they do not represent romance. Personally, when I think of romance I think of this:
"Betsy, trembling, looked into Hugo's eyes- a deep sea of azure desire. They were imploring her to kiss him. Her heart thundered wildly as she pressed her fingertips to his lips- so perfectly sculpted they were."
This is not what I write. Well, except for that. But as a rule, this is not what I write, nor what I read. First of all, it sucks. Secondly- who puts their fingers to someone's lips before they kiss them? I think I would probably start laughing. Just me, maybe, but still. Thirdly, the one and only time my heart has ever 'thundered wildly' was the time that two stray Rottweilers chased me home. I dont' know what that says about me or the state of my marriage, but... Anyways, my book does not have any such scenes of cheesy melodrama. So when an agent says that they don't represent 'romance' I don't know whether my writing would fall under that umbrella or not. I mean, my definition of 'romance' is fairly narrow, but maybe theres is broader and includes all of it's sub genres?- romantic suspense, rom-com, paranormal romance.
I could also categorize my book as chic lit. Which is confusing as well- because there is also womens fiction. Some say they represent chic lit but not womens fiction or vise versa. My take on it is that 'chic lit' is lighter and breezier where 'women's fiction' tackles more serious issues. Although I am not exaclty sure.
I think I'm just going to call it commercial fiction.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Rough Day at the Office
I was having a pretty good day, up until about 3 pm.
A good day = no rejection letters.
Actually, it had been over 48 hours since my last rejection letter, which I was beginning to consider a lucky streak.
I know- pitiful.
When I first starting querying, the lack of responsiveness just drove me crazy. I thought I would rather get rejection than no response. A simple no. "Hell no" if you want. I don't care. But just answer me.
But then the rejection letters started to trickle in, and then pour.
Now I am actully pretty content with no response. No response means no rejection- although after a period of time goes by, you sort of have to take it as rejetion anyways. But still. It's not outright rejection, and in some ways, that seems kinder.
But when when I checked my inbox a few hours later: two rejection letters. Polite, courteous, to the point. But rejection all the same.
Rough day at the office for me.
But that's okay. One I had pretty much written off as rejection anyways, having not heard back from her for several weeks after my initial query.
Oh well. Life does go on.
And there are many more agents out there, and with my new and improved query (see it under the "Having Grace" tab, I think it kicks ass. I think if it were in prison all the other query letters would be its bitches.)
As another query tracker member said (wrote) to me "You'll going to get rejection, but don't let the rejection get you."
True dat.
Good night.
A good day = no rejection letters.
Actually, it had been over 48 hours since my last rejection letter, which I was beginning to consider a lucky streak.
I know- pitiful.
When I first starting querying, the lack of responsiveness just drove me crazy. I thought I would rather get rejection than no response. A simple no. "Hell no" if you want. I don't care. But just answer me.
But then the rejection letters started to trickle in, and then pour.
Now I am actully pretty content with no response. No response means no rejection- although after a period of time goes by, you sort of have to take it as rejetion anyways. But still. It's not outright rejection, and in some ways, that seems kinder.
But when when I checked my inbox a few hours later: two rejection letters. Polite, courteous, to the point. But rejection all the same.
Rough day at the office for me.
But that's okay. One I had pretty much written off as rejection anyways, having not heard back from her for several weeks after my initial query.
Oh well. Life does go on.
And there are many more agents out there, and with my new and improved query (see it under the "Having Grace" tab, I think it kicks ass. I think if it were in prison all the other query letters would be its bitches.)
As another query tracker member said (wrote) to me "You'll going to get rejection, but don't let the rejection get you."
True dat.
Good night.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Creating an Online Presence
For some reason the term 'online presence' sounds vaguely menacing to me. Like it's some mystical, dark force that stalks the Internet at night... and... what? Destroy peoples crops on Facebook??
I think I have read too many Stephen King books.
But speaking of Facebook- I am getting so tired of my news feed constantly being about peoples farms, or fish tanks, or bistros or their high new score in Family Feud. I am also tired of uninspired status updates: "TGIF-LOL". I mean, yes, I am glad it's Friday, but why we're supposed to laugh out loud about it, I have no idea.
Even worse is the vague status update. Like "Today's the day. Fingers crossed."
No I'm not going to take the bait and ask. I didn't care about you when you sat behind me in tenth grade and I certainly don't care about you now.
I don't try very hard to be a nice Facebook friend.
But anyways. That's not the point.
The point is that literary agents recommend creating an online presence while trying to get published as an author. Which is good news because I already have one- in the form of this blog (such as it is). But the bad news is that they suggest that they keep your blog clean cut, strictly professional- as in-- no ranting about your husbands snoring or dogs vomiting, presumably.
They didn't expressly mention dog vomit, but I think from their tone it was implied.
But what, pray tell, is left for me to write about then?? I could write about the querying process, but honestly, I'd rather not go there. Not right now at least.
And so I pondered this.
I mean, I can see the point of keeping it clean and professional. I can. There are a lot of good things about that. And OK, maybe, in retrospect, not everyone needed to know that I had a (legitimate) concern about my husbands vasectomy when they told us that it would take twenty ejaculations before we were "all clear". My husband and I looked at each other, didn't say anything, but I think we were both doing the same frantic mental math and reaching the same conclusion-- that could take six months to a year!! And OK- maybe I shouldn't have rehashed that, being that it's now buried deep in this blogs archives, and maybe no one would have ever known about that unless they were totally looking for it. But that's my life. My real life and I don't think I should have to sugar coat it. Honestly, I don't really want to sugar coat. It's quite demanding- and yes, at the end of the day I go to bed TIRED, nothing more- but that's okay. That's the way it is sometimes when you have three kids, two of which sleep (part time) in your bed, pets, laundry, bills and a full time job to top it all off.
Well. That's how it is for me sometimes. I guess I shouldn't speak for everyone, but I am hoping that I am not alone in this. And I guess that's what compels me to write in the first place.
So, I probably won't change what I write about, but I will try to write more frequently.
The key word here- TRY.
We will see how it goes.
On a different note- Payton's wiggly tooth fell out today. Finally.
She was so excited, she came running at me full speed ahead with tooth in hand. It was a picturesque moment in time: her closing the distance between us, arms outstretched, smiling a wide, showy, toothless grin.
And then she tripped, sending the tooth careening across the lawn at the daycare. She was down and crying. I was down, searching for the tooth in the grass. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack, I thought.
But alas, I found it- that's the power of mothers. If it were Geoff, he probably would have thrown up his hands in defeat, saying "Well, we'll probably never find it now. But the tooth fairy will pay you double if you can't find it", which would have worked just as well, I suppose.
Now it is safely tucked away under her pillow, where we will await the tooth fairy's arrival.
Which means me, so I should be going.
Good night.
I think I have read too many Stephen King books.
But speaking of Facebook- I am getting so tired of my news feed constantly being about peoples farms, or fish tanks, or bistros or their high new score in Family Feud. I am also tired of uninspired status updates: "TGIF-LOL". I mean, yes, I am glad it's Friday, but why we're supposed to laugh out loud about it, I have no idea.
Even worse is the vague status update. Like "Today's the day. Fingers crossed."
No I'm not going to take the bait and ask. I didn't care about you when you sat behind me in tenth grade and I certainly don't care about you now.
I don't try very hard to be a nice Facebook friend.
But anyways. That's not the point.
The point is that literary agents recommend creating an online presence while trying to get published as an author. Which is good news because I already have one- in the form of this blog (such as it is). But the bad news is that they suggest that they keep your blog clean cut, strictly professional- as in-- no ranting about your husbands snoring or dogs vomiting, presumably.
They didn't expressly mention dog vomit, but I think from their tone it was implied.
But what, pray tell, is left for me to write about then?? I could write about the querying process, but honestly, I'd rather not go there. Not right now at least.
And so I pondered this.
I mean, I can see the point of keeping it clean and professional. I can. There are a lot of good things about that. And OK, maybe, in retrospect, not everyone needed to know that I had a (legitimate) concern about my husbands vasectomy when they told us that it would take twenty ejaculations before we were "all clear". My husband and I looked at each other, didn't say anything, but I think we were both doing the same frantic mental math and reaching the same conclusion-- that could take six months to a year!! And OK- maybe I shouldn't have rehashed that, being that it's now buried deep in this blogs archives, and maybe no one would have ever known about that unless they were totally looking for it. But that's my life. My real life and I don't think I should have to sugar coat it. Honestly, I don't really want to sugar coat. It's quite demanding- and yes, at the end of the day I go to bed TIRED, nothing more- but that's okay. That's the way it is sometimes when you have three kids, two of which sleep (part time) in your bed, pets, laundry, bills and a full time job to top it all off.
Well. That's how it is for me sometimes. I guess I shouldn't speak for everyone, but I am hoping that I am not alone in this. And I guess that's what compels me to write in the first place.
So, I probably won't change what I write about, but I will try to write more frequently.
The key word here- TRY.
We will see how it goes.
On a different note- Payton's wiggly tooth fell out today. Finally.
She was so excited, she came running at me full speed ahead with tooth in hand. It was a picturesque moment in time: her closing the distance between us, arms outstretched, smiling a wide, showy, toothless grin.
And then she tripped, sending the tooth careening across the lawn at the daycare. She was down and crying. I was down, searching for the tooth in the grass. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack, I thought.
But alas, I found it- that's the power of mothers. If it were Geoff, he probably would have thrown up his hands in defeat, saying "Well, we'll probably never find it now. But the tooth fairy will pay you double if you can't find it", which would have worked just as well, I suppose.
Now it is safely tucked away under her pillow, where we will await the tooth fairy's arrival.
Which means me, so I should be going.
Good night.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Which pitch??
All right, reader participation day.
I have been sending out query letters to agencies with disappointing results. I have revised it to play up the rom-com angle (that's romantic comedy for those of you not in the biz. Not that I'm in the biz, either. I'm so far out of the biz that I'm...well, actually I'm not sure where I was going with that particular metaphor. But you get the point. Anyways.)
Let me know which version you like better:
Pretend you are at a book store reading the back cover of a book. Which pitch appeals to you most:
Pitch A
Dear (Agent),
A flutist, a mediator and a controversial birth plan figure into this plot about a young woman who acts as a surrogate mother for her boss. Kristina Hoffman, 23, finds herself wading in a mountain of credit card debt after a break up with her fiance. Her boss, surly and tempermental Cynthia Jacobson is facing a crisis of her own: infertility. When Kristina learns of her boss's desire to hire a surrogate, she ponders the question: what's a mere forty weeks in the scheme of things?
As she learns, forty weeks can be a long time indeed.
Cynthia, difficult at the best of times becomes all out neurotic in the role of mom to be: demanding a coffee ban, strict bed rest, random drug screens and a natural childbirth.
And then when Mr. Right enters the picture at precisely the wrong point in time, it begs the question: can true love really conquer all. Even an ever expanding waist line and extreme irritability?
Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank your for your time.
OR,
Pitch B
Kristina Hoffman, 23, is single and pregnant by choice. Spending most of her days either vomiting or in bed, or a combination of both, she isn't exactly looking for romance. But romance comes looking for her when sweet and sexy PhD candidate Devon Miller moves in next door. Initially, she is forced to to stand on the sidelines and remain "just friends" while watching (and sometimes hearing) his blossoming relationship with sculpted yoga instructor Liana.
That was bad enough.
But when Devon confesses that his true feelings lie with her, she must make a confession of her own. Not only is she carrying a baby, but she is carrying it as a surrogate for her boss, Cynthia Jacobson- who happens to be difficult at best and neurotic at worst, demanding a ban on coffee (among other things), strict bed rest and a natural child birth.
Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank you for your time.
And you better give me some input on this because I have spent my entire "lunch break" (let's go with that) retyping this from a split screen on my computer because this program won't let me copy and paste anything.
I have an idea of which one I like better but I would like to see what you think.
Thanks.
Have a good day.
I have been sending out query letters to agencies with disappointing results. I have revised it to play up the rom-com angle (that's romantic comedy for those of you not in the biz. Not that I'm in the biz, either. I'm so far out of the biz that I'm...well, actually I'm not sure where I was going with that particular metaphor. But you get the point. Anyways.)
Let me know which version you like better:
Pretend you are at a book store reading the back cover of a book. Which pitch appeals to you most:
Pitch A
Dear (Agent),
A flutist, a mediator and a controversial birth plan figure into this plot about a young woman who acts as a surrogate mother for her boss. Kristina Hoffman, 23, finds herself wading in a mountain of credit card debt after a break up with her fiance. Her boss, surly and tempermental Cynthia Jacobson is facing a crisis of her own: infertility. When Kristina learns of her boss's desire to hire a surrogate, she ponders the question: what's a mere forty weeks in the scheme of things?
As she learns, forty weeks can be a long time indeed.
Cynthia, difficult at the best of times becomes all out neurotic in the role of mom to be: demanding a coffee ban, strict bed rest, random drug screens and a natural childbirth.
And then when Mr. Right enters the picture at precisely the wrong point in time, it begs the question: can true love really conquer all. Even an ever expanding waist line and extreme irritability?
Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank your for your time.
OR,
Pitch B
Kristina Hoffman, 23, is single and pregnant by choice. Spending most of her days either vomiting or in bed, or a combination of both, she isn't exactly looking for romance. But romance comes looking for her when sweet and sexy PhD candidate Devon Miller moves in next door. Initially, she is forced to to stand on the sidelines and remain "just friends" while watching (and sometimes hearing) his blossoming relationship with sculpted yoga instructor Liana.
That was bad enough.
But when Devon confesses that his true feelings lie with her, she must make a confession of her own. Not only is she carrying a baby, but she is carrying it as a surrogate for her boss, Cynthia Jacobson- who happens to be difficult at best and neurotic at worst, demanding a ban on coffee (among other things), strict bed rest and a natural child birth.
Having Grace, a romantic comedy, is complete at 80,000 words and available upon request.
Thank you for your time.
And you better give me some input on this because I have spent my entire "lunch break" (let's go with that) retyping this from a split screen on my computer because this program won't let me copy and paste anything.
I have an idea of which one I like better but I would like to see what you think.
Thanks.
Have a good day.
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