Have Fun!

Every day, I drive into Bridgeville for one reason or another, and I pass a series of bus shelters. These have endlessly annoyed me, because (A) the buses no longer run this far out, and the shelters are a kind of cruel joke on the unwary; and (B) they were erected by an advertising company, and NOT to serve bus patrons (they were always on the wrong side of the road).

But lately, I've gotten a little lift each time I pass a certain shelter. The inside poster, stuck there by the advertising company, is slipping down due to inattention. But the outside poster (also a bit wrinkly and a tad askew) is just a sheet of white butcher paper, which some kindhearted vandal has tagged with a permanent marker. "Follow Your Dreams!" it says in purple ink, surrounded by red asterisks & swirlys.

"Don't Give Up!" it says. And, at the bottom, almost as an afterthought: "Have fun!"

Well, I can always use these particular reminders and affirmations. (Actually, I can't imagine many people who couldn't...and can think of several who should probably consider taking them several times a day in capsule form.) Whoever put them there for me, Thank you! (Oh! And have fun!)

Adventures in Queryland

Querying has never been easy—at least, not for me, or for anyone else I know. You spend six months or a year—or in some sad cases, ten—and now you have a novel. You write it, you revise it, you polish it, you agonize over it. It’s the very best work you are capable of producing—at least, at this point in your life. If you’re lucky, it sings. But now can you just send your baby off into the publishing world, hoping its song will cast a spell over some lucky agent or editor?

In a word, No. With rare exceptions, nobody today will so much as cast a hairy eyeball in the direction of an unsolicited manuscript. These keepers of the gates seem indifferent at best, and at worst, hostile. (Think of the old Snoopy cartoon where his novel is returned along with a dire warning to the effect that any future submissions will force them to come throw rocks at his dog house.)

I don’t know about you, but I’d sure like to publish this book. I’m afraid, though. What if rogue gangs, comprised of Atheneum, Knopf, and Harper Collins editors, were to shanghai a Megabus and drive by my house, just to hurl rocks at the windows?

Or what if they just don’t like it? What if they don’t like me? Will I get the “this does not meet our needs at this time” brush-off? Will they say something snarky and cruel? Or will they just ignore me till the aluminum siding on my house expires, and I actually wish somebody would throw rocks at it, so I could report it to my insurance company?

The only way ever to publish anything is to swallow down the fear and ask. At least, these days many agencies and publishing houses will accept queries by email. In the old days of snail mail and SASEs, you could go broke on postage and literally wait a year to hear something from the overwhelmed recipient, because of course nobody wanted simultaneous submissions, either.

It’s hard to write a novel—full of pungent dialog, throat-clenching action, exquisite characterization, and snort-milk-out-your-nose humor—and then try to distill that into a one-page query. Whine all you like about the unfairness, but nobody cares. In fact, many will tell you they only need to read a couple lines to know if they’re interested in more.

Commenters on the Query Tracker website sometimes make a game of “how fast can the agent reject me.” I thought overnight turnarounds were insulting, before I read others who’d gotten the boot after only minutes. One writer, laughing through the tears, asked if one minute was a record!

The good news here is that I’ve also gotten requests for a partial or full manuscript submission after just three hours or overnight. I’ve learned you just have to keep enough queries out there that no solitary rejection will ever seem like the end of the road.

As I’ve gone through the query process lately, with both FLOATING and a much older manuscript I recently pulled from the drawer and revised, I’ve found a few helpful blogs and websites, as well as an entire community of my fellow suffering souls. I’ve learned (at least a bit) not to take rejection so personally. I’ve taken a moment to consider the fact that we have an economy on life support here, and more specifically, the thermonuclear fireball that’s gone through our industry with the crash of Borders, leaving their creditors (the publishers I and my peers are trying to woo) millions of dollars in the hole.

I’ve learned to continue to tweak and rewrite as I go, trying to make a better, stronger query—and novel. I’ve learned to personalize my queries. I try not to put all my eggs in one basket. I have five novels in various stages of construction and I no longer send queries out one at a time. I’ve discovered writing itself is my joy and purpose, and that desperation is pointless.

Writing is what I do; it’s who I am. Whether or not someone ever buys it, my job is to write it, and to write with all I’ve got. Some theologians think the Red Sea didn’t part until the Israelites set foot in the water. So I’m starting to wade.

No Longer Floating

I started this blog awhile back, bemoaning the novel that would not die--and yet, perversely refused to live. Floating Against the Current took years to write, and then years to revise. Still, a satisfactory ending hovered just out of reach.

Unspeakably grateful now it's finished. The result isn't spectacularly, "angels-singing" thrilling. But done. I realize after all these years that I've just been living in this novel for way too long (which might could explain, as my friend from NC would say, why the thrill is gone).

How did this miracle come to pass? How did I come to finish the heretofore unfinishable?

Thanks to Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way, for getting me into morning pages, which got me writing every day.

Thanks to Flylady, for teaching me the power of those 15-minute chinks of time I'd been devoting to snacks and cruising the Internet. Redirecting as little as one of those, on a daily basis, moved Floating forward once again.

Thanks to my writing buddy, Sue Swan, for keeping me on task.

Thanks to the Lord for reminding me that my past is not necessarily my future: "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." Phil. 3:13

Undoubtedly more revisions yet to come--that's the nature of noveling! But the feeling of free flight, having reached this stage, is exhilarating. Finishing Floating gave me November clear for Nanowrimo, and the joyous prospect of getting back to my novel in progress, Stones in My Passway.

As I have always told my kids, we can do hard things!

And We're Off to Nanowrimo--Back in a Month!

So for the first time ever, I actually took the leap and registered for National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo). I have told everyone who would listen to me, too--so no turning back at this point!

Starting at midnight tomorrow night (death of Halloween & birth of November 1st), and continuing through the last seconds of November 30th--perhaps with allowances for Thanksgiving, church, food intake, and perhaps the (occasional) shower--I am going to fling my laptop in the direction of a 50,000-word "zombie cozy. (A zombie cozy is a fun, rather than horrifying, zombie romp. It is not, in the tradition the tea cozy, a fuzzy sweater designed to keep your zombie warm.)

I will be accompanied on this adventure by thousands of like-minded writerly types, and provisioned with Hot & Spicy Cheezits, Fun-Size Snickers, baggies of Craisins, & gallons of coffee & tea. As is the case with all adventures worth having, new experiences await & dangers will abound.

I have prepared myself mercilessly for the past month or so--did a smidge of research, crafted a zombie army out of colorful felt as inspiration, wrote down a few notes, purchased my Cheezits & other rewards and incentives. I have warned my family, stockpiled some food and cleaned a bit, just by way of clearing the decks.

"What makes you think you can do this?" my husband Dave asked.

Well, one has to think one can do it, or beginning is pointless. I feel as qualified as anybody--I have no realistic sense of my own limitations, which is incredibly helpful. I am extremely used to not sleeping. I have already written twelve complete novels, without getting overly hung up on distressing concerns about quality or publication. I like the idea that I am doing this with legions of similarly deluded people worldwide. And best of all--I have not only permission, but outright direction, to throw my "inner editor" overboard for the duration.

For the next thirty days, it doesn't matter if something is spelled right, or I have a dangling modifier. Inconsistencies are fine, just fine! Too many characters? Not enough plot? Absolutely great! "All" I have to do is write 50,000 words of fiction, during the month of November, preferably without getting sick, divorced, or committed (whether voluntarily or otherwise).

A wonderful byproduct of this project is I've already gleaned so much information, which will be useful in saving myself and my loved ones, and possibly all of mankind, in the event of a zombie uprising. When Dave recently shared a tidbit about the potash industry, which he'd learned from a "potash historian", I had to be grateful there are people interested in the history of the potash industry. The Lord has blessed mankind with such diversity! And maybe the potash historian is also grateful that there are others like me out there, who are interested in writing about zombies. We don't each have to do it all, to know it all--because we live in a world populated by other knowledgeable people, each of whom is covering his or her own area of specialization.

But now I need to get going--I need to stock my zombie-fighting, Nano-writing travel kit. Let the adventure begin! I can totally do this.... Right?

Things That Make Me Happy, Parte Tres

Japanese wood-block prints
Monet
Van Gogh
"Fargo"
Cherry blossom time in DC
Bats flying against the sky
Clean, ordered shelves
Greenhouses full of flowers
Curled-over potato chips
Little white frame churches
Kicking my feet through fall leaves
Woodsmoke
Pussywillows
Worn grooves in old wood floors
Hickory PA Apple Festival
Hayrides
Swimming
Hippie clothes
Fried dough & cotton candy
Jelly beans
Queen Anne's lace
Riding on ferries
Staying on islands
Grape Popsicles
Climbing trees
Singing the old hymns
Vintage leather handbags
Wading in icy creeks

Things That Make Me Happy, Parte Dos

Daisee's sense of humor
Naked rats
Soda bread with currants & fennel
The way springtime smells
Hearing Kika's ringtone
My laptop
Having the quads crawl up onto me so trustingly
Dreaming about going to Greece
My Bible
Strawberry green tea
Anne Lamott
My Susans
Grandma's cookstove
Speaking Spanish
Raw almonds
3-mile workouts
Finding awesome stuff at the thrift store
Cuba
Seattle's Best vanilla-cinnamon rooibos lattes
Sticking my pictures in scrapbooks
Reading old letters
Finding letters in my mailbox
Indian head pennies
Old tablecloths with fruit & flowers on them
Porch sitting
Hanging out with my mom
Writing,writing, writing, writing
Easter bonnets
Apple blossoms
The sound of rain
Afternoon naps
Cary Grant comedies
Independent coffee shops
Diners
Used book stores
Finding morel mushrooms
Finding money
Glazed carrots
Root beer floats
TS Eliot
Thoreau
Dave Barry
Pizza...even pretty bad pizza
Old farmhouses
Black-&-white cows in tall grass
Black nail polish
Cilantro
Watching squirrels in the trees
Gathering hickory nuts
The smell of maple syrup cooking down
Fried cornmeal mush
Drinking tea with Tony

Going for It

There's been a sudden shift in the wind direction around here. Somewhere along the line, I'd decided to settle, and that's never good--in fact, I'm sure that's the exact cause of old age. But after sitting in the doldrums for a few days (which turned into years, actually...), for some reason I'm once again seized with the old carpe diem (Latin for "grab the carp," as I believe I learned from Dave Barry).

Pretty much everybody I've ever known started out with dreams. Little kids all have them. They come so easy when you have that great, fresh, untainted imagination; and all you have to do is picture yourself doing something cool and wonderful. Time is your friend then--everything great is going to happen when you grow up. You don't have to worry about what anything costs, or whether you have any talent or connections. You don't have to worry about running out of time or having other responsibilities. Basically, when you're a little kid, dreaming is your whole job, and you're still good at it.

But suddenly, hey--you're grown up! People start expecting you to pay your own way. The stuff you want costs a lot, and so does the stuff you just plain need, like health insurance. The student loans come due. Maybe you get married. Your spouse has a job right here--moving around is no longer an option. And once you have kids, the dreams are theirs...and usually whatever dreams you can still dredge up turn into dreams for them and their future.

The days go by so fast, and every day seems to have its own challenges--today it's the computer crashing; yesterday was Grandpa's operation; tomorrow I'm too tired from not sleeping. Everything becomes "after the credit card bill is paid off," "after we finish adding the new bedroom," "after the first of the year," "after I retire," "after I'm feeling better." And one day you're getting ready for bed, and you stop and think, I can't remember one single thing I did today toward my goals. Or the days before. Unless I do something drastic right this minute, this is exactly how I'm going to live out the rest of my days.

Am I the only one who finds this screamingly terrifying? I'd rather live out my days flinging my battered body against the gates of my dreams--trying to tunnel under, climb over, or hike all the way around; trying to get inside. Even if I don't make it, at least I'll be headed somewhere. At least, my days will have a purpose.

It's like the poem about the pioneers says: "The cowards never started and the weak died along the way." I sure enough started this journey years ago. I even made it a goodly distance down the road. I wrote those books. I sent them out. I got the rejections and I still kept sending them out. I got the heartbreakingly-close calls and the outright door-slams in the face. Eventually, I got the publications. I got the book-signings. But what I found out is that you never really "make it." At least, I didn't.

I used to think if I could just publish a novel, I'd die happy. But my reality was that I published a book and --after all that struggle-- I was still just getting started. The fighting ahead--through the brush, and the tigers, and the wild and icy rivers; the bloody-fingered climb up the rock face, to the place where my dreams live--that wasn't over.

I wanted more books, better books. I wanted to be a better writer. I wanted to feel that I'd said what I was put here to say. And, though I was now published, I still hadn't found my way out of the wilderness to the main road.

For a lot of years, I'd slipped into writing articles and personal essays. I was still "writing", and I was still publishing. But it wasn't where I belong, and my heart knew it, no matter what my head kept saying.

I encouraged my children to chase down their dreams. But I was no longer taking my own advice, and my words rang hollow in my ears.

And so I'm writing again. I'm revising clunky endings and pondering half-constructed plots; I'm scribbling down crazy ideas that pop into my head seemingly from the air; I'm sending things out and daring people to reject me. In short, I'm alive again--like Snow White pushing aside the lid of the glass coffin, and the years of kudzu and spiderwebs.

A rejection is just a sign along the road to destiny--you won't see any of these if you aren't writing, and if you aren't putting your stuff out there in the big wide world. But neither will you ever see your name in print. Ultimately, to me it's worth it. As the Latin Americans say, "Vale la pena"--it's worth the pain. I think, deep down, the heart knows what it wants and why it's here. Why would I trade my days on earth for anything less?
Why would I trade the hardships of a brave charge toward my dreams, for what Thoreau called a life "of quiet desperation?"

Am I on the right road? I've wondered. Recently, I let an agent see the first chapter of my novel under revision, but also told her about my nonfiction ideas, partly, I'm sure, because nonfiction always feels safe, compared to those notoriously hard-to-sell novels--like lingering on base and not making the perilous dash for home. It felt like the Almighty winked at me when she said, "Concentrate on your fiction." Hey, Lord, You don't have to tell me twice (I hope)!

As long as I am questing, I am young, no matter what my body tries to tell me. George Eliot said, "It is never too late to be what you might have been." We shall see about that--yes, most definitely! I'm on the road again.