Sometimes They Just Want "Jingle Bells"

"I wish I could figure out what I'm doing wrong! What do they want?" My friend, who takes business writing assignments from an online clearinghouse, had just been venting over a couple clients who (though they'd accepted and paid her) had rated her product as "poor" or merely "average." My friend, a well-published writer, as well as a former magazine editor, was understandably beside herself. She has never accepted anything less than excellence from herself--and, in fact, the website had given these same assignments their highest rating.

I tried to reassure her. It's always easier to see no problem when it isn't your own writing that seems to be under attack. "I don't think you're doing anything wrong," I told her. "They're your customers, and they have the prerogative of being unreasonable."

I pointed out she was working from a very short posting that offered only the barest of instructions, and she'd had no opportunity to ask questions for clarification. I also suggested her clients had possibly given scant attention to their evaluations. Some of what I was saying may have helped a bit, but as we left the restaurant after our weekly writing critique, my friend still seemed woebegone and frustrated.

It didn't occur to me at the time, but another obstacle she's up against is that her clients aren't "word people." They aren't other writers, editors, or agents. They are all simply "writing consumers," from other industries. Their ideas of what constitutes good writing may differ wildly from reality.

Nonetheless, the more I mulled this over as I drove home, the more I saw parallels with conventional writing submissions. Sometimes I don't even recognize my own submission, from comments I've gotten back from editors or agents, and I wonder what on earth they were actually reading.

It reminded me of Lucy in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. She is listening to Schroeder play the piano, and she asks him to play "Jingle Bells." Schroeder offers a beautiful rendition, and Lucy snaps, "That's not 'Jingle Bells.' Play 'Jingle Bells!'"

Schroeder plays another version, equally lovely, and then another. Lucy meanwhile gets more and more perturbed. "Play 'Jingle Bells!'" she orders.

Finally, Schroeder hunches over the keyboard and pecks out the melody with two fingers...plink, plink, plink. Lucy's face melts into a dreamy smile. "That's it--that's 'Jingle Bells.'"

Sometimes, it occurs to me, it doesn't matter that our writing is graceful, punchy, or gripping. If it doesn't meet whatever that editor's, agent's, or reader's expectations are, we're not going to get a contract--or even keep them with us past the first paragraph. It doesn't mean our writing is no good--it's just that sometimes, they just want "Jingle Bells."

Buckle Your Seatbelts

I collect vintage children’s series books—like Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I may have started there, anyway. But eventually, I moved on from Nancy, Frank and Joe, Trixie Belden and Judy Bolton. Back to the thirties, the twenties, and a hundred years back to 1914. Back to Ruth Fielding, the Motor Maids, and the Flying Machine Boys. The Outdoor Girls and the Moving Picture Chums.

It’s not exactly a popular hobby in the 21^st century.

I’d always been a bit reluctant to pick up the genuinely old series—afraid, I guess, they’d be as musty to read as they are to smell. What exactly did I expect? Stilted language, I suppose. Outdated gender roles and ethnic stereotyping. Heavy-handed moralizing.

Finally, other collectors recommended a few very old series, and I decided to give them a try. What I found was surprising. Certainly, an old-fashioned writing style. Some occasional stereotyping. Definite moral values, though not as preachy as I’d anticipated. But, far and beyond these expected qualities, I discovered a startling vitality on those yellowing pages—youthfulness as fresh today as when they were first written. There was real humor here, and heart-thumping action and suspense.

What I found, time and again, were stories that took off running from the very first page. The discovery of an old, hand-drawn map, stuck beneath the cover of an antique book. A sinister stranger, eavesdropping in a café. A sudden storm. Kidnapers. The dam breaks. An eerie figure looms in the mist.

Something happens right away—something startling, exciting, gripping. But the problems for our hero—or heroine—aren’t easily resolved. They get worse, as obstacles and dangers pile up with barely a moment to breathe, apart from a bit of comic relief.

At times, the sheer quantity of incredible disasters that befall these characters is mind-boggling. The Moving Picture Girls, for instance, tend to move from one crisis to the next with barely a breather. A violent storm comes up. Their ship begins to sink. One of the actors is washed overboard. They are rescued and resume their trip by train. The train is robbed. Someone is taken captive. A rival company sends a spy to steal the company’s film. They arrive at their destination and begin filming. Indians unhappy with the location of the filming threaten the company. A horse runs off with one of our characters. She is rescued, but a “controlled” blaze, set for purposes of the film, goes out of control, trapping our actors in the middle of a prairie fire. This may be a bit of an exaggeration—but not by much. And always our intrepid cameraman manages to keep on filming, so later the resulting footage can be used to create a popular and prize-winning movie.

Corny? Yes, some of these scenes are hysterically, though undoubtedly unintentionally, funny. But often, the characters also display genuine laugh-out-loud wit. I’ve been surprised by how well the humor translates for a modern reader.

It’s easy for me to see why young readers from decades long past gobbled these stories up. Many of the books I find have been read nearly to death. It makes me smile to think about some kid reading in bed when he’s supposed to be getting a good night’s sleep before school the next morning.

How many kids still do this? I’m afraid not as many as there used to be, before TV, the internet, and cell phones. But an action-packed story—whether for kids or adults—still has that ability to grab readers by the collar and drag them along on a wild ride. Consider Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket—both, not coincidentally, having been translated into successful movies.

I tend to forget how important a compelling plot is—one in which things actually happen (and keep happening).  But unrelenting action and unanswered questions can energize a story like nothing else. Both Steven Spielberg and George Lucas took inspiration from the old-time movie serials with their cliffhanger endings, in creating blockbuster movie franchises.

I love to develop characters and setting. But my musty old books connect me with the real power of story.

Standing in the River

Once in awhile, you can miss something—or someone—for so long you almost forget, until one day you walk right into a reminder.

I’d forgotten how great it was to have book stores to hang out in. Pittsburgh isn’t a big city, but even in my little orbit, I had more than one “favorite”—Pinocchio in Shadyside and Tall Tales in Mount Lebanon, for children’s books; Mystery Lovers in Oakmont, for the obvious; and Borders in the South Hills, for its wonderful and knowledgeable staff, as well as a big selection and welcoming atmosphere. Sure, Borders was a chain store, but its staff knew and was passionate about books.

One by one, they folded, until only Mystery Lovers, under new ownership, survived. Yes, we do still have others, including a couple chains, a few used book shops, and college book stores. But it’s not the same. 

A recent long weekend took us to Manhattan for a family birthday, but it was book stores I was hungry for. There are so many to choose from, but our schedule only allowed time for two: The Strand and Argosy. Very different experiences, but in both cases, the moment as I walked through the door, explosions of quiet happiness were going off in my head.

Both are legacy book stores, still in business after generations. The Strand opened in 1927 on New York’s legendary Book Row, which makes it 86 years old in 2013, and still in the original family. Auspiciously named after London’s famous publisher’s row, the Strand was once just one of 48 bookstores on Book Row—I wish I could’ve been there! According to The Strand’s website, Book Row started in the 1890’s and once ran from Union Square to Astor Place, though today, the Strand is all that remains. 

Famed for its “18 miles of books,” The Strand sprawls over three floors, with a rare book room at the top, millions of new and used books and literary-themed items from the bottom up, and dollar carts outside. When you step inside, much of the joy comes from feeling how alive it is—the bustle of book-loving people all around you, the shelves and tables crowded with books and other delicious items.

Argosy is even older, dating back 88 years to 1925, and is also still family owned. It’s smaller, and cozier, and feels preserved in time. The first thing that struck me as I crossed the threshold—after tearing myself away from the dollar used books outside, with two in hand—was the aroma. Argosy smells wonderful. It smells of old paper and real leather bindings. 

The lighting is more muted than at The Strand, and it gleams back softly from old wood paneling and a pressed-tin ceiling. In the center aisle, library tables with green-glass-shaded lamps invite you to sit and read. I spent a long time here, and climbed the ladders in the basement, where everything was fifty percent off, to make sure I didn’t miss a treasure.

Argosy's main room (Argosy website)

Between The Strand and Argosy, I filled two heavy bags with books. But the best part of my day was just being there—surrounded for a few hours by books and book people. As a writer, being there in that world of books again—of words and ideas—connected me to what Madeleine L’Engle referred to as “the river.” It reminded me, in a way I hadn’t felt for a while, that I needed to be writing. 

I need to keep adding my small trickle of words to the river, in the same way the smallest creek along the way feeds the great Mississippi. It occurs to me I might also be feeding the “Amazon.” But as much as I love buying books online, it will never provide that sense of community I feel in a real bookstore.  It’s a unique community that includes toddlers and mommies sitting at the tiny tables with their colorful picture books, as well as the long-dead—but still-living—giants of the written word, like Dostoevsky and Dickens. For a little while, it was good to stand knee deep in the river again—a reader and a writer—and let it rush over me.

Washed Up on the Far Shore of Nanowrimo

Around 1 AM November 27th, I won my fourth Nanowrimo--National Novel Writing Month. Midnight November 1st found me with a jumble of sketchy notes, a pot of tea, and a bag of emergency snacks. With Boris Karloff's eyes smoldering out of the TV screen as The Mummy on the late-night Halloween movie, and the sound on low, I began typing.

It was my hardest Nano yet. I had a title--BAD MOON, a vague idea, and a few cardboard cutout characters. That was it. For the next 26 days, my family individually and collectively created more drama than any competing telenovela, and my previously well-behaved dogs and cats started leaving surprises around the house. An annual writing conference came around and I was away from home overnight and most of two days, but Nano doesn't wait--1,667 words a day do not write themselves.

But this year, my goal had to be something closer to 2,000 words a day. Due to the only convergence--in all of human history--of Thanksgiving, the first day of Chanukah, and the 80th birthday of my husband's cousin, I had to be D-O-N-E by dawn on the 27th. We were leaving for a long family weekend celebration in New York City, and I didn't want to schlepp a heavy, old-school laptop.

Somehow, I made it. For the first time ever, I discovered that it is possible to write in my sleep. Literally. On two separate occasions, I dozed off while writing, and startled awake a few moments later, only to discover I had completed one or more actual sentences. Neither of them bore any connection to the story at that point, though, which I found interesting. Since it was Nano, and every word counts, of course I left them in anyway.

At 8 PM November 26th, I was only partially packed. In fact, I still had laundry to do before I could finish packing. I had not written all day, and I still had 4,000 words between me and victory. It looked very much as though I was going to be trying to find space in that bag for a very heavy computer.

I had never written more than two or three thousand words in a day. Many of my 1,667-word days had been excruciating. But I decided I was just going to do it. And so I sat down and wrote. My characters went nuts. They had rambling conversations and I tagged all their dialog. Every verb got its very own adverb. Florid descriptions flew from my fingertips. It was the fastest and easiest 4,000 words of my life. Bam!

And so...I hit my 50,000 words with four days to spare, even though the book isn't finished, and it certainly isn't great. But the amazing thing--which I have experienced every Nano--is that there are so many good things in there, all the same. What I have is the bones of a pretty good story, and one that I would never otherwise have written.

Now, after a long weekend in New York, I'm looking ahead to the New Year, and ten months that are not Nanowrimo. I have four Nano novels that all need work, and a few more written conventionally. What I've been lacking in the past is dedicated follow-through. So for 2014, my goal is to revise a book a month--and start getting them out there.

Writing is important, and God bless Nano--every year it reminds me of that.

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.

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?

Books I Don't Like

For years I tried to plod through books I really didn't like, just because (A) I'd started them, (B) sometimes I'd actually paid for them, & (C) I wanted to give the writer a chance to grow on me. Meanwhile, for every one I forced myself to read--which always took inordinately long--there were books I might have loved, which were dropping off my life list of possibilities. There just isn't enough time here on earth to read them all--there isn't. And maybe some of those I despised are "great" books, "must-read" books, but I've learned the most I owe 'em is a try. After that, I just stop and release them into the universe, pass them on to someone who might actually like them and/or learn something from them. Then, I pick up something that will actually engage me.

For a week or so, though, I've been chipping away at a pretty bad book (no, I won't tell you what it is or who wrote it--as a writer, I don't like to trash another writer's hard work, even if I personally think it's dreadful). The things I hate about this book are legion:

1. clunky phrasing
2. misspellings/grammatical lapses
3. heaving bosom-style love scenes that are about as sexy as wax paper--and this isn't a romance novel!
4. stupid, stupid, stupid blind spots in the way the protagonist fails to pick up whatsoever on what should be obvious concerns to any person of low-average intelligence
5. a cutesy tendency to name some--but not all--characters "meaningfully", such as a dentist named Bob White-Molar or a stripper named Boobs Shaker, and again, the protagonist doesn't seem even to notice or mentally react
6. overwritten description
7. overly elaborate dialog tags
8. I could go on, but please stop me!

So why am I still reading? The same reason I first picked up this awful book in the half-price store--I loved the old-Florida, abandoned sugar plantation setting, and I still do. In fact, I want to be there...preferably not reading this book.... And the bottom line is still that this author has gotten books published--repeatedly. I need a stiff espresso.

"Sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book"

Thanks for the title, Bruce Springsteen! I felt you years ago when I was sick of sitting 'round here, trying to write another book. I sat at the kitchen table and typed--on an actual typewriter, and swore, and "Dancing in the Dark" spooled on in the background. I felt as if I'd never finish that dang book--or, if I did, that it would be good enough for me, let alone an editor, or more importantly, my hoped-for readers.

Time ran on, just like "Dancing in the Dark". Days, weeks, months, years, gobbled up by the goblins of time, by tooth-brushing and head colds, by tax returns and Port Authority bus commutes, by teething babies and angry teenagers. I seriously don't remember if I published that book, but eventually a few of my novels did slip past the editorial gatekeepers, each released to my own great excitement before dropping soundlessly into the literary abyss.

But even then, this book was germinating somewhere far below consciousness, beneath the busy streets of commerce up there on the surface of my life. I have George Nicholson to thank--or blame--for planting the mustard seed that became this book. For telling me it was my gift--or curse--to write for teenagers, despite what was then a grudging market for that age group. For telling me I would write books lit with hope, in a landscape sorely lacking in that divine commodity.

I've needed hope, myself, as well as faith and love, over the past years. My publisher stopped publishing the type of thing I used to write; and another novel, sold to a different publishing house, returned to me unpublished, when they decided to close the line. Years went by. I wrote personal essays, newspaper articles and inspirational pieces for anthologies. I didn't write books. Maybe I was done writing books. They take too long and hurt too much.

Once in awhile, I thought of my little seedling novel and an idea would flash through my head like heat lightning during a long drought. I'd scribble a note on a scrap of paper and stick it in a file labeled "Floating Against the Current". It got a bit fatter as the years crept on, but never took shape.

Finally, in July of 2005, I began writing morning pages as recommended by Julia Cameron. Like a miracle fertilizer called Help, which has rescued many a moribund plant around here, the pages seemed to restore balance in my creative mind. Months later, new shoots suddenly sprang up, and the plant began to grow again.

What does "Floating Against the Current" mean? That's a topic for another time. This is about my relationship with this particular book and what on earth I'm going to do with the rest of my life. Will there ever be another book if I can't wrestle this one to the ground?

Actually, "Floating" is done now...and not. The spectre of necessary revisions is waving its arms in front of me, bellowing like Godzilla, keeping me from ever really reaching the end of this miserable process. I despair more than I write. I have another novel well underway, and still "Floating" keeps grabbing my ankles and dragging me backward.

Writing, I've learned, isn't really about publishing--though the drive to publish is as strong as hunger, love, sex, and fear. In the end, as in the beginning, it is about writing. Writers write because the words demand to come out of us, and they won't let us alone. They bug us and they taunt us, and sometimes they play music and dance in our heads.