Now that I have come to the end* of the writing and editing process of this novel, re-named Lost Lily, I am in what I like to call the endless winter. The season of searching for an agent, sending letters cold turkey to people who have nice offices with windows overlooking Times Square. At least this is what I picture when I am depressed and generally disenchanted with the search, hopeless, and totally self-effacing about my ability to write anything at all.
People often ask me, "So what happens now? You get it published?" I usually kind of laugh, maybe sigh internally, and say, "Perhaps."
Once you have edited the stew out of your manuscript, taken it to the point of perfection, and then sat down to edit it once again, you may be ready to search for an agent. Once you have secured an agent, he or she has to job of pitching the idea to a publishing company. At this point, I believe I am ready, but I may end up back at the drawing board.
I drafted a query letter as well as a synopsis of the novel. The query is a brief, spirited pitch of my idea. It does not summarize the entire story, but rather gives a summation and a kind of hook. It says, "HERE I AM! This is why my novel is worth reading." Authors often send queries to dozens, if not hundreds of agents before they get a bite. The query letter was the hardest thing for me to write. To sum up my passion and my plot in less than 200 words was a high challenge and I spent about 25 hours working on it. I recently re-read the letter, and I think it stinks. I need to write a new one. So it goes.
A synopsis gives the entire plot, start to finish. It does not tease the reader or keep any secrets hidden. This is the agent's way of quickly reading through the drama to see if the story is any good. This, too, is very short, but also needs to read in some way as the novel reads, needs to contain the spirit of the story.
Each agent has his or her own preferences about how and what they want to read in a query. Everyone wants the letter. Some want the letter and the synopsis. Some want the letter and the first ten pages. Others want the letter, the synopsis, the first 50 pages and the god parent-ship of your firstborn son. Some want e-mail, no attachments please, and others want good old fashioned United States Postal Service, Sir.
To date I have sent approximately 14 query packages. Have heard back from six, I think, all shaking their heads "no" in one way or another. Some of the letters are canned, and they start with "Dear Author semi-colon" One actually said "Dear Virginia," which made my heart skip a beat, but it was also a thanks-but-I-don't-think-your-project-is-what-we're-looking-for letter. I don't have hard feelings, and in a way I even love this part of it, this sweaty uphill climb. And as you read this blog you might feel sorry for me, like this is impressive work, but it really isn't because this is what every novelist does, especially if she has never published anything before. I have to admit, though, last night when I got the DearAuthor letter from an agency I really really liked, I was bummed and did not very much enjoy the episode of NCIS we happened to be watching.
But here is the brightness: Yesterday I stumbled upon a video of a speech made by J.K. Rowling at the Harvard commencement ceremony in 2008. J.K. Rowling is a hero and I listened to that speech and was lifted up! This is what she said, fragmented and patched together, verbatim:
"Poverty is not an enobling experience. Poverty itself is romanticized by fools... Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential... Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I re-built my life...It is impossible to live without failing at something unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all, in which case you fail by default... As is a tale, so is life. Not how long it is, but how good it is is what matters."
Now J.K. Rowling's rock bottom was way far down below sea level and I don't dare begin to compare my life to hers, because my life is pretty rosey, but here is what really struck me: POVERTY IS NOT AN ENOBLING EXPERIENCE. It's true. And in some ways, this writing--this exhausting, passionate, furious work of writing--that amounts to ZERO money (to date) and ZERO credibility feels a little like poverty. And it is not enobling, only pressing to keep on.
But as I digest, this is the gold that is left after it has been panned out of the dirt: I love this. I love to write. It is the only thing I have ever wanted to do. It is my dream, it is my passion, and I am doing it. This is the reason I am doing it! Because I LOVE IT.
J.K. said that when she was totally stripped all she had was a little typewriter and a big idea. Mmm, that's good folks.
On Wednesday I finished the final edits and cried at the end. Not because I was done, but because the ending really moves me. I sent the manuscript to my friend's sweet mom, Jody, who owns a print shop downtown. She prints my stuff for free, because she believes in me, and she tells me every time I swing by to pick up the pages that I can't quit. She printed it for me Wednesday. I went to Target and purchased the prettiest binder I could find. Lost Lily is sitting, bound the cheap way, on my desk. It's sort of my first real, perfected, official novel. Then, after lunch, I started outlining the next one. I have got a big idea and I love to write.
*"the end" can be only loosely applied to this stage of the book process, as I do believe I could continue to edit Lost Lily over and over again until I wore holes in the keyboard of my Mac. This is a transient "end," if even that.
1.19.2011
1.05.2011
desk satisfaction.
I should be editing.
Once when I was roaming the blogosphere I clicked through the posts on this one lady's writing blog and saw one post that I loved. It was a photograph of her desk, followed by a dissection of what was in the picture. For months I have intended to mimic this post, and today, as I procrastinate, it seems like the perfect opportunity.
This may seem inane to some readers, so feel free to move on. No offense taken.
See, this is where I live. The desk itself, of which you can see only the top, is the best gift I've ever been given. It was Mark's wedding gift to me. A white, antique writer's desk. Just what I could not have even manifested in my most perfect dreams. It is slightly tilted, with a sitting space that fits my legs, height and width, to perfection. The drawers stick, but I don't care. I love it.
Camouflaged, my little MacBook (her name is Dora) holds every word I have ever typed since college. Both manuscripts, my entire digital photograph library, my music (the last link, after my iPod was stolen out of my car in the driveway), a variety of "Favorite" tabs of blogs and writing resources I follow, and our budget. Dora and I have spent only God knows how many hours together in silence, and rambling.
The books are my go-tos. The favorites tab of my book collection. The complete works of e.e. cummings. Poet perfect. Stephen King's, Annie Dillard's and Anne Lamott's memoirs on writing, all of which have been of colossal importance to me in my pursuit of a career in the craft. East of Eden, Steinbeck's best, my favorite novel of all time including my favorite character of all time, Samuel Hamilton. The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, which has been a resource of great value as I tap my relatively shallow barrel of vocabulary trying to write with accuracy and clarity. A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and Writing to Change the World by Mary Pipher.
They are held up by the most beautiful spinning globe bookends, a Christmas gift this year from Mark.
There is a small bud vase with a vine rooted in water, to link me to the outdoors. A photograph of Mark, with his Red Sox hat, old faithful, and a bit of Cannoli cream on his lip, smiling his winning grin with his tilted smile. My favorite picture of him, aside from one on our wedding day that hangs on the wall in the living room. Just in front of the photo is this quote, from EofE:
"I believe a strong woman may be stronger than a man, particularly if she happens to have love in her heart. I guess a loving woman is indestructable."
I love that quote, and I think I believe it.
There is also a photograph of my brother, Kyle, and me when we were kids--he was three or four, I was eight or nine. It's black and white, and we're sitting on this old red checkered sectional sofa surrounded by dozens of stuffed animals and we are laughing.
There is a little pink address book and stamps. Legal envelopes that I use to send out SASE's when I submit my manuscripts to agents. A box of thank-you notes yet to be written. Twenty-two cents. Bert's Bee's Medicated lip balm (because it's winter people). A list of agents, somewhat marked up, with dates and notes on submissions I have sent, and those I have yet to send, querying To Light a Thousand Windows. There is a candle, a paper weight, a Christmas card that says, "It was her opinion that true Merriment required good hot chocolate and extravagant amounts of tinsel." There is a copy of my query letter, an envelope of receipts from 2009 and 2010 (large purchases only) and a pencil sharpener, though I rarely if ever use pencils.
I think that's it, and above the desk is the picture of Emebet, the little girl we sponsor who was born on May 2nd, our wedding day, and lives in Ethiopia. I should have moved the Thesaurus so you could see her.
I considered tidying up a bit before writing this post, but decided not to. I am a writer and this is who I am, clutter and all.
Once when I was roaming the blogosphere I clicked through the posts on this one lady's writing blog and saw one post that I loved. It was a photograph of her desk, followed by a dissection of what was in the picture. For months I have intended to mimic this post, and today, as I procrastinate, it seems like the perfect opportunity.
This may seem inane to some readers, so feel free to move on. No offense taken.
See, this is where I live. The desk itself, of which you can see only the top, is the best gift I've ever been given. It was Mark's wedding gift to me. A white, antique writer's desk. Just what I could not have even manifested in my most perfect dreams. It is slightly tilted, with a sitting space that fits my legs, height and width, to perfection. The drawers stick, but I don't care. I love it.
Camouflaged, my little MacBook (her name is Dora) holds every word I have ever typed since college. Both manuscripts, my entire digital photograph library, my music (the last link, after my iPod was stolen out of my car in the driveway), a variety of "Favorite" tabs of blogs and writing resources I follow, and our budget. Dora and I have spent only God knows how many hours together in silence, and rambling.
The books are my go-tos. The favorites tab of my book collection. The complete works of e.e. cummings. Poet perfect. Stephen King's, Annie Dillard's and Anne Lamott's memoirs on writing, all of which have been of colossal importance to me in my pursuit of a career in the craft. East of Eden, Steinbeck's best, my favorite novel of all time including my favorite character of all time, Samuel Hamilton. The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, which has been a resource of great value as I tap my relatively shallow barrel of vocabulary trying to write with accuracy and clarity. A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and Writing to Change the World by Mary Pipher.
They are held up by the most beautiful spinning globe bookends, a Christmas gift this year from Mark.
There is a small bud vase with a vine rooted in water, to link me to the outdoors. A photograph of Mark, with his Red Sox hat, old faithful, and a bit of Cannoli cream on his lip, smiling his winning grin with his tilted smile. My favorite picture of him, aside from one on our wedding day that hangs on the wall in the living room. Just in front of the photo is this quote, from EofE:
"I believe a strong woman may be stronger than a man, particularly if she happens to have love in her heart. I guess a loving woman is indestructable."
I love that quote, and I think I believe it.
There is also a photograph of my brother, Kyle, and me when we were kids--he was three or four, I was eight or nine. It's black and white, and we're sitting on this old red checkered sectional sofa surrounded by dozens of stuffed animals and we are laughing.
There is a little pink address book and stamps. Legal envelopes that I use to send out SASE's when I submit my manuscripts to agents. A box of thank-you notes yet to be written. Twenty-two cents. Bert's Bee's Medicated lip balm (because it's winter people). A list of agents, somewhat marked up, with dates and notes on submissions I have sent, and those I have yet to send, querying To Light a Thousand Windows. There is a candle, a paper weight, a Christmas card that says, "It was her opinion that true Merriment required good hot chocolate and extravagant amounts of tinsel." There is a copy of my query letter, an envelope of receipts from 2009 and 2010 (large purchases only) and a pencil sharpener, though I rarely if ever use pencils.
I think that's it, and above the desk is the picture of Emebet, the little girl we sponsor who was born on May 2nd, our wedding day, and lives in Ethiopia. I should have moved the Thesaurus so you could see her.
I considered tidying up a bit before writing this post, but decided not to. I am a writer and this is who I am, clutter and all.
1.03.2011
a lot of stuff i don't deserve.
Since I didn't get to see my parents during Christmas, I flew down on Thursday to spend New Years with them in Florida. It was a breezy, relaxing, reading, sleeping, eating, running, sunning, chatting kind of time. Glorious, really. Mark stayed up in NC and hosted a bunch of out-of-town friends for the holiday (planned after I booked my flight to FL...) He took care of the dog, gave our bed to our friends and slept on the couch, cooked food, made coffee, did the whole "hostess" thing, only as a host. I was impressed!
Yesterday I flew home. There were some irritating complications with the flight and I should have been home by 3:45. I ended up pulling into our neighborhood at 5:30, generally tired and frustrated. There was a temptation to call Mark and see if he had at least put our sheets in the washing machine, but I resisted, remembering that where he had spent the past week working, cleaning, hosting, etc., I had been laying around reading the biography of Deitrich Bonhoeffer and drinking wine. On Ebert Street, this one house still has all of their Christmas decor up. I thought, "Ugh, if only I didn't have to take down the tree some night this week after work." And dinner... I did not feel like making dinner.
As I neared the house I saw (GASP) the Christmas tree undone and laying on its side on the curb! When I walked inside, the entire house was spotless. Even dust-free. Vaccuumed. Some ornaments were already boxed, while others sat waiting to be sorted and organized. The beds were both made, with clean sheets. The bathroom was clean and there was even a new package of toilet paper!
Mark heard me come in from the back of the house in the kitchen and said, "Hey babe! Watch this." And he showed me how he had taught Sid the Dog how to sit down on command! And stay! Can you believe this??
Of course, I was totally flabbergasted by this extraordinary feat of love. "What would you like me to make for dinner?" I asked, now delighted to do something for him, as he had done SO much for me.
"I already made dinner." He winked.
I stared.
"Salmon! Your favorite."
Yesterday I flew home. There were some irritating complications with the flight and I should have been home by 3:45. I ended up pulling into our neighborhood at 5:30, generally tired and frustrated. There was a temptation to call Mark and see if he had at least put our sheets in the washing machine, but I resisted, remembering that where he had spent the past week working, cleaning, hosting, etc., I had been laying around reading the biography of Deitrich Bonhoeffer and drinking wine. On Ebert Street, this one house still has all of their Christmas decor up. I thought, "Ugh, if only I didn't have to take down the tree some night this week after work." And dinner... I did not feel like making dinner.
As I neared the house I saw (GASP) the Christmas tree undone and laying on its side on the curb! When I walked inside, the entire house was spotless. Even dust-free. Vaccuumed. Some ornaments were already boxed, while others sat waiting to be sorted and organized. The beds were both made, with clean sheets. The bathroom was clean and there was even a new package of toilet paper!
Mark heard me come in from the back of the house in the kitchen and said, "Hey babe! Watch this." And he showed me how he had taught Sid the Dog how to sit down on command! And stay! Can you believe this??
Of course, I was totally flabbergasted by this extraordinary feat of love. "What would you like me to make for dinner?" I asked, now delighted to do something for him, as he had done SO much for me.
"I already made dinner." He winked.
I stared.
"Salmon! Your favorite."
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