A Great Opportunity

           As many of you already know by my near-constant complaining about how demoralizing I find the road to publication to be (sorry about that, by the way), I have been on a roller coaster ride for the last few months—or more accurately, for the last year.  Last spring, I had this crazy idea to write a novel and I completed that task and rejoiced at the accomplishment because, let’s face it, not many people accomplish such a thing, at least none that I know.  Of course, that was just the beginning.  I found out that the original draft was nowhere near ready for the next step, which was querying for a literary agent.  So I worked with an assortment of critique partners—other writers in the same boat as I was—and polished my manuscript to a crisp spit shine.  Another major accomplishment, considering how much the narrative changed, and another rise on the roller coaster ride.

            I started querying in earnest—which I see as on the down slope because I hate it doing it—and received several requests for fulls and partials.  Yay!  Big ride up on that roller coaster.  Then came the ride down, for not only was I receiving near daily rejections to my query, I also received rejections for all but one of those requests, too.  I’m almost too afraid to contact the last agent to find out what he thinks.  I realize that if he liked it, he would have contacted me again to request more pages.  So down, down, down I go on the big, scary roller coaster. 

But I did have to take a break when I received a request for an exclusive read and while she ultimately turned me down, I found that break refreshing.  It was the flat part of the ride, the part where you get your bearings and take a breath in anticipation of the next hill or dip.  And while I have not been querying at all during this flat part of the ride, I have continued to read and comment on writer and agent blogs.  And, again as many of you know by past posts, one of my absolute favorite bloggers is the incomparable Anne Mini .   

            Her blog is very different from most bloggers out there.  She freely offers advice—a lot of advice—to writers pursuing their dream of becoming published authors.  As Anne admits, many find her blog posts a tad long-winded, and while she does generate an inordinate amount of words per post, I consider each one a gold nugget to be snatched away and horded with greedy pleasure.  You just cannot pass up that kind of advice and disregard it.  She is, after all, a published author with a boatload of awards and degrees and accolades, not to mention that she makes her living editing books for publication.  Why would anybody want her to be brief when sharing her hard earned information?  In fact, I find she raises questions in me that require I comment in order to alleviate my concern or confusion.  Yeah, I probably comment too much.  I often wonder if she cringes whenever she sees my name pop up at the bottom of her posts.  But if she does, she doesn’t show it and she always answers my questions or comments on my opinion.  

            Last week, she continued her series on pet peeves in material submitted to literary agencies.  She expressed how important it is for a writer who wants their story to be read in full by the agent to construct a first page with conflict while introducing the main character and telling the reader what the book is all about.  The way I read her post, I determined that she was advising us to start our novel off with a big bang, a blockbuster explosion, so to speak, to grab the attention of a tired, over-worked, bleary-eyed literary agent’s assistant—Anne refers to them as Millicents—who is the first obstacle a writer encounters on their way to the ultimate gatekeeper, the agent herself. 

This advice kind of took me aback and I commented to Anne:  “It seems like we should be tailoring our early content for the sole benefit of an over-worked, bleary-eyed, impatient Millicent so that she doesn’t hurl our beloved pages into the trash. It doesn’t seem right to fashion our stories in this manner. It feels much like pandering to me. I’d like to believe that Millicent doesn’t need the blockbuster explosions in line five of chapter one just to pull her into the story. Surely she is more sophisticated than that.” 

Anne advised me that that is just the way it is.  So I briefly explained the content of my first chapter—which actually reads more like a prologue, but prologues are out of fashion these days, so chapter one it is.  And my chapter one is only two-thirds of a page long, introduces the main character and delves into exactly what the story is about:  Can a good man who has been affected by outside forces to do an unspeakably bad thing, redeem himself and find the man he once was?  This leads into chapter two which does, in fact, have conflict, or so Anne judged by my description. 

            But a funny thing happened in our discourse over this issue.  She wrote me a personal email explaining that she was “intensely curious” about how I had structured my novel.  Since it would be difficult for her to give me further advice without actually seeing the pages, she had a proposition for me.  She wrote:  “Would you be willing to allow me to use the first two chapters as an example on the blog?  That way, I could give you specific feedback on a structure that does sound as though it might give some Millicents pause, and it might provoke some interesting discussion…It would involve a certain amount of bravery, but my gut feeling is that a professional reader might respond quite differently to these pages than a room full of writers.”

            Well, uh…hell yeah!  Of course I would love to provide my first two chapters to someone I admire and respect who, in turn, would evaluate its content, therefore making it better.  That was my first reaction.  Then I focused in on her words about it taking a certain amount of bravery on my part because, as she states, her “blog has a surprisingly large readership amongst Millicents and in publishing houses.”   Ooooh, scary!!  No really.  Scary!  But these are the exact people I want to read my pages.  These are the folks who determine what is read, what is voted on, who is contracted and what gets published in America today.  Yes, they just might ream me out, tear me a new you-know-what, embarrass me, humiliate me, ground me into the cold, hard earth, turn me into dust, a quivering mass of tears and nerves.  But they also might just make my content better which could, at some point, lead to another agent reading my material in full.  I would be insane NOT to want that. 

            Yes, I am afraid.  Very afraid.  When people have the chance to critique without being seen, they can be, and often are, fairly brutal.  They don’t hold back.  And since I have suffered a bit at the end of the rather large stick of rejection lately, I am concerned about just how hard I might take their criticism, but in the end, it’s all about making the book better, about getting read.  And Anne added that “It's never a bad idea to have those people know one's name!” 

            So here I go.  I’ve already submitted my first two chapters—about four pages total—to Anne.  She says it will be a few weeks since she is under a deadline to get a current client’s book edited for editor number three at Random House.  (God, how I envy that author who has Anne Mini editing her words!)  I don’t know what will happen.  At the very least, I pray that I receive advice that will turn my first pages into something that will eventually catch Millicent’s eye, that she will want to tell her agent boss about it, who will then be so intrigued as to request more pages.  So I consider this a big ride up on that roller coaster.  And while I do worry about the part where I come down, I know that part down can be a lot of fun if I look at it in the right way. 

My skin is getting thicker with each rejection, especially after the personal ones, the ones where the agent read my full manuscript only to turn me down without any real advice on how to make it better.  I guess I wouldn’t mind the rejections if they came with some constructive criticism.  But that’s not the way it works any more.  The agents and Millicents are simply too busy.  So this step with Anne, however big and scary, is one way in which I might actually receive some constructive criticism—constructive being the operative word here.  So, am I crazy to go through with this?  Perhaps, but I’m just telling myself to check my sanity at the door and enjoy the ride.         

      

The Puzzle

            A few of my friends have asked me why I all of the sudden started writing.  What made me get up one morning with the need to write a story?  It’s a difficult question because there is no clear, concise answer.  I can say this.  I had been bothered by reoccurring dreams and nightmares that pestered me from the time I was seventeen.  They visited me in different forms, but the theme was generally the same.  They were born from real life experiences that I had never effectively worked through.  I just simply put it in the back of my mind and ignored it as best I could.  But they were never forgotten and they proved this point a few nights every week.

            One morning, I decided to make sense of the dream, giving it a reason to have manifested itself in my tired brain.  This is essentially the day I began to write.  It was cathartic, of course, but that wasn’t the reason I chose to write.  It was more due to my need to figure out the pieces that made up a puzzle.  And that puzzle was me.

            I’d figured that I was made up of all sorts of strange shapes.  Not the kind you generally see in a puzzle, all homogenous and firmly interlocking.  No, my pieces were all different.  Some simple, maybe round like a circle.  Others jagged and nonsensical.  Very few had those bulbous peninsulas or shapely bays that fastened snugly, ingeniously designed to hold together, so stable that even when they were knocked away, they tended to remain locked in form.  My pieces were much more haphazard.

            Each of these puzzle pieces became a character in my novel, but they were all a part of me.  Some were truly good while others were inherently evil.  Most were just confused combinations of both, struggling to do the right thing, making careless mistakes along the way, mistakes that affected the lives of others.  I needed to make sense of all that, to put it all together in such a way that each of those pieces, those characters, made something that was whole, something that actually worked. 

Of course, I relate to my two main characters much more than the others, the two who struggle to make sense of their terrible ordeal.  They used to be ideal, nearly the same, smooth and round along the edges.  But they both evolved into one of those jagged, pieces that could only interlock with another of similar form.  That’s when they became logical, making perfect sense only when they came together.

That’s why I started writing, to make sense of all my jagged pieces, so I could fit them into a puzzle that told a story, that drew a picture that made sense of who I am.  I am my story, in all its imperfection.  And now, those nightmares have suddenly stopped.  And I feel whole.  That’s not to say that those pieces don’t sometimes come loose, the edges popping up, begging to be smoothed out by running a finger along the boundaries.  But it all fits together now.  And I have made sense of the picture that is me.  

How I Was Saved

            So I often find it difficult to keep plugging along in my quest to get published.  The task of finding an agent who will fall in love with my book seems daunting, especially when I read all the blog comments from fellow writers who have yet to find their own.  I tend to think of every writer as a great writer, though I know this is not the case, but who am I to think I am so much better?  Why should I think I can find an agent if they cannot?  My step falters and my confidence sags. 

            I get so down that I don’t want to continue for fear of failure.  My husband notices that I have once again fallen into the doldrums, the smile that’s usually plastered on my face gone, my brow furrowed in worry.  He tries to pick me up, telling me to remain persistent.  But it doesn’t work.  There’s really no reason for that except to say that he doesn’t really know what I’m going through, where I am, how difficult this business really is.  I need someone who gets me, who gets the heartache of writing, of putting your body and soul into a story and fearing that no one will ever read it.

            There is one person in my life who gets that.  Her name is Lisa Regan and she is my mentor and co-conspirator, my sounding board, my lifeline to sanity.  I refer to her as a drug I cannot go without.  I emailed her, telling her that I needed my “Lisa fix” and she understood. 

This is a woman who has put four tortuous years into a work of literature that is so powerfully profound that I have no words good enough to describe fully how masterful it really is.  She has slaved over her novel, writing and rewriting until is glistens like gold.  She’s also been through the querying process.  She told me she’s received hundreds of rejections, but many of those have been constructively critical which in turn led her to rewrite yet again.  And now she has this intense, beautiful, scary story that I know will be published.  How can I give up if she has remained so stoic? 

I often pray to God for the benefit of my loved ones, rarely asking for anything on my own behalf.  Last night though, I was down and I asked for some sign that I should go on, move ahead, not give up.  The way I saw it, He had provided me with so many other signs along the way, He wouldn’t mind giving me another when I needed it the most.  I told Him I was listening, that my eyes were open wide and waiting.  I knew not to expect anything grand or obvious.  I also knew I probably wouldn’t get anything at all.  But I had faith. Faith that He put me on this path, that He means for me to continue.  And you know what?  I got that sign!  Again, it came in the form of Lisa Regan. 

She emailed me, offering me words of encouragement.  I heard my phone ding with the new message so I picked it up, hoping it might be her.  And while I read her message, a song played over the airwaves in Starbucks where I waited for my son to get out of class.  The song, one I’ve never heard before, was called “You Make Me Smile” at least that’s what the words of the chorus sang over and over.  And I started to cry.  I had my sign.  I knew I was meant to continue.  Her email pumped me up like no other words ever could.  She’s my angel, my savior.  Once I told her I wished I could bottle her, like an anti-depressant that I could take daily.  I think God sent her to me.  And I will do my best everyday to live up to both of them.  Thank you God.  Thank you Lisa.

A New Day

As most of my friends and family know, I have been busy writing my first novel.  The experience has been remarkable to say the least.  I never knew how much I loved to write. Now it's all I ever want to do.  It's been such a strange experience.  The story simply poured out of me.  It was as if I was possessed by someone else.  I couldn't write it fast enough.  And now, after working with some incredible critique partners, I think I'm pretty close to calling it a day and sending out my query letters.

On the right side of my blog you will see "Pages".  Click on "The Mistaken" and you can read a small part of my book, the prologue through chapter 4.  Feel free to leave comments or critique it as you see fit.

I feel like I'm on the cusp of something amazing and I hope to take you all along with me on my incredible journey.