Agent Update

I've been trying to get an agent for about three months or so. I've had a lot of nos, some that didn't reply back, a few nice rejections, and one agent who read my entire manuscript before, sigh, rejecting it. Then I got a couple more rejections with feedback. This is good.

What was a bit worrisome in my case was that two agents said the same thing: loved your voice, didn't like the story premise. Well, they don't actually say "don't like," they say "I can't get as excited about the premise as I need to be."

So anyway, I was thinking so I can write. Big deal. My story sucks. Then today I got another rejection from an agent I really really wanted. He had feedback. Can you guess? Wait for it...

Loved the premise, "less excited about your voice." HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

That was a maniacal laugh. Seriously, that made me feel better. Once again, "good" or sellable is in the eye of the beholder.

Book Review

I decided to read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert for a couple of reasons. One, I needed a break from the murder mystery anthology I’m reading. Murder stories always have a …murder. The victim usually has people who mourn him or her, and that’s sad. Two, every now and then I pick something that’s way outside my normal fantasy sci-fi fare. Three, the idea of a woman traveling alone through parts of Asia I felt might help me with my own book about a woman traveling in Asia.

I enjoyed this book. I did learn some things about the countries Gilbert traveled to, although not as much as I would have liked. This was more of an internal journey.

And what a journey it was. The author is, without a doubt, a fabulous writer. Her rich descriptions plunked me down in Bali, in Rome, in India. Even something as mundane as eating pasta made my mouth water. That’s talent. My only complaint about her lush language is that she uses metaphors to distraction, at least, they often distracted me.

This book reminded me of why I don’t usually read biographic stories; they are too personal. The tale she told was fascinating, don’t get me wrong. I read it in one sitting. It was that compelling. But I was left with a slightly ick feeling of knowing, perhaps, a bit more than I wanted to know about Ms. Gilbert.

This is me and my taste. The book was a best seller, after all. But I guess I’m just a fiction girl at heart and always will be.

Back to murder and mayhem. Fictional, please. :-)

It’s A Job

Writing, that is. It’s not a hobby. It can be a hobby. But it’s not mine. I already have plenty of hobbies; dancing, hiking, gardening, sewing, music, shopping, reading. Even painting, despite having illustrated my own stories and books, I would relegate to a hobby, as I have never been paid to do so. Early on I exhibited and sold paintings, which told me I needed to pick between being a professional writer or artist. I picked writing.

So. It’s a job. And where do you have to start at any job? At the bottom. For those of us who have already had a successful career this can be hard. We’re used to “street cred.” A good salary. We may have forgotten what at the bottom means because it’s been so long.

Here’s what it means as a new author. You start out writing short stories for very little money. Sometimes a “sale” simply means being published for the recognition. You graduate to novels. More bucks but basically the same principle. Gradually you build your readership base and sell more. At some point you obtain an agent and hopefully you can progress quicker.

The beginner’s cash flow (or lack of) I was prepared for. The street cred is another story, by which I mean one becomes used to a certain amount of recognition as far as work value goes. You don’t have to justify what you do. People know you are doing something. They know you get paid for that something. They might not understand the nuts and bolts, but they nod sagely when you state your profession. You have a real job. You are not lazy. You contribute to society.

And then you start at the bottom again. And the questions begin. What are you doing today, someone will inquire. Writing, say I. Long pause. How’s that going?, they finally ask. Ok, say I, considering I’m really just starting out. Another long pause. I’m glad your, er, happy. It must be nice to sit around all day long.

This used to bother me a lot. I’d seethe and then justify. I AM working, I’m NOT sitting around all day eating bon bons, and I AM progressing with my writing career, thank you very much. Huff huff. I have to admit it does still irritate me a bit, but mostly now I can let this pass by. Some people will never understand why I would switch careers just when my earning power was at its peak. Or why I would do something so “flighty.”

But that’s OK. Writing is something that called to me. The muse sunk her teeth deep and wouldn’t let go. Many of my friends do understand. A few have even called me courageous. I don’t know about that. But I do know that responding to your soul’s longing isn’t always cupcakes and flowers. In a way, I think it’s Ms. Muse’s way of saying hey…are you sure you want to do this?

I’m sure.

Now I believe I will eat a giant bon bon. Or perhaps in honor of my Malaysian book I’m working on, I’ll have an ABC…a mixture of agar, (A) bean curd (B), coconut milk (C), ice, seeds, noodles, syrup, and sugar.

I think I’ll take the bon bon.

Book Review

I just finished Murder in Baker Street: New Tales of Sherlock Holmes. The selection is unusual for me. I write mysteries…my favorite character, Hagitha, is a detective. But I don’t read them much unless they have a fantasy component. However, I’m a sucker when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, probably because the famous detective reminds me of my dad in the logical way he communicates and solves puzzles.

A Sherlock Holmes story is relaxing to me. Maybe because I know how they all end. But even if I didn’t, the pace is deliberate. Dense and rarely scary, they are not what I would call exhilarating. The mystery is unraveled slowly. The character of Sherlock is hardly ever surprising. Neither is Watson.

All of this makes it harder to duplicate. You can’t disguise you are not Sir Conan Doyle by writing at a fast pace, using spicy language, or constructing overly emotional conversations. Holmes is Holmes. Watson is Watson.

So why would an editor ask a group of well-known mystery writers to compose stories using Sherlock Holmes? Perhaps for the challenge, perhaps for the built in audience. I guess I’m the second. I enjoyed the book, the stories were well crafted, but I was distracted by “mistakes” either in a generous interpretation of the characters, or simply word usage. They just were not about my Sherlock.

But then I read the story A Hanson for Mr. Holmes by Gillian Linscott. (A hanson is a horse drawn cab). Instead of Watson narrating as he always does, the author had a cabbie narrate.

This device worked perfectly. It wasn’t Watson’s voice, it wasn’t Watson’s interpretation of Homes, it was a cabbie’s, and a not so pure cabbie at that. The story was hilarious, and the best of the bunch, in my opinion.

I don’t mind classic stories messed with as long as the interpretation is good. “Good,” I realize, is in the eye of the beholder. For me, it means true enough to the original to feel the roots, but different enough for me not to frown at a counterfeit. Tricky.

Green Writing

Green is a popular word these days. I even saw a commercial last night for “green” mouthwash. Heh? In all seriousness, I think going green is good. For those of us who grew up in the hippie era, it’s great to see the masses finally embrace the concept, with corporate America panting hot and heavy on those collective rubber heels.

Along with the greening of America has come the notion of helping more. Paying it forward is a common expression heard nowadays. This too is a hopeful sign for society. I’d hate to think we were devoting more attention to plastic than to people.

Unfortunately, along with this heightened social consciousness has come a bit of what I would call “holier than thou” lecturing. My green is better than your green. Heaps of green “shoulding.” Carrying around a plastic water bottle while hiking is almost as bad as wearing fur at a PETA convention.

Do I recycle? Do I try and keep my “footprint” small? Yes. Yes. Could I do more? Yeah, me and everyone else. I’m trying, OK? But what I dislike even more than an environmental or activism goading is the dig against not helping people enough. I suppose I get this admonishment because I worked as a psychologist. People have called me selfish for chucking this “noble” profession and writing fiction. Don’t I care, they’ve asked. Really. They have.

I could argue that I’ve done my time. Being a shrink is draining. I could say that I still do help people. Gratis. More importantly, I could add that it’s very important for me to have some sort of positive message in my fiction, albeit non lecturing. I don’t want to be Ayn Rand. Love her books, get tired of the political posturing.

I could say all of that. (I guess I just did.) But besides wanting to get it off my chest, I don’t have to justify. Because even if my fiction didn’t have a message, even if I didn’t help people, even if I never recycled another freakin’ plastic bottle, I’m providing entertainment for people.

Entertainment is very important. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read a dog eared book, watched an old TV show, or shoved in a favorite movie to feel better. I believe one reason we place movie stars on such high pedestals is because of our recognition of how much we value distraction in our daily lives.

So. If you’re a writer the next time someone calls your profession “frivolous” look them straight in them eye and ask them what was the last book they read, TV show they watched, movie, whatever. Somebody wrote, or wrote for, all of those options.

And hey, if you buy books electronically you can even read green.

Peace.

Time Management

Being writer is essentially being self employed. If you’ve always been self employed you understand exactly what time management means. If you’ve worked for a big company like I did for most of my life, time management looks very different. I think it’s more disguised.

Still, when you work for a mega organization getting stuff done is very important; for those you do the work for, for your own self worth, and for share holder profits. There are also many other activities you must engage in; all sorts of tracking mechanisms for what you do, meetings to share and discuss what you do, and meetings to listen and learn about what others do. Some of these activities one might see as, um, thumb twiddling. But you do it because you have to in order to keep your job.

That was me for 30 years.

A good friend of mine (my working partner) retired about two years before I did and started his own consulting business. We still meet regularly. He warned that retiring was wonderful, but that there was a transition, mostly around how you spend your time. Oh, and let me interject that when I say “retire” I don’t mean retiring as in doing nothing, I mean retiring as starting a new career. Anyway. What do you mean “transition”, I asked my friend, working is working. No it isn’t, he replied. Time becomes different. You’ll see. I just want to you be ready.

I listened, but I knew I’d be different. I wouldn’t have these problems. I would move right into my new job as a Serious and Successful Fiction Writer. And I do think it’s been easier for me than most authors. I don’t have a huge retirement, but I do have some guaranteed money coming in, and, my husband still has a “real” job. I also have good traits that help. I can prioritize. I knew I’d have to cut waaaaaay back on my lifestyle and I did. I’m a goal setter and I work hard, whether that is inside corporate walls or in my own home.

What I’ve struggled with is time management. Not in my own self discipline, but in how to manage other’s work or other’s problems. I have a helping personality. This isn’t a bad thing. Understanding the human condition adds much to my writing, and it surely does for my life. In corporateville I would always make time for others, even if it meant giving up lunches and working late. Even if it didn’t add to my pile of work on which I was evaluated for. In a way, it didn’t matter as far as my paycheck went. I was a salaried employee.

Now I see very clearly what I get paid for. It may sound mean to say this, but I’m much more careful about how I spend my time, and who I spend it with. I still help people. I know how much it meant when others helped me, and it gives me deep satisfaction. But…too many hours spent on the phone or too many one-sided meetings takes me away from completing my books. I have, in the last two years since leaving my corporate position, become more selective. I had to, if I want to be a writer.

Those of you who have always been self employed are probably rolling your eyes at this point and saying well duh. For me, this has been a huge learning point. I told this to my friend and he grinned. You finally got it, he said knowingly. Yeah yeah yeah. He was right. Again.

Which caused me to consider my own behavior concerning mentors; am I respectful of their time? And more importantly, do I bring anything to the party, e.g., am I at least trying not to make it not all about me?

I guess if he still wants to hang out I’m doing OK. Whew. I’m glad I made his cut. Maybe next time I’ll really listen. :-)

Home Is Where The Fluff Is

A reader recently wrote and asked if Indiana was boring. Like many who are not from this state, he envisioned a giant race track (the Indy 500) surrounded by flat cornfields. I can’t really say anything. I have stereotypical views of many places.

I could argue that our capitol, Indianapolis, is a big city. I could discuss the various cultural amenities. The state parks. Southern Indiana with its rolling hills and drop dead gorgeous vistas. The people who for the most part are polite and friendly. And yes, lots of farms.

But I’m not going to do that. Instead I’m going to write about my little piece of Hoosierland.

I live at the edge of a large lake. As I work from home mostly, I see the water reflect the sun, sky, and moon throughout the day and night, react to different weather conditions, and change with the seasons.

I could describe the lake’s varying moods forever. But today it's all about the cottonwoods. The cottonwood tree is common in Indiana, but I’ve never witnessed its life cycle because I’ve never lived near the water before moving here. Cottonwoods love their feet wet.

The cottonwood is a magnificent tree; big, heart shapes leaves that rustle high overhead even during a slight breeze. The plant isn’t perfect, though. It drops its leaves so quickly in the fall that the “color” it turns is a nasty brown. Worse, in April it sheds sticky seedpods that adhere to the bottom of your shoes and then to everything in the house. They also are the exact same shape of cockroaches. Eek.

But after the seed stage comes something very special. I call it summer snow. The cottonwood (hence the name), releases tiny balls of fluff into the air right about now. They float lazily down to earth like snowflakes, except much slower. I could watch them for hours. And have. You simply cannot be stressed when you track a single fluff dancing in the wind, pure white against the background of newly greened trees, finally making its way to the ground.

There are those who don’t like summer snow. I do understand. If you leave your car windows open the stuff can drift inside. Allergy sufferers hate it. And don’t even think about running a fountain; the “snow” will clog the gears. The stuff doesn’t do much for birdbaths either.

But I love it. I think the cottonwood represents why Indiana is so special. It’s true that Indiana doesn’t have grand landscapes such as mountains or oceans. But it has a quiet beauty that says, sit down. Watch the cottonwood seeds. What’s your hurry? So no…I’m not bored living here.

It’s interesting that a few days ago I spent an entire post discussing external inspiration. And this one is the polar opposite. But that’s cool. If exploring new places gets my blood going, my home is where ideas gestate.

This morning my lake is gunmetal grey and still as a sheet of glass. The birds are singing. My garden is lush and fragrant. The cottonwoods are holding onto their snow but soon the wind will blow…