Source: You Know You’re A Writer When….
After an extended stay in Carkoon and the glittering cone of silence, I received a single rejection in the last two weeks. The agent sent a kind letter which basically said, great story but the manuscript is too long. I discussed this problem with other writers and such out in the blogosphere, and it seems that as a debut author, I must once more cut down the word count in my manuscript. I am trying to do that before any more full requests come in (hope springs eternal). That is where I have been and where I will remain until the task is accomplished. I so want to work on my new book, The Pirate Queen, but that will have to wait. I must sell the current book for the new book to have a place to belong.
The apocalypse is proceeding slowly. The white horse is no longer lost. Its rider is dividing us as he claims to be uniting us. Hint, when an antichrist unites, he simply slaughters (and I mean that literally) all that oppose him. His supporters, sickeningly, cheer the slaughter or blindly never know about it. Their ignorance, blissful and willful, prevents them from even realizing there is anything to oppose. And so this master manipulator of men, hidden in shadow, seldom seen in the light, rides his white horse. He’s there. He’s riding. The blood red horse is bridled and chomping at the bit, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it. So, I’m just going to keep writing.
My great uncle Irving passed away this past week. I am certain that was the rapture at work. He was a truly good man, and Heaven awaits him. If Heaven did not exist neither would men like Irving Massey. He was in his late nineties when he took his last breath, escaping mortality’s grasp after an extraordinary life. He fought in World War II, came home, was stricken by polio, married the sweetest woman you can imagine, produced four children, and enriched the lives of all who knew him.
I always forgot about the wheelchair. No matter how often I saw my uncle Irving, I always forgot that he could not walk. He shined with love and kindness, and that was all you saw, not the wheel chair, or the human frailty. Such was the magnitude of his spirit, that despite all the horrors he witnessed and the challenges that he endured, he remained among us for almost a century.
It is the ending of an era. May he rest in peace. There are too few men like him in this dirty world. If only the rest of us could live our lives in such kindness, love, courage, generosity, and gratitude, the rider of the white horse would be rendered impotent. Godspeed, Uncle Irving.
It has been 10 days since I heard anything from the agents I am hunting. I have 7 partial requests out so I am not expecting to hear on those just yet. I have 2 full requests that will go out once I get over my fear of sending a sub-standard manuscript.
However, I have 12 queries, some that include my synopsis, that are enveloped in the cone of silence. And that could be my impatience, or it could be I have been rejected 12-19 times, but nobody is going to tell me about it. I have it on authority, it has become all too standard for agents to simply ignore writers whom they are not interested in.
I can’t decide if it would be better to get that rejection that says “Please go away, your writing sucks”, or to sit here and wonder if my work has been lost in the shuffle of 12-19 different agents. Perhaps, I have already been delegated to the kale fields of Carkoon. Or maybe I am on that super-secret agent blacklist because of some run on sentence or misplaced comma? I think I might just go out and find that white horse of the Apocalypse and get him unlost. At least, that will give me something else to worry about for a time.
So far, the apocalypse is going well. It’s pitch perfect weather on this 1st day after the latest apocalypse. Well, except for it being Monday, but most Mondays can make me feel like the world is coming to an end. But today is not so bad. The locusts are at a minimum. If the river runs with blood, I have Zombie Killer Meade to get me through (no, seriously I do – it’s really good stuff). A rain of toads would be disconcerting, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. Allergies are a bit harsh (autumn in the South). And I believe we have the White Horse (1st horse of the Apocalypse) pretty much stymied for the next half century. I had one of my flying monkeys (yeah, I have them. You can’t prove I don’t) tell the rider to take a left on Peachtree. He’ll be lost for at least another fifty years. Every other street in my neck of the woods is called Peachtree.
However, that doesn’t mean I have all the time in the world. In fact, I am not sure how much time I do have. I have a full request from an agent, my 2nd in fact. At the last writer’s conference I attended, someone said you have forever to get your full request to an agent. Another said, send it straight away which is why you should not query before your book is done. Well, I sure thought my book was done, but I keep catching little snafus shall we say. Hear instead of here, overuse of certain words in later chapters, and one run on sentence that starts on page 426 and goes right on until 429. I should probably fix that first. And don’t even get me started on commas. I was sure I had until about October 4 to get my full manuscript proofed and cleaned for these full requests. I wonder, do I?
If I end up mixing green drinks in Carkoon next to the kale plants, you’ll know that I ran out of time or sent a woefully inadequate manuscript. Do any of you, my ten loyal readers, have any experience with full requests? How long before I run out of time and become exiled to Carkoon? This is what happens when you mess up as a writer. Check out Janet Reid’s Blog if you don’t believe me.
By day, I am a zombie. At least that is what my colleagues at work would have you believe. I don’t actually devour brains or anything, just very large amounts of coffee. My dread day job is as a software engineer for my local school district. It’s a living, and I suppose even the undead must make a living. Due to my nocturnal writing activities, I do tend to have that sickly yellow glow of the recently departed when I arrive at my day job each morning.
I would love nothing more than to be able to write for the rest of my life minus the dreaded day job. However, the day job is the reality for most writers. Those few writers able to live off nothing but their craft are rare and the exception, and even among them, lots are doing editorial work, copywriting, and other less glamorous things on the side to keep food on the table.
For me and probably for you, it’s writing when you should be sleeping or eating or taking a bath. It’s time away from friends and telling yourself that one day there will be time for all that. But now it’s the book. You just have to finish. Then you must get an agent. Then there’s the next book and doing whatever comes after you get an agent. I will have to get back to you on that one. I am still hunting.
On the artistic side, writing is the greatest thing ever. On the business end, it’s kind of dangerous. I have learned recently that you can be punished with kale (you do read Janet Reid’s Blog right?). If you are a writer, you must follow this blog. It will save you so much pain and possibly keep you from being exiled to Carkoon where you will be cursed to dwell among kale plants forever.
Like I said writing is dangerous because it also powerful, even for unknown entities like myself. I learned a long time ago that writing could get me in trouble.
In fifth grade, I wrote an essay comparing my teacher, a nun, to Queen Mary (aka Bloody Mary). The sister punished the entire class for something one kid, not me, did. I found this quite as offensive as whacking someone’s head off in a pique. As Bloody Mary learned too late, going around beheading people will eventually cause someone else to behead you. I pointed this out in what I thought to be a most clever essay. I was called to the principal’s office. Sister Mary Margaret would scare the devil himself. Almost forty years later, I still shudder at the memory. I learned two things. One, writing is powerful. Shakespeare got it right when he said the pen is mightier than the sword. Two, do not compare a nun to a tyrant.
I do not think an agent or publisher will rap my knuckles the way Sister Mary Margaret did, but my knuckles recovered by the next day. Now the stakes are much higher. For one thing, publishing is a slow process and I am no longer young. I don’t want to be one of those posthumous authors. Even Papa Tolkien did not live to see how influential his work became. And according to a book I read recently, The Harbinger, the world is going to hell in a handbag next Sunday, September 13th. So that is bound to slow down this process. What do agents do during an apocalypse?
I do not want to self-publish. That will not get me on that bookshelf where I want to be. I want an agent, and not just any old agent. I want a good agent. I need someone to guide me though the landmines of the business.
Writing is an art, but publishing is a business. I need someone to keep me out of the grown up principal’s office (the super secret agent blacklist that Janet swears does not exist because she’s an agent and she has to say that). Just this week, Janet Reid’s blog addressed two very real pitfalls, the bankrupt publisher and the impatient writer. The right agent can help you avoid the unstable publisher to some extent, and the patient writer can reap the benefits of the right agent thus getting them in with that exact right publisher. The impatient writer, however, will likely be a long time resident among the kale plants in Carkoon.
This week I got one form letter (Dear Author, eh gadz) rejection to a cold query. This is far preferable to the cone of silence. After doing some further research on this agent, I dodged a bullet. We would not have been a good fit, and that agent-author relationship is vital to a writer’s career. It’s a dangerous business and finding myself on a bookshelf with old Papa Tolkien will take an agent who walks on the wild side. Dear Lord, I pray such an agent exists.
When I was in high school, I wrote a book. Everyone in my high school read it. This was back before personal computers so I hand wrote the whole thing and then typed it up on a typewriter. I realize this ages me. It was a very long time ago.
I was not a popular kid. I was, in fact, a weirdo. In the dictionary, under the term “weirdo”, I am fairly certain there is still a picture of me. However, the kids at my school loved my book. The AP English teacher told me I was cursed to be strange for the rest of my existence. That was just how writers were. He then quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald to me.
“Writer’s aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person”
I loved that. From the time I was seven, I thought of myself as not a person but a writer. I did not want to be a girl. I definitely did not want to be a boy. I thought I might like to be an angel if I could get one of those swords made of light, but that didn’t pan out. So I decided I would be a writer instead of a person. And this was way before I was introduced to old F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Anyhow, I wrote my first book when I was fifteen. It was about 75,000 words. I thought I would be published before my junior year, and I would be able to help take care of my family. So my dad had a colleague at his office proofread and type up my manuscript. It was a story that involved suicide and a teenage outsider trying desperately to be who his parents wanted him to be.
I knew nothing about publishing. I did not know how to write a query letter, but my dad found a publisher for the genre through his beat up copy of the Writer’s Market (I don’t remember if YA was a thing back then – I was in whatever category Judy Blume was in). We sent the whole manuscript in to exactly one publisher with a little cover letter. I mentioned that I was fifteen so I knew how to write about adolescence. Well, not so much. Turns out the book sucked, and I didn’t know anything. About anything.
However, someone at the publishing company took time to write a long constructive rejection letter. It was the most perplexing thing to me. It said the same things my dad always said. You have to write about what you know, and you have to have some perspective. The material does not have to be original, even Shakespeare stole from history and mythology, but good fiction must have a strong perspective and that makes the work original. The kind editorial assistant told me to keep up with my craft. I would improve over time as I gathered more life experience.
At the time, I was devastated by this because I wanted to write fantasy, not about the mundane crap that I thought I knew. And there were no dragons or elves living anywhere nearby. I was totally obsessed with J.R.R. Tolkien growing up, and I was sure that one day I would be the American version of him. I even started to study archaic languages in college just like him. It turns out that was not my thing. I now look back on one sentence from Fellowship of the Ring that strikes me as almost prophetic. It read something like “Frodo found it curious that adventure found him at the age of 50, just as it had for Bilbo.”
Well, I suppose I am like Frodo and Bilbo in that I find adventure has befallen me rather later in life than I planned. I studied Tolkien (I actually went to Oxford to walk the same halls, went up to the lake country to see the same things he saw). In time I came to realize that even though Lord of the Rings was fantastical, Tolkien did write what he knew. And he was, even more than I am now, quite mature when he wrote his masterwork. He did not have to know actual orcs. He fought World War I. He did not have to know someone like Sauron. He saw first hand the rise of Hitler and the Nazis. Berlin must have looked an awful lot like Mordor to him. He saw his peaceful homeland bombed and fractured by war. He was, himself, a hobbit.
In the end, like Tolkien, I wrote about what I knew and fantasy all at once. It took a long time. But that long and thoughtful rejection letter sent to me at fifteen may have hurt at the time, but it encouraged me for decades. My life has been a long and painful journey since I left the Eden of my childhood, and I thank God for it everyday. My experience is very different than Tolkien’s but it gave me a story to tell. I did meet dragons along the way that sent towers crashing to the ground before my eyes. In my life, I have encountered all manner of monstrous and glorious beings, some mortal and all too human, and some demonic and all too eternal.
Now if just one of those agents I queried would have mercy on me. As an update, this past week I got one more rejection (personally addressed form email) and two partial requests (three chapters each) so I am inching closer to at least sharing a bookshelf with Papa Tolkien.
I remember back in my childhood, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Rod Stewart lamenting that ‘the first cut is the deepest‘. Over the weekend I sent out a whole slew of queries, partials, and some with my dreaded synopsis for my book, Shadowed Castles all in hopes of landing that coveted agent.
Today I received my first rejection. It was polite but most definitely a form letter. I am not devastated as this was for a cold query to an agent at ICM Partners. It was a long shot. Also, this agent only judged my work from a very short query letter. Several agents have requested my work in part or full so this is not the end all, but perhaps the beginning of a long string of politely worded rejections. I sent out a lot of queries.
Thank you for thinking to query me with your project. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like a good fit for my list at this time. Again, thank you, and best of luck finding an agent.
While this is not something I was hoping for, it beats the latest industry trend of simply ignoring query letters from writers whom the agent is not interested in. I still have to send out the full requests, and for those and any other full requests I may receive, a rejection will hurt much more. The scary thing about these rejections, I am told, is that once an agent rejects your work, then that whole agency rejects your work and you may not submit to them again. They will just ignore you if you do. At least, that is what I am told.
In order to keep rejections down to a minimum when we get to the high stakes round, partial and full requests, I am going to put my whole manuscript, all 32 chapters through one last set of edits. I have had three people that I trust edit for me, but I still find the unbearable errors of sentence structure (should there have been a comma there?), tense, spelling (there instead of their– you know the kind of errors spell check doesn’t pick up), repetitive words (did I really just use the word huge in three sentences in a row?), out of control adverbs (I like adverbs rather a lot), and inconsistency in voice.
It will be less sleep for me as I do my 1500 words plus a chapter or two of edits each night, but it will be worth it. Because the truth is, the first cut is not the deepest. It’s the many cuts, the sting of rejection after rejection that mauls and tears at your spirit. I would rather not suffer those slings and arrows if there is a way to avoid it.