My school has a book club, which many teachers use as a way to glean precious PDP's (professional development points) for re-licensure. It's not just for English teachers. The school librarians come, administration, and a few avid readers. It's been going on since September, but as far as I'm aware, this was the first time they'd chosen fiction, and it was YA to boot.
We all know how social situations make me nervous, so I spent the majority of the time listening to what people had to say, offering little myself. What I had discovered was an "Us versus Them" attitude.
I was amazed. We're all educators, and granted, some of us were older than others, but I've never once stopped trying to think like "Them." The attendants repeatedly said how they had to remind themselves the "the novel was written for teens," that this novel was okay because students connected with something so "low."
The whole time I wanted to be like, "Wait a second. Wait a minute." The book was a brilliant commentary on consumerism. Over a decade ago, it predicted technology much like we have today. Yet, some of the people in the book club said they thought it was uninteresting (okay, personal preference), but to go as far as say that it was unoriginal? written with slang and too much curses because the "author liked to swear, and not for any purpose"? I was just floored. One person even said, "Wouldn't the students be better off reading Hemingway? Wouldn't they get more out of it?"
Some commented on how they're so sick of the Fault in Our Stars, and Hunger Games, and Divergent, and...oh wait, every book that seems to have captured the attention of young adults. This is a problem. What is wrong with these books? Maybe my personal preference doesn't really sway towards the Hunger Games, but why is it a problem that teens are reading books "we" don't like? When did reading become just about the literary quality and less about the joy, the adventure? Putting yourself in somebody else's shoes and experiencing humanity from their perspective? It doesn't matter if the humanity is from a dystopian world or a contemporary one. If it helps us understand ourselves or the people around us, what's wrong with that?
Let's not spend more than this sentence talking about the benefits of reading for vocabulary. But really...why do we read? Why do we encourage reading?
I'm a parent. My daughter is three, and she loves books. I won't say I don't ever ask her to use critical thinking skills to predict what's going to happen on the next page of some Henry and Mudge book. But I do use the books to ask her questions about herself and how the characters are feeling. Reading for humanity. Reading for understanding people. Reading for reading.
That's not to say reading critically doesn't have its place. I majored in English. I wrote a 30-page paper on a sonnet. My mind is better having had these critical exercises. But. Reading. Come on. Let's read. Let's encourage reading. And let's get rid of the "Them versus Us" attitude, because I'm pretty sure we're all people. And I'm pretty sure I was once an adolescent. And I'm pretty sure I once wanted to change the world. And I'm pretty sure I experienced love and hate and hopelessness and anger and frustration and love, love, love. And I'm pretty sure that, if someone want to read because they want to read, they should read.
Rant over.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Monday, July 28, 2014
Universe, Give Me a Book Deal
Not so long ago, I was invited to a wine tasting. Being new to wine, I was entirely excited--so excited that even though my husband and I drove 46 straight hours from Montana to Massachusetts and only got home that morning, I was still going to go. In my mind, there would be ten to twenty people all bringing their favorite bottles of wine, there would be crackers to clear our palates, and I would leave with a list of new wines that I would love forever and ever.
It started out great because I saw these little cucumber things, but imagine my disappointment when people started showing up with cases of beer...in cans. I don't drink beer, but I'm a beer snob because my husband is a beer snob. No self-respecting beer comes in a can. Then there was a backyard fire. I hadn't dressed for a backyard fire. In fact, I hadn't even brought a sweatshirt, which I was sure to need.
The conversation eventually turned to people I had never met in situations where they might have been funny if I knew who they were. What did I do? I was rude. I pulled out my phone and started texting the babysitter. We spoke briefly of my daughter's refusal to go to bed and then moved on to the founder of Chinese communism. Yep. That's what we texted about.
Then, someone started telling a story in which she really wanted her husband to get a snow blower. It went something like this: Newly married and in a new house, she experienced her first winter in which she had to shovel snow. She told her husband they needed a snow blower. He said, "We live in the city and only have 50 feet of sidewalk to shovel. We do not need a snow blower. We aren't going to spend two grand on a snow blower." She told him, "That's fine. The universe will bring us a snow blower." Lo and behold, a couple weeks later, someone left one on their driveway for them.
So this woman continued. She told me her husband wanted a truck. They're sensible people, so after some discussion they decided they had neither the money nor the need for the power of a truck. But what did she say? She said, "If we really need a truck, the universe will bring us a truck." What happened? You got it. Someone gave them a truck, which after $300 in body work looks brand new and works like a charm.
Forgetting my whole texted conversation about Mao, I said, "I like your universe. Could you tell it I want a book deal."
"That's not how the universe works," she said.
If you know me, you know I have a really hard time in social situations. I promptly felt like I needed to go to the bathroom and hyperventilate.
"That's not how the universe works," she repeated. "If you really want a book deal, it's got to be something you need, and it's got to be something you're willing to wait for. The universe doesn't just give you things. You have to constantly give it things first. I'm always doing nice things for other people. That's why the universe gives us things. If you really want a book deal, you have to say, 'Universe, give me a book deal,' and then be willing to wait and give the universe back."
I was duly chastised.
Her husband saved me. "April's a teacher. She understands all about giving without receiving."
But it got me thinking. After I finished WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL, after completing and polishing it, I started to put every effort into my query letter. I wrote four drafts before putting a better draft up on Agent Query Connect to be peer-critiqued. Unfortunately, practically nothing came up for help. I had a maximum of 20 hits with only a few vague responses. I entered the New Agent Contest as hosted by Michelle Hauck. My query didn't make it onto anyone's 'maybe' list, but there was a tweet about an LGBT contemporary that might have been mine, saying it was still too much like a draft.Then I saw with dismay that WriteOnCon probably wasn't going to happen this year. And I thought to myself, "But I really needed WriteOnCon to help me with this query. I'm floundering here."
Still, I made sure to critique other queries on the AQC forum; all the while, I started to create a list of author friends who may be willing to take a look at my query letter and tell me where I went wrong.
But what did the universe do? The universe did not bring me a book deal--has not yet, at least. The universe brought WriteOnCon back! My vacation will have ended by then, and I'll have to overlap work with WriteOnCon. I'll be writing lesson plans while critiquing others' queries. So what. I'm optimistic now. With some perseverance, a little luck, and a lot of giving back, the universe may very well bring me that book deal yet.
Oh. Let's not be remiss. Thank you for the wine tasting. Even though I didn't taste any wine but that which I brought, I still learned some valuable information.
It started out great because I saw these little cucumber things, but imagine my disappointment when people started showing up with cases of beer...in cans. I don't drink beer, but I'm a beer snob because my husband is a beer snob. No self-respecting beer comes in a can. Then there was a backyard fire. I hadn't dressed for a backyard fire. In fact, I hadn't even brought a sweatshirt, which I was sure to need.
The conversation eventually turned to people I had never met in situations where they might have been funny if I knew who they were. What did I do? I was rude. I pulled out my phone and started texting the babysitter. We spoke briefly of my daughter's refusal to go to bed and then moved on to the founder of Chinese communism. Yep. That's what we texted about.
Then, someone started telling a story in which she really wanted her husband to get a snow blower. It went something like this: Newly married and in a new house, she experienced her first winter in which she had to shovel snow. She told her husband they needed a snow blower. He said, "We live in the city and only have 50 feet of sidewalk to shovel. We do not need a snow blower. We aren't going to spend two grand on a snow blower." She told him, "That's fine. The universe will bring us a snow blower." Lo and behold, a couple weeks later, someone left one on their driveway for them.
So this woman continued. She told me her husband wanted a truck. They're sensible people, so after some discussion they decided they had neither the money nor the need for the power of a truck. But what did she say? She said, "If we really need a truck, the universe will bring us a truck." What happened? You got it. Someone gave them a truck, which after $300 in body work looks brand new and works like a charm.
Forgetting my whole texted conversation about Mao, I said, "I like your universe. Could you tell it I want a book deal."
"That's not how the universe works," she said.
If you know me, you know I have a really hard time in social situations. I promptly felt like I needed to go to the bathroom and hyperventilate.
"That's not how the universe works," she repeated. "If you really want a book deal, it's got to be something you need, and it's got to be something you're willing to wait for. The universe doesn't just give you things. You have to constantly give it things first. I'm always doing nice things for other people. That's why the universe gives us things. If you really want a book deal, you have to say, 'Universe, give me a book deal,' and then be willing to wait and give the universe back."
I was duly chastised.
Her husband saved me. "April's a teacher. She understands all about giving without receiving."
But it got me thinking. After I finished WINTER ON BRIMSTONE HILL, after completing and polishing it, I started to put every effort into my query letter. I wrote four drafts before putting a better draft up on Agent Query Connect to be peer-critiqued. Unfortunately, practically nothing came up for help. I had a maximum of 20 hits with only a few vague responses. I entered the New Agent Contest as hosted by Michelle Hauck. My query didn't make it onto anyone's 'maybe' list, but there was a tweet about an LGBT contemporary that might have been mine, saying it was still too much like a draft.Then I saw with dismay that WriteOnCon probably wasn't going to happen this year. And I thought to myself, "But I really needed WriteOnCon to help me with this query. I'm floundering here."
Still, I made sure to critique other queries on the AQC forum; all the while, I started to create a list of author friends who may be willing to take a look at my query letter and tell me where I went wrong.
But what did the universe do? The universe did not bring me a book deal--has not yet, at least. The universe brought WriteOnCon back! My vacation will have ended by then, and I'll have to overlap work with WriteOnCon. I'll be writing lesson plans while critiquing others' queries. So what. I'm optimistic now. With some perseverance, a little luck, and a lot of giving back, the universe may very well bring me that book deal yet.
Oh. Let's not be remiss. Thank you for the wine tasting. Even though I didn't taste any wine but that which I brought, I still learned some valuable information.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Why I didn't sleep well last night
I'm completely wishing this winter over. Winters are so...difficult. They're...cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Like a shoulder, turned away from me, instead of moving to embrace me.
It was 2:30am. I didn't fall back asleep last night.
Except for the fact that the lights weren't on in the cruisers, and there aren't as many kids in my family, and my mother has only recently remarried (to the loveliest man on the planet), and my bedroom really was downstairs--IT was very much like how I remember it happening, and IT was much of what I forgot. The feelings, I mean.
And the cops. There were a lot of cops. In real life.
This is why the winter needs to end. Because sometimes real life feels like a dream. And sometimes a dream is only an echo of real life. And sometimes the winter isn't just the winter, and sometimes the winter is more than just cold. Sometimes it's cold.
I had this dream last night. It comes occasionally, but never too lucidly. In the dream, my mother has many children. My brother is still the eldest and I'm right after him, but then there are little kids. Sometimes three or four. Sometimes my sisters are there, too. Sometimes they aren't.
Last night, I was younger--not old enough to leave the house yet, but my brother was his age now. My mother's husband, who was not my father, was in a rage. I remember egging him on. I kept coming back at him and jibing him, making him angrier and angrier. I wanted to push him.
Eventually, things escalated. Usually when it does in my dreams, I'm in cellar with its fieldstone walls and dirt floor, looking through a window into a sky of nothingness. Last night, when it escalated, all the children and I were in one of the upstairs bedrooms--the one I shared with all my siblings but one in real life. I had a cordless phone and a cell phone, so this was present times, because we only had a corded phone growing up and my parents would have killed us if we tried to use the one gigantic cordless phone. I tried multiple times to call the police, but it would only ring three times and then hang up. My mother's husband had somehow rigged our phones to not be able to call out. My cell phone couldn't even call 9-1-1. I tried calling my best friend from HS's parents house. Very often, she and her parents play a role in my dreams. In real life, she lives in Florida having moved there after college. In the dream, she was in Florida, but I knew her parents still lived up the street. I dialed the number a million times, but it wouldn't go through.
The kids and I resigned ourselves to whatever was coming--something involving gasoline. My mom was downstairs crying and screaming. Her husband was yelling. I took the plastic bag of clothing a neighbor gave us for our youngest sister (one year old)--not my real youngest sister--and started folding the clothes to keep my mind busy. They were in pristine condition. It was like the neighbor's daughter had never worn them. One of my sisters was younger. Maybe 13. She said, "He's our dad now. He's always provided for us." I pushed her down against the bed and pinned her there with my arm. "He has never provided for us," I screamed at her. "These clothes--they're hand-me-downs. Nothing we own is ours. Don't you ever say he provides for us." The one-year-old--she had dark hair and a round face--began to cry, as did the other children.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed one more number. It had a 617 area code. I don't know who I was calling, but it wasn't my brother, but my brother picked up the phone. I whispered into it and asked him to please call the police. I almost thought he wasn't going to, but then I remembered what we shared when we were younger (because for a moment I was my real age again and things were real) and knew he would. I hung up without waiting for him to answer.
Moments later, he was in the room with me. He smiled at me and said he did it. He called the police this time. I felt closer to him in the dream than I do in real life--like I was 10 and he was 11 again, and we would be best friends forever.
I looked out the window that was mine as a child, before the cold downstairs bedroom was given to me. Seven police cruisers pulled up in front of the house. Some of them crept into the U driveway, some of them stayed on the street. None of them had lights on. A feeling of peace came over me. And I woke.
It was 2:30am. I didn't fall back asleep last night.
Except for the fact that the lights weren't on in the cruisers, and there aren't as many kids in my family, and my mother has only recently remarried (to the loveliest man on the planet), and my bedroom really was downstairs--IT was very much like how I remember it happening, and IT was much of what I forgot. The feelings, I mean.
And the cops. There were a lot of cops. In real life.
This is why the winter needs to end. Because sometimes real life feels like a dream. And sometimes a dream is only an echo of real life. And sometimes the winter isn't just the winter, and sometimes the winter is more than just cold. Sometimes it's cold.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
What is real?
Yikes! I haven't blogged for nearly half a month. I can't believe I let the time slip by like that. If it makes you feel any better (and there's no reason why it would--or why it would change how you feel in any way), I was very busy:
1.) Potty training my 2 year old (I got peed on and bruised a bone in the process).
2.) Finishing the 5th draft of LitD (which I did this morning).
3.) Camping in the Appalachian Mountains.
Today's post is my response to Rachelle Gardner's latest post "Are You Afraid to Tell the Truth? In it, she writes:
"What if you were able to let go of your need to show the world only your best side? Your shiny, polished and edited side? What if you were to tell the truth about your humanness — those moments of selfishness and greed, those flashes of insecurity, the envy that overtakes you at odd moments? What if you were able to portray the world as it really is?"
And it got me thinking. About myself. Because, after all, isn't that the way the world really is? I've decided to reply with very little filter. My only blinking neon sign is that I mean no disrespect. To anyone. In the world.Ever.
So here we go...
I live in a world that is utterly focused around myself. I am the center of the universe--my universe. As much as I try not to be so egocentric, it's true. That's who I am. This is my world. Welcome. You're in it. You revolve around me.
The more I try to deny this, the unhappier I become. I try really really hard to make other people my center. I insist on making dinner, serving it, eating last (or not eating at all if there isn't enough time or food), and then cleaning up afterwards. It's because I don't want to appear selfish. And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.
The fact is: I am selfish. I am egotistical. I am sometimes falsely modest. This is the world as it really is.
Sometimes I screw with my universe just to see if the things in the universe will notice me.* But isn't that what I want? Don't I want my universe to notice me? Don't I want confirmation that I'm important enough for the universe to take notice of? But because I'm the center of my universe, it doesn't notice me.** And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.
I disagree with one thing Rachelle says in her post. She writes:
"The deeper you dig down, the more you refuse to sugarcoat — the better you will resonate with your readers."
I don't know this is true. If you (I) tell the bare truth, people think there's something wrong with you (me). I had a friend tell me over coffee once how she hates getting together with this other friend. Said other friend "complains. And I want to tell her to get over it." But wasn't this other friend just telling it as she saw it--as it is in her universe?
And do people really want you to tell the truth? I don't think so. I don't know that it actually helps me resonate with readers more.
How many times have I read a blog--agent, editor, author, book reviewer--that says, "Sorry, this character is too snarky. This one is too whiny. This one isn't flawed enough. This one is too flawed for readers to resonate with." Shock. Some people are snarky, whiny, perfect, or flawed. There are all types of people out there. But readers don't want to read about some of them.
We want people to tell us what we want to hear. You're doing a great job. Don't worry. You're a great mom/writer/teacher/person/keeper of the universe. My addled brain wants to hear these words. But it also translates them as: I don't care that you don't think you're doing a great job. Get over yourself. Your fears are unfounded. You're not the center of the universe.
But I want to know my fears are valid. I want to know I'm important enough that my fears have merit. I want this too. I want both. I want it all.
So yeah, if I tell the truth about my humanness, I get called pretentious or a complainer. But does anyone call me real?
Maybe that's why I cry every darned time I read The Velveteen Rabbit. What is real?
*I'm hiding something here, because that's what I do. I only provide you with an edited version.
**Oooh, conundrum. I am the universe and I want the universe to notice me.
So, really. I want you to tell me:
What is real?
1.) Potty training my 2 year old (I got peed on and bruised a bone in the process).
2.) Finishing the 5th draft of LitD (which I did this morning).
3.) Camping in the Appalachian Mountains.
Today's post is my response to Rachelle Gardner's latest post "Are You Afraid to Tell the Truth? In it, she writes:
"What if you were able to let go of your need to show the world only your best side? Your shiny, polished and edited side? What if you were to tell the truth about your humanness — those moments of selfishness and greed, those flashes of insecurity, the envy that overtakes you at odd moments? What if you were able to portray the world as it really is?"
And it got me thinking. About myself. Because, after all, isn't that the way the world really is? I've decided to reply with very little filter. My only blinking neon sign is that I mean no disrespect. To anyone. In the world.
So here we go...
I live in a world that is utterly focused around myself. I am the center of the universe--my universe. As much as I try not to be so egocentric, it's true. That's who I am. This is my world. Welcome. You're in it. You revolve around me.
The more I try to deny this, the unhappier I become. I try really really hard to make other people my center. I insist on making dinner, serving it, eating last (or not eating at all if there isn't enough time or food), and then cleaning up afterwards. It's because I don't want to appear selfish. And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.
The fact is: I am selfish. I am egotistical. I am sometimes falsely modest. This is the world as it really is.
Sometimes I screw with my universe just to see if the things in the universe will notice me.* But isn't that what I want? Don't I want my universe to notice me? Don't I want confirmation that I'm important enough for the universe to take notice of? But because I'm the center of my universe, it doesn't notice me.** And then I get tired. And then I become deflated. And then, if I'm not careful, I get depressed.
I disagree with one thing Rachelle says in her post. She writes:
"The deeper you dig down, the more you refuse to sugarcoat — the better you will resonate with your readers."
I don't know this is true. If you (I) tell the bare truth, people think there's something wrong with you (me). I had a friend tell me over coffee once how she hates getting together with this other friend. Said other friend "complains. And I want to tell her to get over it." But wasn't this other friend just telling it as she saw it--as it is in her universe?
And do people really want you to tell the truth? I don't think so. I don't know that it actually helps me resonate with readers more.
How many times have I read a blog--agent, editor, author, book reviewer--that says, "Sorry, this character is too snarky. This one is too whiny. This one isn't flawed enough. This one is too flawed for readers to resonate with." Shock. Some people are snarky, whiny, perfect, or flawed. There are all types of people out there. But readers don't want to read about some of them.
We want people to tell us what we want to hear. You're doing a great job. Don't worry. You're a great mom/writer/teacher/person/keeper of the universe. My addled brain wants to hear these words. But it also translates them as: I don't care that you don't think you're doing a great job. Get over yourself. Your fears are unfounded. You're not the center of the universe.
But I want to know my fears are valid. I want to know I'm important enough that my fears have merit. I want this too. I want both. I want it all.
So yeah, if I tell the truth about my humanness, I get called pretentious or a complainer. But does anyone call me real?
Maybe that's why I cry every darned time I read The Velveteen Rabbit. What is real?
*I'm hiding something here, because that's what I do. I only provide you with an edited version.
**Oooh, conundrum. I am the universe and I want the universe to notice me.
So, really. I want you to tell me:
What is real?
Monday, July 15, 2013
I Wrote the Wrong Book
I overthink everything. Nothing new there. So when someone says something to me, I usually mull it over for a really long time, and then I replay the conversation in my head until I've satisfyingly rewritten it into something much better than what it was. In my replay, I'm wittier, I'm well-spoken, and I come up with a response that is so profound the Greek philosophers wish they were the ones who thought it. Okay, maybe not the last one, but a girl can wish, right?
So my most recent Overthink began nearly a month ago (yes, I'm still thinking about it). Because it pertains to my writing career--and current lack of one--I decided to share it here.
The initial comment: "I'm telling you. You wrote the wrong book."
Let's put aside the fact that it was said with genuine feeling and meant to bolster my opinion of myself. That's aside. It's gone. I don't want to talk about that. I get that.
Of course, no author wants to be told she wrote the wrong book. I've put serious time into LitD. I don't watch television anymore. I lost fifteen pounds. I haven't sewn a dress in ages. My shelves of canned goods are bare, while the empty Ball jars in the basement are overflowing. I put on fifteen pounds. This is what LitD has done--is doing--to my life. So when someone tells me I wrote the wrong book, I'm all like, "You wrote the wrong book. So there! Take that!" Finger snap and everything. Well, maybe not that. Okay, definitely not that.
Actually, I feel a little sad. I *love* LitD, but now the seed of doubt is sown, and I can't stop thinking about how maybe all this time has been wasted energy. You see, I'm the type of person who has to be perpetually busy. I don't like lounging in bed after the alarm goes off because there's just too much to do. And now that maybe I've written the wrong book, I can't stop thinking about how hours upon hours of work might amount to nothing more than someone else's really long marathon of the Bachelorette.
Want to know the other reason why I'm obsessing so much about this? Because a few days later, I got the same message in an email. The person who sent it shall remain nameless, but here is a small piece of that email:
As I read LitD, I could not help but think that Celia was you. That you went into the darkness and came out a bonafide hero. How could that not be cool? So get the science fiction thing on the page (whether it's you or not). And then tell your own story. The strength of your character, the person you are inside is far more interesting and heroic. I am not shitting you now, either (just ask your husband. I'm sure he knows.). You are a remarkable young woman. The world deserves to see that.
And then, oh wait, I get another email from a different person about a week after that:
i got the sense...that you had an extraordinary childhood---like serious fear and trauma, and all kinds of stuff you didn't go into when you were talking about being a kid. i hope at some point that you write about it---as fiction, as memoir---whatever gets you into the material. because the great consolation in being a writer is that you begin to control your history, you use it and shape it and transform it. and you could make something really rich and deep out of growing up as april. sooner or later, when you're ready, that's the stuff....think about it, for after you're done with the current novel.
So maybe neither of these emails said I wrote the wrong book, but they say essentially the same thing: maybe I'm not meant to be a science fiction writer. Maybe I should focus on writing that other story, the one that I haven't penned. There are many reasons why I haven't. The biggest, though, is that I feel if I tell That Story, then there won't be any stories left in me to tell. THAT would be...sad.
Now I think about it all the time. Actually, I'm obsessing over it. Like losing sleep obsessing. Like getting sad and angry for no reason obsessing. Ask my husband. He'll tell you. Or don't ask him, because that will be weird. He'll have no clue who you are. It's just that...I want to be so much better than I am. I want everything. I want it all. And I don't want even a little bit less.
Here is part of my response to the second email:
I haven't responded to the first email yet, because I just can't figure out what to say. I guess I'll do that after this blog post. It's only polite.
So--Is LitD the book I wasn't meant to write? I can't say yet. I *want* it to be the right book. I wish beyond wish that it is the right book. But to quote a fantastic novel--The world is not a wish granting factory.
This is where I get a pep talk from you, oh strangers of the internet world.
So my most recent Overthink began nearly a month ago (yes, I'm still thinking about it). Because it pertains to my writing career--and current lack of one--I decided to share it here.
The initial comment: "I'm telling you. You wrote the wrong book."
Let's put aside the fact that it was said with genuine feeling and meant to bolster my opinion of myself. That's aside. It's gone. I don't want to talk about that. I get that.
Of course, no author wants to be told she wrote the wrong book. I've put serious time into LitD. I don't watch television anymore. I lost fifteen pounds. I haven't sewn a dress in ages. My shelves of canned goods are bare, while the empty Ball jars in the basement are overflowing. I put on fifteen pounds. This is what LitD has done--is doing--to my life. So when someone tells me I wrote the wrong book, I'm all like, "You wrote the wrong book. So there! Take that!" Finger snap and everything. Well, maybe not that. Okay, definitely not that.
Actually, I feel a little sad. I *love* LitD, but now the seed of doubt is sown, and I can't stop thinking about how maybe all this time has been wasted energy. You see, I'm the type of person who has to be perpetually busy. I don't like lounging in bed after the alarm goes off because there's just too much to do. And now that maybe I've written the wrong book, I can't stop thinking about how hours upon hours of work might amount to nothing more than someone else's really long marathon of the Bachelorette.
Want to know the other reason why I'm obsessing so much about this? Because a few days later, I got the same message in an email. The person who sent it shall remain nameless, but here is a small piece of that email:
As I read LitD, I could not help but think that Celia was you. That you went into the darkness and came out a bonafide hero. How could that not be cool? So get the science fiction thing on the page (whether it's you or not). And then tell your own story. The strength of your character, the person you are inside is far more interesting and heroic. I am not shitting you now, either (just ask your husband. I'm sure he knows.). You are a remarkable young woman. The world deserves to see that.
And then, oh wait, I get another email from a different person about a week after that:
i got the sense...that you had an extraordinary childhood---like serious fear and trauma, and all kinds of stuff you didn't go into when you were talking about being a kid. i hope at some point that you write about it---as fiction, as memoir---whatever gets you into the material. because the great consolation in being a writer is that you begin to control your history, you use it and shape it and transform it. and you could make something really rich and deep out of growing up as april. sooner or later, when you're ready, that's the stuff....think about it, for after you're done with the current novel.
So maybe neither of these emails said I wrote the wrong book, but they say essentially the same thing: maybe I'm not meant to be a science fiction writer. Maybe I should focus on writing that other story, the one that I haven't penned. There are many reasons why I haven't. The biggest, though, is that I feel if I tell That Story, then there won't be any stories left in me to tell. THAT would be...sad.
Now I think about it all the time. Actually, I'm obsessing over it. Like losing sleep obsessing. Like getting sad and angry for no reason obsessing. Ask my husband. He'll tell you. Or don't ask him, because that will be weird. He'll have no clue who you are. It's just that...I want to be so much better than I am. I want everything. I want it all. And I don't want even a little bit less.
Here is part of my response to the second email:
I want to be fantastic for what I do, not for what was done to me. Think of Patrick Stewart. Everyone knows him because he's such a fantastic actor. His childhood wasn't great either, but people don't know him for that. And he didn't become loved because of it. People know it now, but really only after he made himself. I want to make myself first, too.
"They" say write what you like to read, and LitD is what I like to read, so that's where my energy has been this year. Maybe it won't go anywhere, but maybe it will. Maybe it will just be a stepping stone on to something better. We shall see.
I haven't responded to the first email yet, because I just can't figure out what to say. I guess I'll do that after this blog post. It's only polite.
So--Is LitD the book I wasn't meant to write? I can't say yet. I *want* it to be the right book. I wish beyond wish that it is the right book. But to quote a fantastic novel--The world is not a wish granting factory.
This is where I get a pep talk from you, oh strangers of the internet world.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
I've Come a Long Way
This post will likely bore you, but it's here for my own sake. I make no secret of my hopes, doubts, fears, and excitement concerning LitD. I spend countless hours each week on it, sometimes to the exclusion of all but my child and husband. And every so often I start to feel like maybe, just maybe I'm wasting my time. Then I feel a little better and I'm all let's-get-this-novel-published-yay again. But between the depressive-and-you-think-you're-a-real-writer and the happy-jolly-sunshine-lollypops moments, I need to remind myself of how far LitD has come.
Well, here are the first six drafts of my opening. (Note: I say I am only on the fifth draft of LitD, which is true, but there are little drafts within the big drafts. If I had to count all the little drafts, I'm probably on the twentieth to two-hundredth draft.) These drafts remind me that, yes, LitD has come a long way. That, in itself, is worthwhile. This is worthwhile.
Anything in bold is new, and anythingstriked out is, well, striked out from the previous version.
Well, here are the first six drafts of my opening. (Note: I say I am only on the fifth draft of LitD, which is true, but there are little drafts within the big drafts. If I had to count all the little drafts, I'm probably on the twentieth to two-hundredth draft.) These drafts remind me that, yes, LitD has come a long way. That, in itself, is worthwhile. This is worthwhile.
Anything in bold is new, and anything
DRAFT #1
My
name is Celia Mayflower, and I was an A student. Not just any A student, but the A Student. I
was what would have been called in the Older Days the class Valedictorian. Not quite yet, as I hadn't graduated, but I
was getting very close to graduation, and everyone--all my teachers, parents,
leaders--all said that I was the A Student.
I wasn't an entirely creative student, but I don't think that really
matters, at least not as a part of Town.
What matters is being able to be a working member of Society.
DRAFT #2
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society
Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.
I live at 49 Parakeet Circle, Town #7.
I attend School #37, off Subway Station #64. I am seventeen years old. I have nearly completed Education Course A as
a mathematics major, and I am set to graduate this coming July on the same day
I become eighteen years.
I
discovered that my Society PIN matches my personal information when I was about
six years old. When I was eleven, I
wrote a computer program that would perform a search of all PINs and personal
information in Town #7 to determine how many other people in Town had matching PINs
and information in the same order as my own.
I then visited the Public Records Office—all of our Society PINs and
other personal information being public knowledge—and used the program to
collect the information I wanted. Having
done so, I can assure you that there is not another person in Town #7 in which all
aspects of personal information and PIN match.
I became dissatisfied with this knowledge when I was about thirteen
years old, so I headed off to the Public Records Office again, ran my computer
program again (with some updated code, having found a small mistake I had
previously overlooked). Still finding
that I was the only person in Town #7 to whom this occurred, I expanded my
search to seven randomly selected Towns in my Providence. Again, I saw that
this phenomenon occurred to only me.
Disturbed with the results, I then rewrote my program to check that any
given fields would match in any order, and I expanded my search to include
additional information, such as birthdates and precincts. Here, I was able to find exactly two people
for which this occurred. Chagrinned, I
calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, that the probability personal
information would match with PIN is so low that what I had originally accounted
to be pure chance is too low to actually be pure chance. Of course, there are only two potential
reasons that I can think of that would make this happen. The first, is that when someone was creating
my entry in the Registry, they determined for some unaccountable reason to make
my information match. The second, is
that it is pure chance and I’m just
crazily obsessed. Actually, I don’t feel
as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general
population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are
obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?
DRAFT #3
I
am finishing a short series of vampire love novels when Mother walks into my
room. Shortly after we determined I
would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine that had prevented her
from being in the same room with me.
When the researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined
Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.
“What
are you reading now?” Mother asks me.
DRAFT #4
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society
Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.
I live at 49 Parakeet Circle
7, Town 3. I attend School 76, off
Subway Station 4. I am seventeen
years old. In July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete
Education Course A as a Mathematics Major.
I currently rank as the A Student for my class, an accomplishment of
which I am extremely proud.
When
I was six years, I discovered my Society PIN matches my personal information. When I was eleven years, I wrote a computer
program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to
determine the number of people whose information matches. Having done so, I can assure you this
phenomenon occurs only to me.
I calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the
probability that personal information matches PIN is so low that what I had
originally accounted to be pure
chance is too low to actually be pure
chance. Of course, There are only
two potential reasons that would make this happen. The first is that when someone was creating
my entry in the Registry, they determined, for some unaccountable reason, to
make my information match. The second is
that it is pure chance and I’m
crazily obsessed. Actually, I don’t
feel as if I’m “crazily obsessed,” but I can fully understand that the general
population would believe me to be so; after all, only psychotic people are
obsessed with numbers and probabilities and conspiracies and such, right?
Anything worth learning is worth
learning well.
I am finishing a short series of vampire
love novels when Mother walks into my room.
Shortly after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued
the quarantine that had prevented her from being in the same room with me. When the researchers stopped wearing white
body suits, we determined Mother was no longer at risk for death, so we too
stopped worrying.
“What are you reading now?” Mother asks
me.
DRAFT #5
My name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society
Personal Identification Number KSGU4973764H.
I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3. I
attend School 76, off Subway Station 4.
I am seventeen years old. In
July, on the same day I become eighteen years, I will complete Education Course
A as a Mathematics Major. I currently
rank as the A Student for my class. an accomplishment of which I am
extremely proud.
When I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond with
my personal information. When I was
eleven years, I wrote a computer program to search all PINs and personal
information in the database to determine the number of people whose information
also matches. Having done so, I can assure you this
phenomenon occurs only to me. I
calculated and discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that
personal information matches Personal
Identification Number is low. In fact, it is so low that what I had
originally accounted to be pure
chance is too low to actually be pure
chance. There are only two potential
reasons that would make this happen. The first is that whoever created my
Registry entry determined, for some unaccountable reason, to make my
information match. The second is that it
is pure chance and I am crazily
obsessed.
Anything worth learning is worth
learning well.
I am finishing a short series of vampire
love novels when Mother walks into my room.
Shortly after we determined I
would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine preventing her from
being in the same room with me. When the
researchers stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother was no
longer at risk for death, so we too stopped worrying.
“What
are you reading now?” Mother asks me.
DRAFT #6
My
name is Celia Anne Mayflower, Society Personal Identification Number
KSGU4973764H. I live at 49 Circle 7, Town 3. I attend School 76, off Subway
Station 4. I am seventeen years old. In July, on the same day I become eighteen
years, I will complete Education Course A as a Mathematics Major. I
currently rank as the A Student for my class.
When
I was six years, I discovered the numbers in my Society PIN correspond
with my personal information. When I was eleven years, I wrote a
computer program to search all PINs and personal information in the database to
determine the number of people whose information also matches. Having done so,
I can assure you this phenomenon occurs only to me. I calculated and
discovered, to my everlasting annoyance, the probability that personal
information matches Personal Identification Number is low. In fact, it is so
low that what I had originally accounted to
be pure chance is too low to actually
be pure chance. There are only two potential reasons that would make this
happen. The first is that whoever created my Registry entry determined, for
some unaccountable reason, to make my information match. The second is that it is pure chance and I am obsessed.
Anything
worth learning is worth learning well.
I
am finishing a short series of love novels when Mother walks into my room. Shortly
after we determined I would survive my illness, we discontinued the quarantine
preventing her from being in the same room with me. When the researchers
stopped wearing white body suits, we determined Mother would not die. We stopped
worrying.
“What
are you reading now?” Mother asks me.
Excitement versus Fear -- Round 3
I'm notorious among my school's guidance counselors for being a "hard" teacher. More than once, I've received reports back from students and staff that one of the counselors has commented about the difficulty of my Advanced Placement classes or the amount of work I expect in my inclusion classes. I'm the catcher of plagiarism (yes, it happens in mathematics) and the upholder of responsibility. There's even rumor that I'm not allowed to teach freshman honors geometry anymore because I'm "too tough."
I won't comment if there's any truth behind that rumor, but I will say that on more than one occasion I said to my honors geometry or AP students, "Sometimes effort is not enough." This was usually my response to some student approaching me to ask why she got a certain grade. "But I tried really hard," she would say. She'd leave my office feeling I was calloused, and I would leave it hoping that in five or ten years she would understand the damned life lesson (and praying it would be a lesson--who am I to know for certain?).
The truth is, sometimes your best isn't good enough. When the lifeguard says, "But I tried really hard and spent a really long time swimming to save you," but that lifeguard didn't make it there in time, it's not good enough. And sometimes, after you've given your best, you have to give more. You have to be better. You have to be stronger. Even when there's nothing more to give, you have to find it in yourself. Sometimes you can't, but you don't know you can't unless you try.
That's where I am with writing right now. I'm working on my fifth draft of LitD, editing line by line and word by word. Sometimes, I spend twenty minutes just trying to find the right word. Should it be "promise" or "say?" And I'll cross it out a million times and rewrite it a million times, only to become frustrated with my lack of ability. It doesn't matter how much effort I put into that one word; if I'm not a strong enough swimmer, there is no way I can reach the person drowning, and it's not going to mean anything in the end.
Maybe I can console myself with saying the current was too strong that day. After all, it doesn't matter how brilliant LitD might be if it's not something that interests agents or publishers. Maybe I can console myself with lifeguarding in a pool instead of the ocean. After all, it's a heck of a lot easier to get published if I self-publish, right?
Or maybe, I can keep swimming. I can make myself a better writer. I don't need to be a hero. I just need to be excited, because no matter how many books there are out there, I'm the only person who's written mine. Yeah, there are a lot of people who say they could write a book, but how many of them actually have?
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put it more effort. This is my pep talk to myself. What's yours?
I won't comment if there's any truth behind that rumor, but I will say that on more than one occasion I said to my honors geometry or AP students, "Sometimes effort is not enough." This was usually my response to some student approaching me to ask why she got a certain grade. "But I tried really hard," she would say. She'd leave my office feeling I was calloused, and I would leave it hoping that in five or ten years she would understand the damned life lesson (and praying it would be a lesson--who am I to know for certain?).
The truth is, sometimes your best isn't good enough. When the lifeguard says, "But I tried really hard and spent a really long time swimming to save you," but that lifeguard didn't make it there in time, it's not good enough. And sometimes, after you've given your best, you have to give more. You have to be better. You have to be stronger. Even when there's nothing more to give, you have to find it in yourself. Sometimes you can't, but you don't know you can't unless you try.
That's where I am with writing right now. I'm working on my fifth draft of LitD, editing line by line and word by word. Sometimes, I spend twenty minutes just trying to find the right word. Should it be "promise" or "say?" And I'll cross it out a million times and rewrite it a million times, only to become frustrated with my lack of ability. It doesn't matter how much effort I put into that one word; if I'm not a strong enough swimmer, there is no way I can reach the person drowning, and it's not going to mean anything in the end.
Maybe I can console myself with saying the current was too strong that day. After all, it doesn't matter how brilliant LitD might be if it's not something that interests agents or publishers. Maybe I can console myself with lifeguarding in a pool instead of the ocean. After all, it's a heck of a lot easier to get published if I self-publish, right?
Or maybe, I can keep swimming. I can make myself a better writer. I don't need to be a hero. I just need to be excited, because no matter how many books there are out there, I'm the only person who's written mine. Yeah, there are a lot of people who say they could write a book, but how many of them actually have?
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put it more effort. This is my pep talk to myself. What's yours?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Rebellion Against a Tweet
Yesterday I read a tweet that threw my already opposite-of-burgeoning self-esteem against the wall and then stomped on it until its blood was caked with mud. The tweet itself was helpful and the response was in its own way helpful as well.
My reason accepts the information, but because I'm a fragile young woman *cough,* the truth behind the tweet was heard, and it hurt. There is going to be an uphill battle to get LitD published. Being ever practical, I decided not to blog about it then. My post would only be whiney and completely overblown. I would feel better in the morning.
Except, I didn't. Actually, I'm fairly certain I felt a whole bouquet of dandelions worse. Again, I'm practical (or at least I try hard to be so), so I donned my whitest dress and my whitest shoes in a rebellious act against the tweet. "I don't care what you think. I'm going to get published. And just to show you, I'm going to wear the closest thing to regulation whites I own." And I did. Here's a picture:
Then, I kissed my sleeping daughter good-bye and drove my little tushie to work. The hallways were cool and dim, for I always arrive at school an hour before most everyone else. Feeling deflated, I didn't turn the lights on. Let them think I wasn't coming to work today. My coworkers always know when I call in sick because the office lights will be off when they get there. Ultimately, practicality won and I felt silly, so I compromised; I turned two light switches on. Oh, yeah. I'm a rebel.* I don't know what that was supposed to accomplish, but in my head, it was something great.
In the semi-dark, I made an answer key for the upcoming test on radical expressions. Then, I went to the administrative office to make copies of a BINGO sheet. I know; you don't care. But there--there the ever lovely and optimistic secretary told me, "Look at you, all dressed in white! Happy May Day!"
How had I forgotten today was May Day? I can't even fathom it. It's a sign. The novel that has been knocking around in my head (the one that isn't LitD2) is perfect for today. So while that one tweet told me I probably won't find an agent for LitD unless LitD is as spectacular as I really think it is, the more-than-coincidence that compelled me to wear white on May Day leads me to believe life is not over. (Yes, I'm being purposely overly adverbly dramatic.)
I think I'm going to start the new novel tonight. I'm going to need a lot of help with it, but I will start it. It's a sign. Yep. It is.
From then on, I knew it was going to be a better day.
The End.
My question for you:
How do you bounce back from bad news?
*A rebel? No. Johnny Yuma was a rebel.
My reason accepts the information, but because I'm a fragile young woman *cough,* the truth behind the tweet was heard, and it hurt. There is going to be an uphill battle to get LitD published. Being ever practical, I decided not to blog about it then. My post would only be whiney and completely overblown. I would feel better in the morning.
Except, I didn't. Actually, I'm fairly certain I felt a whole bouquet of dandelions worse. Again, I'm practical (or at least I try hard to be so), so I donned my whitest dress and my whitest shoes in a rebellious act against the tweet. "I don't care what you think. I'm going to get published. And just to show you, I'm going to wear the closest thing to regulation whites I own." And I did. Here's a picture:
Then, I kissed my sleeping daughter good-bye and drove my little tushie to work. The hallways were cool and dim, for I always arrive at school an hour before most everyone else. Feeling deflated, I didn't turn the lights on. Let them think I wasn't coming to work today. My coworkers always know when I call in sick because the office lights will be off when they get there. Ultimately, practicality won and I felt silly, so I compromised; I turned two light switches on. Oh, yeah. I'm a rebel.* I don't know what that was supposed to accomplish, but in my head, it was something great.
In the semi-dark, I made an answer key for the upcoming test on radical expressions. Then, I went to the administrative office to make copies of a BINGO sheet. I know; you don't care. But there--there the ever lovely and optimistic secretary told me, "Look at you, all dressed in white! Happy May Day!"
How had I forgotten today was May Day? I can't even fathom it. It's a sign. The novel that has been knocking around in my head (the one that isn't LitD2) is perfect for today. So while that one tweet told me I probably won't find an agent for LitD unless LitD is as spectacular as I really think it is, the more-than-coincidence that compelled me to wear white on May Day leads me to believe life is not over. (Yes, I'm being purposely overly adverbly dramatic.)
I think I'm going to start the new novel tonight. I'm going to need a lot of help with it, but I will start it. It's a sign. Yep. It is.
From then on, I knew it was going to be a better day.
The End.
My question for you:
How do you bounce back from bad news?
*A rebel? No. Johnny Yuma was a rebel.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Patience
I have always considered myself a highly patient person, at least where patience is important. I have no patience with slow loading computer programs or laundry that is "perpetually" stuck on the 1-minute-left-to-cycle screen, but, I have nearly endless patience teaching mathematics to reluctant learners, and I can spend hours upon hours making the perfect chocolate babka. Then why, pray tell, am I having such a difficult time being a patient writer?
Maybe it is because LitD practically wrote itself in two months and that the following two months were so full of glorious revisions that I hardly had time to notice time was passing. Maybe it is because springtime has finally come to Massachusetts and all my patience was spent on winter. But now--now that my manuscript is due to the writers' conference, and now that my revisions will be few and far between (that is, until I next receive feedback)--now, I feel impatient.
I want to keep moving forward. I want to make LitD as perfect as it can be; except, I want to do it faster. Oh yes, patience is a virtue. But patience is now at war with my father's motto--the one that is so ingrained in me that it might as well be my motto: Do your work. Get it done. Afterwards, have some fun. How can patience compete with that, especially when writing is my fun?
My question for you:
How do you cope with impatience?
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Does Writer = Creeper?
Writers do a lot of things that make people nervous. For example, we mentally record every conversation we have with you and then spend hours writing them down every single evening just in case we need to use it in one of our novels. And you'll never know if that character in Book 4 of the Psycho-Killer series we write is actually you (your quirks exaggerated, of course).
But that's not all we do. Oh no. Us unpublished writers (and, I suppose, some who are published) have the joy of finding agents. With finding an agent comes a whole other level of creepitude.
I read somewhere that finding an agent is a "1 in 100 shot." While those odds are not impossible (although with a P-value that low, the statistician in me would rejoice and reject the null hypothesis), they aren't exactly good (like they would be if you were a statistician).
I do wonder where the statistic comes from. Does it take into consideration all the people who query agents without looking to see if those agents accept their genre? What about all the people who send really bad queries or don't follow the querying guidelines? Those who query on imperfect manuscripts? I'd love to know because it might help me understand what numbers I'm up against.
Not long after I started writing LitD, I began to compile a list of agents I might consider querying. Today, I spent a large portion of my day going through each website and making sure I have all my information straight...and ranking them. Nearly fifty agents have now been sorted into groups A, B, C, and then ranked within those groups. You should see my spreadsheet. It almost makes me feel dirty. Ew. Ranking people I have never met before. I don't like ranking people I know intimately, never mind those I don't know at all.
And then of course the twitter stalking commenced. As I looked up every single one of the agents on my A List and started following her, my reason told me, "April, it's okay. She wouldn't have an account if she didn't want strangers to follow her. So what, you now knowing she really likes to take a lot of pictures of her dogs doesn't exactly help you secure her as your agent? It's the internet!" Yep, I pretty much still feel like a creeper.
So what is the moral of this story? I don't think I have one. I guess this is more of a public apology: I am sorry I am being a horrible person and ranking and stalking people with whom I want to develop a relationship. I promise the part of me that stalks and ranks agents is the part of me that wants to be prepared for everything. I don't want to be creepy. Cross my heart.
But that's not all we do. Oh no. Us unpublished writers (and, I suppose, some who are published) have the joy of finding agents. With finding an agent comes a whole other level of creepitude.
I read somewhere that finding an agent is a "1 in 100 shot." While those odds are not impossible (although with a P-value that low, the statistician in me would rejoice and reject the null hypothesis), they aren't exactly good (like they would be if you were a statistician).
I do wonder where the statistic comes from. Does it take into consideration all the people who query agents without looking to see if those agents accept their genre? What about all the people who send really bad queries or don't follow the querying guidelines? Those who query on imperfect manuscripts? I'd love to know because it might help me understand what numbers I'm up against.
Not long after I started writing LitD, I began to compile a list of agents I might consider querying. Today, I spent a large portion of my day going through each website and making sure I have all my information straight...and ranking them. Nearly fifty agents have now been sorted into groups A, B, C, and then ranked within those groups. You should see my spreadsheet. It almost makes me feel dirty. Ew. Ranking people I have never met before. I don't like ranking people I know intimately, never mind those I don't know at all.
And then of course the twitter stalking commenced. As I looked up every single one of the agents on my A List and started following her, my reason told me, "April, it's okay. She wouldn't have an account if she didn't want strangers to follow her. So what, you now knowing she really likes to take a lot of pictures of her dogs doesn't exactly help you secure her as your agent? It's the internet!" Yep, I pretty much still feel like a creeper.
So what is the moral of this story? I don't think I have one. I guess this is more of a public apology: I am sorry I am being a horrible person and ranking and stalking people with whom I want to develop a relationship. I promise the part of me that stalks and ranks agents is the part of me that wants to be prepared for everything. I don't want to be creepy. Cross my heart.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
How many licks does it take to get to the center of a novel?
Today I had lunch with someone from college whom I haven't seen in, well, eight years. Since graduation, we've both decided to pursue entirely artistic, albeit different, careers. She's an actress and I'm a mathematician. So, maybe I lied about my field of expertise being creative. What is true is that I aspire to be creative (hence the whole writer thing).
Somewhere between our discussion of Mr. Rochester and how shy my daughter was playing at, my drafting process for LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS (if you haven't read the first chapter yet, go here) was mentioned. "Mentioned" is such a weak word. "Dominated" is more like it. My drafting process dominated the luncheon. Sorry about that, Heather. So as LitD conquered the conversation and the tabletop became a bloody battleground, it got me thinking about my original assumptions about drafting/writing a novel. This is where I share my experience with you.
Original assumption:
Three drafts, one hundred query letters, and a book deal.
What was wrong with my assumption:
I'm on my third draft now and in no way do I feel LitD is ready to be sent into the world. If I can't leave for work in the morning without trying on five different outfits, what made me think I could let LitD leave the house in fewer than four drafts? So scratch that idea.
This is what really happened:
I wrote the first draft of LitD in two months. It was 87,000 words, if I remember correctly.
I changed a few scenes (dramatically) and fixed a few grammatical errors in about two weeks. The second draft was 84,000 words.
Now, LitD is just under 83,000 words, and it has taken me about one to two hours to edit some pages. Here's why*:
There's more. In two months, LitD and I will attend a novel intensive. What does that mean? More changes.
I won't even go into why the other two parts of my original assumption are wrong. Let's just say, I've been a tad naive. I still am.
What I can say is that in between being disgusted with my syntax, word choice, punctuation, grammar, and everything else of which I am now more aware, I have truly enjoyed this process. I look forward to more of it. Promise. Cross my fingers, hope to die.
*Here's another reason why:
My question for you:
Anything worth doing is worth doing well. True or false?
Somewhere between our discussion of Mr. Rochester and how shy my daughter was playing at, my drafting process for LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS (if you haven't read the first chapter yet, go here) was mentioned. "Mentioned" is such a weak word. "Dominated" is more like it. My drafting process dominated the luncheon. Sorry about that, Heather. So as LitD conquered the conversation and the tabletop became a bloody battleground, it got me thinking about my original assumptions about drafting/writing a novel. This is where I share my experience with you.
Original assumption:
Three drafts, one hundred query letters, and a book deal.
What was wrong with my assumption:
I'm on my third draft now and in no way do I feel LitD is ready to be sent into the world. If I can't leave for work in the morning without trying on five different outfits, what made me think I could let LitD leave the house in fewer than four drafts? So scratch that idea.
This is what really happened:
I wrote the first draft of LitD in two months. It was 87,000 words, if I remember correctly.
I changed a few scenes (dramatically) and fixed a few grammatical errors in about two weeks. The second draft was 84,000 words.
Now, LitD is just under 83,000 words, and it has taken me about one to two hours to edit some pages. Here's why*:
There's more. In two months, LitD and I will attend a novel intensive. What does that mean? More changes.
I won't even go into why the other two parts of my original assumption are wrong. Let's just say, I've been a tad naive. I still am.
What I can say is that in between being disgusted with my syntax, word choice, punctuation, grammar, and everything else of which I am now more aware, I have truly enjoyed this process. I look forward to more of it. Promise. Cross my fingers, hope to die.
*Here's another reason why:
My question for you:
Anything worth doing is worth doing well. True or false?
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Tips from an Aspiring Author
Now that I am well established among my friends and family as an aspiring author, I have decided to impart some of my brilliant wisdom (ha). In all seriousness though, I think some perspective from someone who is "new to the game" is sometimes helpful. And, if it's not, this blog post allows me to sort through some of the major things I've learned since pursuing writing.
Tip 1:
Set measurable goals. Just this week, I was feeling a little down and unmotivated. After spending three days on the first page of Chapter Thirteen (no symbolism there), I finally decided what my problem was, and it wasn't the head cold I've been sporting. I had forgotten my cardinal rule of goal setting. Once I said, "Geez, April, you really should set a goal for this weekend," and I did, I found myself chipping away...at the next four chapters. Nice.
I am not one of those people who struggles with procrastination. The earlier, the better. Do your work. Get it done. Afterwards, have some fun. That's me. But if you are a Procrastinator, set goals closer together. If it's Monday, set a writing goal for Wednesday instead of Friday. Even if you procrastinate, you'll still have something done by Wednesday and even more done for Friday.
Tip 2:
Find beta readers after you have completed the majority of your manuscript. Beta readers are super awesome people who will read your work and give you super awesome honest feedback. Usually, they read in exchange for you reading their work. My beta readers come free (about which I'm always a little guilty). Since I write YA, they are a small group of students from my high school. They are fantastic and LitD is better because of them. Seriously better.
Tip 3:
Start following the social media sites of both writers and agents. I have found blogs to be the most useful learning tool. They post excellent things including upcoming events I wouldn’t normally have known about, great books to read, tips for writing and querying, what the market looks like, etc.
It also gives me perspective and makes these people whom I aspire to be like less intimidating. Let's face it. Established Authors = Scary. Agents = Terrifying. However, when you find that A-List-Agent tweeting about her cat or the new dress she bought, she's a real person now. Nothing to be afraid of...much.
Tip 4:
Research, research, research. Lots of this can be done by reading the blogs of legitimate people, but you never know what good advice comes up just because you happen to stumble on a good site. Case in point: I never would have guessed that the title of my manuscript should be in all caps. I had clicked on a blog through a blog through an agent's website when I discovered that little gem. Now I tell everyone about it because, heck, I'm proud I found it.
Tip 5:
Interact with as many writers as you can. Now you must understand, I live nearly as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get in central Massachusetts. Except for the small grocery store in the center of town, my nearest grocery store is 25 minutes away. My closest neighbors are cows and coyotes, so interacting with other writers is not easy. I'd join a writing group if the nearest one didn't meet on school nights and wasn't an hour away. My main source is through forums and larger blogs, but let me tell you one thing: When I do connect with other writers, it keeps me feeling motivated, and I like feeling like part of a community.
And finally, because I had to call my high school English teacher (I graduated 11 years ago, by the way) and have a four-way conversation on speaker phone with her husband and cutie little toddler son while they drove to some unknown Saturday morning destination before I had even the slightest idea of where to start, here are some very helpful places to start:
http://www.literaryrambles.com/
This place is wow. Just wow.
This place is wow. Just wow.
http://www.rachellegardner.com/
A lit agent with fantastic posts about writing/market/everything. I’ve gone to one of her webinars where I learned tons of things I didn't even know I should ask. She also posts regularly, which is nice for someone like me who creeps the internet.
A lit agent with fantastic posts about writing/market/everything. I’ve gone to one of her webinars where I learned tons of things I didn't even know I should ask. She also posts regularly, which is nice for someone like me who creeps the internet.
http://askaliteraryagent.blogspot.com/
He’s got a very extensive ebook that is free to download. I recommend reading it. Some of the things he says don't particularly jive with me, but the ebook is so jam-packed with info that I couldn't help learning something.
He’s got a very extensive ebook that is free to download. I recommend reading it. Some of the things he says don't particularly jive with me, but the ebook is so jam-packed with info that I couldn't help learning something.
http://www.pw.org
Check this out. You can get an account for free and you don’t have to buy the magazine. They’ll send you emails with tips. I love their Speakeasy Forum to connect with other writers. You can ask questions and find out the skinny on stuff like conferences. From real people. Who aren't selling stuff. Score.
Check this out. You can get an account for free and you don’t have to buy the magazine. They’ll send you emails with tips. I love their Speakeasy Forum to connect with other writers. You can ask questions and find out the skinny on stuff like conferences. From real people. Who aren't selling stuff. Score.
http://theblabbermouthblog.com/
Another literary agent with some helpful posts. Several of them have already helped to tighten up my writing.
Another literary agent with some helpful posts. Several of them have already helped to tighten up my writing.
There are a bajillian more out there, and it wouldn't do to list them all, but
My favorite is: YA Highway! It’s very much YA driven (good for me), but they have a lot of good tips. I aspire to be like some of these fantastic women. And actually, *they* tagged *me* in last Friday's Field Trip Friday for an article I brought to their attention! Can you imagine? Little ol' me? Okay, so it's not a big deal to anyone but me, but this blog had THREE extra hits because of it. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that excites me.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
A Writer at War
I woke up this morning with words in my head. Since I wrote the final sentence of LitD, such beautiful words have not occurred to me. I think part of the reason is because I've felt rather uncreative lately. Since the end of February, my predominant focus has been pulling apart every single thought Celia has and every sentence the others speak. Should Celia use a contraction here? Would the young man answer this question in a monosyllable? Should I use the word grip or clasp to describe this action? After hours upon hours of new sentences, these decisions all feel...anticlimactic.
Don't get me wrong. Picking apart every last sentence and word is important. There is nothing I like worse than reading a book and becoming too distracted by the poor word choice and unintentional sentence fragments to enjoy what might otherwise be an engaging plot. I need to do it. I need to do it so when you read LitD you can focus on Celia and not the spinach between her teeth.
So when new words began to play in my mind--exciting new words Celia would say and think if she were presented with an exciting new situation--I knew I had to make a decision. I could give in to creative temptation and jot down the magnificent conversation Celia and the young man were having in my head, or I could focus on my deadline. A writer at war.
You see, even though the last scene is written, I'm not done with Celia yet. She is too vibrantly clear in my head to let her go. Maybe I'll have to break from grammar and sentence structure to get those scenes on paper. Maybe if I do, she'll stop speaking to me long enough so I can finish LitD.
I can resist everything except temptation.
-Oscar Wilde
My question for you:
How do you resist temptation?
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Not-So-National House Cleaning Day
Today I have deemed Not-So-National House Cleaning Day.
Since I began my serious pursuit of writing, my house has suffered greatly. My bathroom hasn't been scrubbed in an embarrassingly long time. The last time my floors were mopped was in February. Dust? Cobwebs? Yep. I've got those aplenty. (It is especially useful living on the edge of conservation land with my primary source of heat being a wood stove. The conservation land provides the spiders and the wood stove provides the dust. Together, my cobwebs are eerie enough to make even Tim Burton cringe.)
The time I would normally use to keep a clean and orderly household has been swept away. In its place? Writing. So today I will take a break from my third draft of LitD. Celia's grammar may not improve but the air quality of my log cabin will.
My question for you?
How do you balance what you love to do (whether it is writing, knitting, playing video games, gardening, swordplay, etc) with your responsibilities?
Since I began my serious pursuit of writing, my house has suffered greatly. My bathroom hasn't been scrubbed in an embarrassingly long time. The last time my floors were mopped was in February. Dust? Cobwebs? Yep. I've got those aplenty. (It is especially useful living on the edge of conservation land with my primary source of heat being a wood stove. The conservation land provides the spiders and the wood stove provides the dust. Together, my cobwebs are eerie enough to make even Tim Burton cringe.)
The time I would normally use to keep a clean and orderly household has been swept away. In its place? Writing. So today I will take a break from my third draft of LitD. Celia's grammar may not improve but the air quality of my log cabin will.
My question for you?
How do you balance what you love to do (whether it is writing, knitting, playing video games, gardening, swordplay, etc) with your responsibilities?
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Spring Cleaning
If you haven't taken a look at YA
Highway yet and you are interested in writing and reading, I recommend you do so.
Each Wednesday, they pose a question for writers to answer. Last week they mistakenly skipped it, but had posted the question the prior week. This week, they ask, "What novellas would you like to see inspire YA books?" Because I have no answer that warrants a good post, here is my answer to last week's:
What do you hope to "clean out" from your writing? What habits/tropes/words, etc do you want to eliminate?
Oh boy.
1.) First and foremost, I would like to clean out that word that crops up in situations that don't warrant its use: THAT. I also overuse the word slightly.
2.) Next, cliches are still very much my anthrax. They are oddly fascinating but disgusting.
3.)As I sit here at
my computer typing with my fingers and drinking my morning coffee in my
workroom, I think I find myself occasionally adding extra superfluous words and phrases into my writing.
I do not need to say my characters "push back the chair and stand." It is enough to say they stand. Pushing the chair back is implied.
4.) Finally (and this should be first and foremost), I need clean my mental chambers of self-doubt. I love LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. I love writing it. I love editing it. I will be successful.
My question for you:
What do you hope to "clean out" from your writing? What habits/tropes/words, etc do you want to eliminate?
Oh boy.
1.) First and foremost, I would like to clean out that word that crops up in situations that don't warrant its use: THAT. I also overuse the word slightly.
2.) Next, cliches are still very much my anthrax. They are oddly fascinating but disgusting.
3.)
I do not need to say my characters "push back the chair and stand." It is enough to say they stand. Pushing the chair back is implied.
4.) Finally (and this should be first and foremost), I need clean my mental chambers of self-doubt. I love LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. I love writing it. I love editing it. I will be successful.
My question for you:
Is avoiding prepositions at the
end of a sentence a stylistic preference or grammatically correct?
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Excitement vs Fear -- Round 2
Excitement vs Fear -- Round 2
I told myself I wasn't going to do it, and yet here I am doing it. My old nemesis self-doubt is back. I rarely allow myself to believe I'm good at anything. The truth is I succeed in many things. The problem is I've got too much modesty mingled with too much self-doubt to ever truly feel optimistic about most of what I do.
I told myself I wasn't going to do it, and yet here I am doing it. My old nemesis self-doubt is back. I rarely allow myself to believe I'm good at anything. The truth is I succeed in many things. The problem is I've got too much modesty mingled with too much self-doubt to ever truly feel optimistic about most of what I do.
I'm an emotional person trapped in a logical person's body. Or is it the other way around? I want to balance what is realistic with what is optimistic. I want to replace all of my ifs with whens, but I want to do it in such a way that doesn't get my hopes up too high. So what am I afraid of? Failure.
In many ways, LitD has been an experiment of sorts. No, not the type of experiment about which I teach my AP Statistics students. Okay, okay. It's not an experiment at all. It's an anecdotal exercise in forcing myself out of my comfort zone. This is something I find myself doing (or attempting) more. Last summer, I forced myself to initiate eight social situations. I made it a goal and I succeeded. Mind you, I was still overly embarrassed when a co-worker asked me to explain a document I emailed him yesterday. I then spent the next twenty minutes re-reading the (short) file to determine what I may have done wrong. I'm still not certain if he was jesting with me or not. I'm easy bait.
Now, I am forcing myself to move beyond my neatly arranged box of mathematics and into the terrifying world of writing. This is how:
Until I put aside the self-doubt, I suppose I will be anxious about many steps in my journey to publication. BUT! I am infinitely excited too. (I'm sure I'll say that too much.) And deep down, under everything, I know this is going to work, even if I only know it in small spurts.
How do you reclaim yourself from self-doubt?
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Check-In
Eep! With twenty-five percent of 2013 already passed, it's so very difficult to contain my excitement.
1.) I'm a month ahead of my writing goal.
2.) I'm 50% through my LitD slow read.
3.) I've got a small handful of student volunteers gearing up to read my work.
4.) I don't need anything else about which to be excited. I'm just plain excited! Things have never looked better. :)
1.) I'm a month ahead of my writing goal.
2.) I'm 50% through my LitD slow read.
3.) I've got a small handful of student volunteers gearing up to read my work.
4.) I don't need anything else about which to be excited. I'm just plain excited! Things have never looked better. :)
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Mathematics and Balancing Time
As I've made it more and more public among my friends and acquaintances (and the internet) that I'm writing a novel, I have started to see a trend in the topics of conversation. Conversations usually go like this:
Friend: Huh. Don't you teach math?
Me: Yep. Except I also majored in English as an undergrad.
Friend: You don't see those together very often.
and
Friend: How do you find time to do everything?
Me: I don't clean my house.
On the first conversation:
Maybe you can answer this for me, but why don't we see more people who love mathematics and English (or the language arts, or writing, or whatever you want to call the subject) equally? Every year at Parents' Night, I have at least three parents say to me, "Oh, I can't do math." Some of them wear it as a badge of honor. Maybe it's because I don't teach English, but I've never had a single parent say to me, "Oh, I can't read." We live in a culture where illiteracy is horrible but it is okay not to be able to multiply or add. I don't understand that.
So yes, I am a math teacher. Yes, I also love writing. The two events are not disjoint.
Friend: Huh. Don't you teach math?
Me: Yep. Except I also majored in English as an undergrad.
Friend: You don't see those together very often.
and
Friend: How do you find time to do everything?
Me: I don't clean my house.
On the first conversation:
Maybe you can answer this for me, but why don't we see more people who love mathematics and English (or the language arts, or writing, or whatever you want to call the subject) equally? Every year at Parents' Night, I have at least three parents say to me, "Oh, I can't do math." Some of them wear it as a badge of honor. Maybe it's because I don't teach English, but I've never had a single parent say to me, "Oh, I can't read." We live in a culture where illiteracy is horrible but it is okay not to be able to multiply or add. I don't understand that.
So yes, I am a math teacher. Yes, I also love writing. The two events are not disjoint.
 |
| This is a Venn Diagram of events that are not disjoint. |
On the second conversation:
I am a mother to a toddler and a wife. I teach high school mathematics full time. I bake copious amounts of bread and muffins. I sew and embroider. I preserve jams, marmalades, pickles, and relishes. A lot. I also read and read and read and read.
It's not as simple as this, but I'll say it this way: I find time to write because I make time to write. Most of the time, that means other things don't get done. Cleaning is number one on that list. Sleeping is number two.
I have also learned to use every waking second and have mastered the fine art of multi-tasking. For example, I can usually get through one or two novels in a week because I listen to them on audiobook now. Prior to motherhood, audiobooks didn't exist. Now, I can do just about anything and read a book at the same time. This buys me about twelve hours a week. I brush my teeth while I shower. Now I've earned another fifteen minutes each week.
I can't say I'm fully pleased with every decision I've made in order to allow myself time to write. For example, a good friend told me she was making this for her daughter. Wow. Just wow. I've decided my daughter will not have one. I'm going to write instead. Now, I have the fine fortune of wrestling with the guilt such a decision makes. The little fairy on my right shoulder says, "Bad mom! You should show your daughter you love her and spend her nap time making this for her." The fairy on my left shoulder says, "All right, Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt, get over it. The sooner you write your novel, the sooner I can stop listening to you complain about what a horrible mother you think you are." Am I a bad mom because of the choices I make? Let's see how the little one turns out in twenty years.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Goals
Pessimism ALERT!
I sometimes find it difficult not to become bogged down with my own feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy. The moment I began writing LitD, I said to myself, "This is for me, and if nothing comes of it, well, that's okay too. It will be a great journey." That is still true, but now that I've completed my first draft and am very slowly crawling through a meticulous edit of my manuscript, I sometimes feel discouraged.
Writing LitD has been a rather manic experience. There are times when I have the utmost confidence in what I write and other times where I can't help but second guess myself. There are times when I am confident there is a market for my novel and other times when I doubt the market can hold any more dystopian YA fiction. I don't want my novel to be just another book with fangs (like what happened after the Twilight craze).
After reading a very expressive post from the Crowe's Nest, I think I've come to a conclusion about part of what causes my mania. I knew I was doing it, but I didn't fully acknowledge it.
I compare myself too much to other successful writers. Fact: I sit with copies of my well-loved novels next to me when I write. They are a constant reminder of what I am not. They are a constant reminder of what I long to become, of what I will become.
Long term goals:
A.) To become a successful writer.
B.) To become published.
Short term goal:
A.) To get through the second draft.
So what I am currently doing to achieve my goals?
I'm working to put together a panel of students who will read my manuscript and offer me feedback. It will be a wonderful (albeit scary) experience to hear from my target audience. Thank you, already, for those of you who have volunteered.
I sometimes find it difficult not to become bogged down with my own feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy. The moment I began writing LitD, I said to myself, "This is for me, and if nothing comes of it, well, that's okay too. It will be a great journey." That is still true, but now that I've completed my first draft and am very slowly crawling through a meticulous edit of my manuscript, I sometimes feel discouraged.
Writing LitD has been a rather manic experience. There are times when I have the utmost confidence in what I write and other times where I can't help but second guess myself. There are times when I am confident there is a market for my novel and other times when I doubt the market can hold any more dystopian YA fiction. I don't want my novel to be just another book with fangs (like what happened after the Twilight craze).
After reading a very expressive post from the Crowe's Nest, I think I've come to a conclusion about part of what causes my mania. I knew I was doing it, but I didn't fully acknowledge it.
I compare myself too much to other successful writers. Fact: I sit with copies of my well-loved novels next to me when I write. They are a constant reminder of what I am not. They are a constant reminder of what I long to become, of what I will become.
Long term goals:
A.) To become a successful writer.
B.) To become published.
Short term goal:
A.) To get through the second draft.
So what I am currently doing to achieve my goals?
I'm working to put together a panel of students who will read my manuscript and offer me feedback. It will be a wonderful (albeit scary) experience to hear from my target audience. Thank you, already, for those of you who have volunteered.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Excitement vs Fear -- Round 1
Excitement versus Fear -- Round One!
In a battle of epic proportions, who will win? or something something cliche blah blah blah
I read somewhere that without publication, writing for yourself is just that--writing for yourself. When I write for myself, it doesn't matter if I fail. No one will know. Hell, I don't even need to know. I can lull myself to thinking I'm perfect, and I can go on ahead in my little bubble believing I'm a superstar. I rock my own world.
Soon--not today, but soon--I will have to finally face my fears and insecurities. I will reach that point when I must allow others to read my manuscript. Now, at 84,000 words, the end of the first draft of LitD is near. (Very near. As in only-two-or-three-thousand-words-more near.)
Part of me is very excited to turn back to page one. Part of me is very scared to turn back to page one.
In a battle of epic proportions, who will win? or something something cliche blah blah blah
I read somewhere that without publication, writing for yourself is just that--writing for yourself. When I write for myself, it doesn't matter if I fail. No one will know. Hell, I don't even need to know. I can lull myself to thinking I'm perfect, and I can go on ahead in my little bubble believing I'm a superstar. I rock my own world.
Soon--not today, but soon--I will have to finally face my fears and insecurities. I will reach that point when I must allow others to read my manuscript. Now, at 84,000 words, the end of the first draft of LitD is near. (Very near. As in only-two-or-three-thousand-words-more near.)
Part of me is very excited to turn back to page one. Part of me is very scared to turn back to page one.
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