"Nature's first green is gold. Her hardest hue to hold." Robert Frost

If you've ever been somewhere, a hike, a stroll through a park or national forest and stumbled upon a wide eyed doe who flings her head up and seems to take all of you into those big brown orbs or, like I once had a chance to, saw two sandhill cranes performing the intricate and intimate ceremony of their mating dance, you've perhaps experienced the wonderment that I felt last night.  However, it wasn't any denizen of forest or field that provided me this awestruck moment.  It was my daughter.  And after all isn't the ephemeral sweetness of a little girl just as awe inspiring as any of Mother Nature's other impossible to hold gifts.

Pregnant and just winding down enough to sleep after my pre-bed writing binge, I was inclined to crankiness when I heard her little footsteps padding down the hall toward my bedroom.  I listened to her creep around the end of the bed until the sounds of those little footpads stopped a mere two inches or so from my head.

"Mommy," she stage whispered.  "I need you."

I barely contained the sharp reprimand that rose to my lips as I opened my eyes.  Instead with all the bad grace I could summon I asked, "What do you need?"

Then, in the half light from the hallway, I took in the nest of tangles on her head that could only have been sculpted by a restless night and the deep pools of her blue eyes fringed by their impossibly long eyelashes. 

"I need you," she repeated.

Reaching over the bulge of my pregnant belly I hauled her into bed next to me and she cuddled up, her still baby dimpled fingers wrapping around one of my hands.  We curled together in bed and whispered lines from her favorite books, the Fancy Nancy series, to each other.  She pinched my nose and giggled when I rewarded her with a quiet snort.  I kissed the butter soft skin of her still yielding cheeks and I mourned the loss of the baby chub on her daily lengthening arms and legs. 

All the while I kept thinking, I have to save this.  I have to savor this, because everyday when she defiantly tells me, 'I can do it myself' and then, against all expectation, manages indeed to do it herself, she is growing away from me.  Until one day the stretch of her arms and legs and the depth of her intellect will take her from me almost completely.

So I held her there in my arms, despite the late hour and the insistent needs of my body, trying to clutch onto the glimmering miracle of my little girl in that moment in all her tousled hair, soft skinned, blue-eyed beauty.

Hope is the thing with feathers, but sometimes those suckers are razor sharp and sting like a bitch

Well, here's my current query tally; 24 sent out, 9 unanswered, 14 rejections and one partial request I haven't heard back on yet.  And you know what, the rejections aren't the worst part of that list.  It's those outstanding submissions that are KILLING me. 

Seriously, the last couple of days I've been feeling almost brink of insanity obsesssed with those unanswered queries.  The buzzard of hope circles endlessly: Have they received it?  Has it perhaps just crossed the desk of an agent who will decide my book sounds like the most stellar work of fiction in history and said agent is scrambling for his phone right now to offer me representation?  Did some disgruntled postal worker plaster the walls of his home with my pathetic little queries, so no one at these agencies even knows that I'm desperately trying to make that magic agent/writer connection?  Did an agent run from their office shouting for their assistant to contact me at once and immediately only to find said assistant was gone to lunch?  Did said assistant return from lunch to find a query with a sticky on it on their desk, disregard it as unimportant and now it's lingering in his 'to do' box that will perhaps get taken care of in the next century?  They can't possibly not have answered yet because they have a stack of queries from authors just as hopeful and desperate as me towering to the ceiling and only one pair of experienced eyes to evaluate them all.  It couldn't possibly be that.

While I know all of the scenarios except the last one are almost equally impossible and ridiculous this is just a little sampling of what that crazy maker hope does to me.  And so, agents of the world, as if you care, I am taking a stand.  I'm not sending out another query until I've received a response from each and every one of you that I've contacted (except, of course, those that say no response means no).  Aren't you sad now that you didn't write me back or at least tuck a little 'no thanks' card in the SASE I sent you?  No you're not and that's really okay, because I'm not doing this for you.  And actually I'm not really doing it for me.  I'm doing it for my husband and daughter who recently have been watching their mother and wife pace endlessly from computer to mailbox while pulling her hair into odd modern artish sorts of shapes and mumbling to herself.  They can't take it anymore and frankly neither can I, so no more irons in the fire, not until I've removed and doused the heat from the ones I've already got roasting.

On a  more positive note, I had a friend who does book binding by hand offer to make me one copy of my book.  She sent me a video of the finished product today and it is gorgeous.  It may be the only copy of this particular work of fiction ever made and I'm so excited to get it I'm practically giddy.

That's the sound of squealing brakes you're hearing

As you can see from the past couple of posts, I've been having some serious problems getting down to business on my current WIP.  I thought it was merely my personal life getting in the way.  However, today in the shower (I find that I get an inordinate amount of epiphanies in there, something to do with being warm and having a door between little blond person and myself I guess) I realized it wasn't only that.  That was part of it, but the big issue is that there's a problem with the chapter I began last week.  My subconcious realized that and has been screaming at me, quite loudly, to cease, desist, stop, put on the brakes, DON'T WRITE ANOTHER WORD UNTIL YOU FIX THIS.  I was just so busy sorting through all my personal stuff that I couldn't hear that good old trusty Jiminy Cricket, or whoever it is responsible for that voice back there.

The issue, I think and I'm sure my subconscious will correct me if I'm wrong, is that I've meandered into unneccessary territory.  There are better more concise ways of getting in the necessary information than putting it in the chapter currently under construction.  It's late and I'm tired, so I don't have the energy to go back and correct the problem right now.  However, I'm fully confident that once I do my fingers will be flying over the keyboard faster than Superman toward the nearest imminent train wreck or bridge collapse or latest calamity in Lois Lane's life. 

As I thought about this today, I realized another writer, a published one with a bit more experience than me wrote about this very issue on her blog.  It had been so long since I read it I completely forgot about it until I found myself up against the same wall she smashed into writing her first twenty (yes twenty) unpublished, and according to her, mostly unpublishable novels.  So, fellow writers, if you find yourself slogging through uninspired writing mire check out this writing advice from Mette Ivie Harrison and start wielding those backspace and delete keys.  It may just be your ticket back into Writing Nirvana (little nod there to Rebecca at Diary of a Virgin Novelist, another blog that's well worth an aspiring author's time to check out.)  In the words of Porky the Pig 'that's all folks' for tonight at least.

The real world stinks sometimes (and I'm not talking about MTVs reality show)

Usually right now I'd be inside the head of Ruth Lacey, sophomore at CU in Boulder who has the ability to see the future (sort of).  Ruth is the protagonist in my current WIP.  Instead, I'm trying to summon up enough emotional energy to string these few words together, so I can fulfill my goal of doing a blog post at least every other day. You see, today was, for various and sundry reasons, a hard day.  And this has temporarily (at least I hope only temporarily) derailed my ability to burrow into the depths of Ruth's head and surround myself with her reality.  My real life has, most emphatically, trumped my imaginary one.  Why is it that never happens the other way around?

When the Internet Turns On You

I spend a lot of time on the internet, probably way more than I should.  The thing I love about the internet, it has loads and loads of information that is accessible within a nanosecond.  The thing I hate about the internet, it has loads and loads of information that is accessible within a nanosecond. 

The seemingly interminable waiting game that is the querying process has really started to weigh on me.  For some reason it makes me feel like I'm moving forward with my writing to endlessly surf writing related blogs, websites and forums (rather than, you know, actually writing).  I allow myself one hour of surfing time after I put my daughter to bed and before I add some more words (hopefully bunches and bunches of really good ones) to my current WIP. On Saturday I came across this post on Nathan Bransford's forums.  I read the discussion in full and followed all the links, including this one which took me to author Natalie Whipple's blog and then from that one I found this one also by Ms. Whipple. In reading how many drafts people did and how much they went through before they decided they weren't just 'good enough', they were ready to submit, I decided my manuscript was crap, I hadn't worked hard enough on it and I was nuts for submitting it at this point.

Don't get me wrong, I did drafts, lots of drafts and had a professional edit and then did more drafts and then a couple spot edits, but from idea conception to first query was almost exactly a year, none of this tinkering around for three or five or eight years.  Now I'm beginning to think these rejections that are coming my way are because I wasn't ready.  It's crazy making because prior to reading that forum thread I honestly felt that my book was strong enough to get published.  I didn't send in something I felt was 'good enough'.  I sent in something I felt I had given my all to, something I was really proud of and something I honestly felt was worthy of publication.  Now, not so much.

After reading this post, I opened my current WIP, stared at the screen for awhile, turned my computer off and read Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon while desparing that I'd never ever write something that good.  Sunday gave me a full twenty four hours to shake off the funk before attempting to write again.  Guess what?  No good.  I didn't write a word.  That forum robbed me, for the time being, of my belief in my ability to write and without that belief, I couldn't, not a word, not a letter.  In fact, I barely restrained myself from deleting all 40,000 some odd words of my WIP. 

The internet, folks, turned and rended me.  I know this funk will pass (hopefully it won't take too long. I'd like to get my first draft completed before the bun in my oven is cooked to warm golden brown and ready to come out).  When my belief in my ability to write resurfaces from the gallons and gallons of criticism and despair I've poured over it  in the last 48 hours I need to remember that while I'm cruising all those fabulous tidbits of info on the net, it's a good idea to have some salt near by.  Anybody have a shaker handy?

When jobs collide.

I haven't been published, but I think of myself as a writer, simply because I do it all the time, just as when I was in the professional world I thought of myself as a legal assistant, not because I had a degree, but because I legally assisted all the time.

However, no one is ever just a writer or just a legal assistant or just an accountant or . . . okay I think I've made my point.  My other hat, the one I rarely take off (last time was for a writer's conference I attended in September '09) is that of chauffeur, dietitian, bodygaurd, jester, educator, maid, cook, personal trainer, groomer, shopper, dresser and all around slave to a two and half foot tall blond person who has the face of an angel and a temper that's more usually attributed to redheads.  She also has a deep need to take home all things Disney princess related from wherever she finds them, you know, Walmart, Toys R Us, other children's houses.

Yesterday morning I was trying to get her to a playgroup that began at ten o'clock.  I was also being hounded by my current WIP.  Dialogue, scenes, metaphors, descriptions were churning around in my head as though my muse had inserted a stick into my brain and was whirling it around at top speed.  So there I was at quarter to ten unshowered, unbrushed, clothed in grey sweats, a t-shirt and a Snuggie (yes a bona fide Snuggie.  Favorite Christmas gift EVER!) typing as fast as my little fingers could fly.  All the while said little blond person kept asking 'time for 'nastics now Mommy?  Time for 'nastics now Mommy?' in a sort of hopeful yet despairing voice that would have skewered the heart of someone less immersed in a reality apart.

Finally when the hope gave way to high pitched screeching, I hauled my Snuggie covered bum off the couch rushed upstairs and had us both ready and out to door by ten thirty.  However, all the way to playgroup my story kept plaguing me, torturing me really with fantastic ideas that, while bouncing on trampolines and plunging thigh deep in the foam pit and holding little hands while little feet negotiated the balance beam, I had no way of getting down on paper. 

Then it was time for grocery shopping and by the time we pulled into Walmart the rabid pestering of my muse had died to a sort of fatigued, intermittent plucking.  I rushed through grocery shopping, hoping that by the time I got home and put little blondie down for her nap there would still be a spark of inspiration left that would roar once again into a bonfire when I got in front of my computer.  So home we went.  Groceries were put away, lunch was fixed and consumed (sort of) and blondie was settled in for a short winter's nap.  I hurried downstairs, turned on my laptop and sat staring at the blinking cursor while the spaces of my brain echoed back at me their emptiness.

After fifteen minutes and several false starts, I admitted defeat and, due to the prodding of little person number two who is currently baking in my oven, went to take a nap of my own. 

Yesterday's tally: Ideas, a bajillion.  Actual words on paper, zero.  Happy, appropriately fed, appropriately stimulated, well rested children, one (and a half if you count the bun if my oven). 

I guess somedays there's only time and opportunity to do one job right.  I just hope my muse comes to roost at a more opportune time today.  Note to muse: naptime is between two and four.  Bedtime is at eight thirty.  See you then (right?)

Nuts and Bolts?

This morning when I woke up I decided to do a sort of nuts and bolts post about what I've done so far on my road to getting published.  And I still intend to do that, however, you know that scene in Love Actually when Laura Linney kisses her long time crush and then has to go into her stairwell and have an absolute freakout.  Well, excuse me, I'm headed into the stairwell.  I GOT A REQUEST FOR A PARTIAL FROM A NEW YORK LITERARY AGENT!!!!!!

Okay, and we're out of the stairwell.  Now I will proceed onto the nuts and bolts portion of this post. 

Nut (or bolt, take your pick) number one:  I wrote a book.  Now I know this may seem elementary, but I've been surprised by the amount of agents who say on their blogs and agency websites not to query them until the book is complete.  I thought that sort of went without saying, but apparently not.  So, if you've actually completed a book, pat yourself on the back.  You're ahead of an apparently significant portion of your competition.

Nut number two: While I was writing said book I read books about writing.  How's that for a trippy mess with your head sentence?  The book I found to be the most helpful was On Writing by Stephen King.  I already worshipped the man because of his phenomenal characterization ability, but this book almost deified him in my eyes.  Part autobiography, part writing advice it is absolutely amazing. It was also at times so crazy hiliarious I laughed until I cried.  I also found this article by bestselling author Elmore Leonard to be extremely helpful.

Nut number three: I followed the advice dished out in what I read.  I went through and trimmed adverbs, adjectives, passive voice and, in an effort to also expunge static voice, changed most 'was doing' or 'had done' to just plain 'did'.  I also finished my first draft and, following more of Stephen King's advice, found some beta readers with teeth (some were toothier than others, but all were very helpful) and put my manuscript into their hands and out of mine. I involved myself in another project and almost two months later, when I felt my slate had been wiped clean of the first manuscript, I went back to it.

Nut number four: After I edited all I felt I was capable of on my own, I sort of flailed around for awhile because I didn't know what to do next.  I knew I wanted a professional edit and exchanged emails with a published author who provided this service, but I wasn't really sure if she had the kind of editing experience I was looking for.  Then one of my aforementioned beta readers (who also happens to be my sister) suggested a writer's conference.  I went and enjoyed myself enormously.  I also learned alot about the publishing process (Query letter, what the hell is that?  Wait, an agent, I need one?  Really, I shouldn't mention that my mom and all my siblings loved my book and are convinced I'm the next insert famous author of choice here? Pink, scented paper is a bad idea?).  I also spoke to one of the authors who did a self editing workshop.  She referred me to these guys.

Nut number five:  I got my edit back from Precision, implemented nearly all of my editors suggested changes and then hit a wall, a big, fat, thick one that looked like this QUERY LETTER.  From October until December I did nothing on my book, but I did spend a lot of time on this blog and this one and especially this one. I also downloaded and read this great book by agent Noah Lukeman. I even submitted a draft to the shark, but unfortunately mine either wasn't quite bad enough for her to sink her rows and rows of teeth into or she just hasn't gotten to that particular steaming pile of craptastic query yet.  Finally, I ended up back at Precision, draft in hand or in email.  They posted it on their blog for Monday Mania and it, my friends, crashed and burned, big time.  Second draft went straight to the author who edited my manuscript.  It too tanked.  It took me a month to work up the guts to try another and, lo and behold, it passed muster. 

Nut number six:  With the ok from Precision I began querying immediately, like, literally that day.  I got rejected, immediately, like, literally that day.  Talk about disheartening.  I initially sent off ten queries, decided that wasn't enough and sent off ten more over the course of the next week. 

Since doing so, well, obsessive doesn't even begin to describe my behavior.  My email is never closed.  My postman probably thinks we've finally returned from a two year vacation because this is the first time ever in all the time we've lived here that I get the mail on a daily basis.  Sometimes I even check a few times between four and four thirty when he's late getting here.  I also spend a ridiculous amount of time on Nathan Bransford's blog and Jennifer Jackson's blog and Janet Reid's blog and The Rejectionist's blog and, well, you get the idea.  These are the important lessons I've learned from these agents:

Always, always follow the submission guidelines.  If it says send a query letter, send only a query letter.  If it says send a query letter, a synopis, a bio and the first chapter, send all of those things and only those things.  If it says they don't accept attachments, don't attach anything.  If it says send a picture of yourself painted yellow with purple spots standing upside down then find a friend who's handy with a paintbrush and start practicing your handstands. 

Personalize your query.  At the very least address them by their name, i.e. Ms. Jackson, Mr. Branford.  If you really want to go the extra mile and set yourself apart from the crowd find something in the agent's bio or client list that you can refer to in your query so they can see you did your research on them.

Be professional.  They're professionals. They want to work with professionals.  Nuff said.

Don't lie.  Don't say you've read one of their titles when you haven't.  Don't say you love one of their authors when you don't.  They will catch you and, aside from being humiliating, it will also ruin any chance you had at getting them as your agent.

Nut number seven: Don't let rejection get you down.  Remind yourself that you write because you love it, not to reach some end goal of publication, or fame, or wealth.  If you remind yourself of this it won't matter how many times you get rejected because you're still getting the most important thing out of your writing, joy.  I say this with ten rejections under my belt, one request for a partial and nine pending queries.  And folks, that's not much, especially compared to some of the authors I most admire and respect.  Take a look at Stephen King's rejection tally in On Writing if you truly want to see something impressive.  He never quit.  Neither should you.  I'm not.  My current online haunt is here selecting the next agents that I plan to query if the nine still pending and the agent who requested a partial all reject me.  But I know we all have down days, so if you need a little pick me up, take a little trip to this blog and see who's rejected Jenny today or for a good laugh check out this funny and creative collection of literary rejections.

As usual I've spent far more time on this post than I should have.  I gotta go work on my 'real' writing now.  Good luck y'all.