Tell Me

Of course, Mr. Wilder, I know you’re being facetious right now . . . or rather, your Wonkalicious suave and scary self is being facetious. But if you really want to know how original and creative I am, I’ll do my best to tell it to you straight.

(See, when Gene Wilder talks, I listen. As amazing as his Wonka persona was, it didn’t hold a candle to the man. Talk about original and creative…)

I used to think originality and creativity were my two strong suits, especially where writing is concerned. Of late, though, no so much. Case in point? This blog, which–barring a few sporadic posts–has been ‘on hold’ for more than a few months now. I could chalk that up to a lot of things, not the least of which is Donald J., who may be dragging us into a war with North Korea even as we speak. There have also been some issues closer to home which aren’t going away; then again, that’s life in the big city, and I’m certainly not the only one “dealing with stuff.”

There is also the tiny, lasting niggle relative to parting company with my agent, which transpired over a year ago and which–one would think–I’d have “gotten over” long before now. Apparently, not so much. Apparently, that Little Blip on the Radar Screen of Life affected me a tad more than I care to admit.

Regardless of the reason, I’m in what you might call a “funk”. And no matter how many times I’ve dragged myself out of whatever this funk is, I find myself slipping right back into it.  And every time I do, I lose a little bit more of myself.  As a writer, I mean. Which is more than a tad troublesome, considering the fact that I think of myself as a writer, and if I’m not, you know, writing. . .

Which brings me, round-aboutly, back to originality and creativity or rather, my apparent lack thereof. Sliding into a funk is hardly an original past-time, and lamenting a loss of creativity whilst doing squat to change things is not only counterproductive to the cause, but offensive . . . to any writer dealing with anything more challenging than what I’m dealing with. Believe me, there are a lot worse things a writer can be facing than the piddly-ass stuff I’m facing right now.

Speaking of offensive behavior, Miss Manners had something to say about that:

Offensive behavior is an ineffective way to make one’s own case.

Of course, some people make their cases by doing just that. 45 unfortunately comes to mind. On the lighter side, Zero Mostel. Groucho Marx. Gene Wilder? He was playing the part, “like an accident waiting to happen,” which is exactly the way he planned to play it, and which he executed brilliantly and to our utter delight, time and time again. Mr. Wilder’s creativity and originality made him who he was, and neither time, nor the unfortunate circumstances of his last years, diminished his magnificence, nor our admiration for it.

And yet, how much of that originality and creativity did he cultivate, and how much was inherent to him? I have to believe he was born that way, as we all are to some extent. Each of us has our share of the universe’s creative juices flowing through our veins. Each of us harbors at least one or two original thoughts. We all have our dreams, as well as trials and tribulations. Sometimes we find ourselves so caught up in the latter that we forget the former, stray off course, lose our way . . . which is where I am now, I think. And I’ve been here too long.

Gene Wilder once said, Time is a precious thing. Never waste it. Truth time, Mr. Wilder: that’s what I’ve been doing.

 

 

 

 

 

W.T.F.

First of all, that’s bloody hilarious.

Second of all, Wise Kitty is directing that question to this writer. Said writer is 100% certain of it, being as she’s been asking herself the same question for months now. And yet, the answer continues to elude her, for reasons as yet unknown.

Meanwhile, said writer is painfully cognizant of the implications of Wise Kitty’s question, which include a proverbial ticking clock…

Oh fuck. Fucking A. What is wrong with me? said writer asks Wise Kitty. I mean, aside from the following:

a) I don’t have an agent anymore.

b) My agent pool for CHERRY is nearly dry.

c) If I self-pubbed CHERRY I’d need permissions, as I’ve quoted from TRY, STONE CITY, Elmore Leonard’s TEN RULES of WRITING, and the biggie: THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, kinda sorta. Actually, whether I self-pub or have an agent/publisher, I’d need permissions anyway, but…

d) My query for ALBERT (still) kinda sucks.

e) If I forego agents altogether and just try publishers, would I be making a huge mistake? I can’t stop waffling. (<– Maybe that should be f).

f) See a). My confidence was shaken when I parted company with my agent back in February. I haven’t yet recovered. I thought I had. Apparently, I was wrong.

g) I’m in the middle of writing a thriller–with two POVs, set in both the present and the past–which is not a genre I’ve written before. Hence, my uncertainty/waffling.

h) What agent would take on an author whose novels a) don’t fit the status quo, b) are dissimilar, and c) are adult literary fiction narrated by children/pricks/psychos…?

i) I’m deluding myself. I will never be published. (See all of the above).

j) Relative to g ), my WIP (SOULLESS), has possibilities, but only if I take my poor young main characters to a very dark place, which can only happen if I allow myself to go to that dark place…

Who the hell am I kidding? I’m there. I’ve been there. I don’t know how the fuck to get OUT of there, which is slowly and quietly killing me and yet I feel compelled to carry on, which is why Wise Kitty is asking me once more, with feeling:

Apologies, Wise Kitty. I have no fucking idea.

 

Persistence-2

I’m back.

After taking some time to find my footing, I can officially declare myself back at it, ‘it’ being querying. You may recall I parted company with my agent back in early February of this year, a decision that, while amicable, rocked me just a little bit.

Actually, I realize now that it rocked me a hell of a lot more than ‘just a little bit.’ Case in point: during the entire month of February, I wallowed in self-pity. March found me bitching and moaning, floundering and fucking around.

But last month, some wonderful writing friends from AW invited me join their cabin for Camp NaNo, an offer which proved fortuitous. In fact, April’s Camp Nano was exactly what I needed. I’d set a goal of 25K words for SOULLESS; nothing major, just enough to whet my whistle, get myself back in the swing of writing. I reached my goal–albeit, by the skin of my teeth–but I did it, and doing that for myself, setting that goal and actually getting there, put me exactly where I needed to be. Thing is, I knew I needed to write, prove to myself that I still had that spark; that I could still reach down in there and pluck something decent from the vault. Heck, prove to myself the damn vault was still there.

It was. Which meant kk the writer was still there.

So now, after an almost four-month hiatus, I’ve finally started querying again. I’m working CHERRY first, taking it slow. I’ve sent out maybe 10 queries so far to agents; one more to small indie publisher who’s accepting queries this month only. As of today, I’ve received one rejection and one request for pages. Not bad, and this time, I’m being really judicious relative to whom I send my queries to. The hard truth is, finding an agent for CHERRY is, was, and always will be, a challenge. CHERRY isn’t for everybody. Nor is ALBERT, TWINK, SOULLESS, or anything else I write down the pike.

But here’s the thing: I still believe my stuff has merit. There’s an audience for the kind of books I write. And while it may take a while to find another agent who believes in me and my stuff, I have to believe that person is out there. My job now is to find that person. I’m not giving up because writing is what I love to do, need to do, feel compelled to do. And while part of getting published means getting your teeth kicked in every once in a while, learning from that, taking something of value from that, and doing something about it is how you ultimately get it done.

Lesson learned, dammit: if you don’t fall down every once in a while, you probably ain’t doing it right. And if you don’t get up after you fall, that’s exactly where you’ll stay: flat on your ass, bleeding and crying as you watch the world go by. I don’t want to be that person, sitting on my butt sobbing as I watch my hopes and dreams scatter, like pages across the parking lot.

So, I’ve hauled myself up and dusted myself off, gathered my notes, recharged my batteries, and I’m now prepared to officially declare myself–if not rarin’ to go–then, at least, standing. With pen in hand. At least for now.

And now, if you don’t mind, I got some kick-ass querying to do.

Where is it?

Ha. Writing should be so easy.

Alas, I’ve been agentless for the better part of two months now and I still can’t seem to get my shit together. Which is not to say I haven’t tried, because I have.

Actually. . .

Actually, two months now and I think I’ve lost my way. I’m arift in a sea of indecision. Stuck in a quagmire of doubt. Trapped in a damn–

Oh hell, who am I kidding? Wasting time is what I’m doing. Like right now, writing crappy metaphors when I should be querying CHERRY or working on my ALBERT query. I gave myself permission to take a break until March 1st and here it is, March 4th now, and I’m still in a funk; still uninspired, still

Still I-don’t-know-what, and that’s a problem. What I do know is this: ALBERT’s query isn’t good enough yet, and CHERRY’s agent pool is. . .

Attribution: Bernard Bradley

Okay, maybe not quite as dire as that, but you get the idea.

But wait. I’ve done some writing-related stuff since March 1st. I went online, found and jotted down some new agent possibilities for CHERRY, enough to send out a decent batch of new queries. As for EFFIN’ ALBERT, I pulled up the query numerous times, messed with the thing . . . oh, and I updated my CHERRY agent list.

All good, right? And shining more light on the bright side, my CHERRY query is pretty damn solid, as is the novel. ALBERT’s solid, too. And SOULLESS is primed for digging in; that solid start just waiting for me to start working on it again.

But a writer can write the best query ever, the best novel under that shining sun, and never find an agent or publisher. No guarantees in this business, folks. And no guarantee one’s published novel will find a buying audience and yeah, I’m putting the proverbial cart before the horse now.

You know what? At this point, I really don’t give a crap. Seriously, I really don’t.

Or maybe I do. In fact, maybe I care too damn much. Or maybe the thought that all the work I’ve done has been for squat is too damn much. Or maybe I’m depleted. Hell, maybe I should just quit writing altogether, just hang it up I mean, it was a good run, right? Fun while it lasted and hey, I had my shot, I found an agent, dammit, which is good sight more than most writers can say.

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

Or maybe I’m indulging in this protracted, post-agent melancholic bullshit, lamenting this setback and doing little to change it, which would be not only sickening, but down-right depressing. That’s not what I need right now. What I need is a swift kick in the butt to get myself moving again. What I need is to soldier through these doldrums and get myself back on track, on the stick, up on the saddle, into the swing. . .

Actually, what I need to do is quit writing metaphorical crap and start doing the work necessary to find me another great agent, who will find me a wonderful publisher for my stuff. To do that, I need to disengage from this sorry-ass state; fling off the sad-sack albatross hanging on my neck and weighing me down; shed this fatalistic hangdog attitude because, right now, not only can I not stand myself, but I don’t like what I’m doing–scratch that, not doing. My inability to move forward is getting me absolutely nowhere at all and serves no purpose, save wasting my precious time.

And yours.

Persistence

Today’s horoscope:

You may temporarily lose track of the joy, the passion, the reason … but don’t lose track of your persistence.

Confession time: That’s not Gemini’s horoscope for today. I’m a Gemini on the cusp with Cancer, but in matters of proximity–as well as content–I deem it close enough.

There are always reasons not to do something. Writing is no different. I could offer a myriad of reasons why I’ve floundered with my writing these last few weeks, but the truth is, they’d all be excuses. And while the beginning of this month has been tumultuous, to say the least (my agent and I parted company on February 1), and this last week has been fraught with anxiety (my better half went under the knife two days ago), the truth is, I am uninspired.

This is not to say  I’ve abandoned my dream of being published, because I haven’t. In fact, earlier this month I made a (tentative) decision to set CHERRY aside for a little while, let it percolate and instead, work on my EFFIN’ ALBERT query. Bottom line: I want an agent. If ALBERT is the way to find one, so be it.

So, I’ve been working on my ALBERT query; albeit, in fits and starts. The problem is. . .

Actually, I don’t know what the problem is. EFFIN’ ALBERT is solid and ready to go. The query, not so much. A little backstory on that: after working the death out of the query over at Absolute Write, I’d settled on one version, which I’d then sent out to 30 or so agents. The result was exactly one bite: a exclusive full request, which resulted in a disappointingly brief rejection. Since then, I’ve spent countless hours trying to revamp the query, to no avail.

This month, after making my decision to focus on ALBERT,  I doubled my efforts, but  I can’t seem to shake the suspicion that the query, as is, is intrinsically wrong; that a complete overhaul is not only prudent, but necessary. And yet, try as I might,  my efforts aren’t producing anything substantively different. I’m stuck. What I need is inspiration, some spark of creativity to change things up, but I can’t seem to come up with anything even remotely amazing, reason being. . .

Reason being, I don’t know. All I know is that here I stand–mid-February 2016 now–and I am mired in the muck of . . . not self-doubt, although self-doubt is undoubtedly part of it. Honestly, what I’m experiencing feels suspiciously like a lack of passion for writing, for finding an agent, for trying to get my work published, all of which is disconcerting, to say the least.

Which brings me back to today’s horoscope. Whether or not it officially belongs to me, today I’m declaring it mine because I need to do that: I need to hear it and believe it and heed its message, which is that our way might not be clear right now, but this is a temporary situation only. That little flower is a testament to the power of persistence.

Miracles happen all the time.

connections

A ship is safe in the harbor,  but that’s not what ships are built for.
~ Gael Attal

The Writer says, I am Here, and my dream of being a published writer is Over There, and tethering Me to It is a path…

…but should that path not to take me to the place I long to go; should I misstep, or find my best efforts thwarted for whatever reason, I need not despair.

All I need do is try a different path…

http://earth.nullschool.net *

…an infinite number of which connect us to our dreams.

 

 

 

*Note: I hope you can access this. If you can, double-click anywhere on the graphic and it will zoom in. So lovely and mesmerizing. Enjoy! ❤

Hanging In There, Kinda

Credit: Wellcome Library, London

Day 29, and this author is standing on shaky ground. Talking about the 30-day exclusivity agreement now; the one I made with a certain agency across the pond for EFFIN’ ALBERT. They have a day yet to get back to me, still within that window or, as I like to call it, ‘My Pocket of Hope’.

But hope is fading. For the last couple of days I’ve found my resolve slipping a bit. Actually, ‘slipping’ is a misnomer. That baby’s been rolling downhill like a damn avalanche and there I stand, looking up at the fuckfest hurling toward me and gaining speed, feeling that helpless feeling one gets when she suddenly, unequivocally realizes that she is royally, totally fucked.

But maybe not. See, I’m vacillating here. Back and forth, back and forth I go, between Maybe this is it and I am so screwed. Maybe I’ll hear back today. Or tomorrow. Even the day after that, I’ve already told myself that I’ll give it two extra days before contacting the agency which means, this week, come hell or high water, I should know something.

Ahhh, but be careful what you ask for, lady. You may be sorely disappointed. Already, doubt is pouring into my marrow like rivers of lead, the utter and complete heaviness pulling at me, dragging me down, threatening to. . .

Yeah.

But I ain’t dead yet, dang it. Getting proactive is key (or so I told myself), so I went back and reviewed this particular literary agency. I’d done my due diligence before granting that exclusive but what the hay, why not do it again?

I’m very excited about this agency. Very grateful for this opportunity. The agency is legit, for sure, representing some fine writers and artists. I really like the attitude of the main agent, love how she expresses her joy at finding and sharing fine works by fine writers. I love her enthusiasm.

So far, so good.

I rechecked Preditors & Editors, which still rates the agency ‘Recommended’ with a $, which is great. But tacked to the end was something like, No further information known. Yeah, I remember reading that, so I did what I’d done the last time I read it: hopped over to Query Tracker. There was chatter on the site, the agent/owner had recently hired an assistant; folks who’d been waiting a while post-query were finally hearing back. Fulls had been requested; hopes were running high.

Then I checked Absolute Write, my go-to site for just about everything relative to writing. There’s a forum dedicated to recommendations/cautions relative to agents/agencies/publishers. Yep, I found a thread specific to ‘my agency’ that went way back. A little concerning: a couple of people had sent fulls and then . . . nothing. Didn’t happen to everybody, but still. . . was that going to happen to me?

I don’t know. Heck, I’m probably worrying in advance. Who knows what circumstances precipitated the radio silence? Anyway, it would behoove me not to fret in advance and anyway, if something like that did happen, sure, I’d be disappointed, but then I’d console myself, thinking it’s just as well. It just wasn’t meant to be, right?

See what I’m doing here? I’m already psyching myself for no news/bad news; already thinking, Okay, if that happens I’ll buck up and keep working to find a home for my baby. Which, btw, I’m reading right now, for the umpteenth time but who’s counting? I want to assure myself that my novel really is decent. Good, in fact.

So far, I think it is. I’m falling in love with Mike and Albert all over again. Damn those boys, poor little kids but they’re doing it, dammit. Even though they don’t know what’s going to happen, even though the odds against them are stacked incredibly high, they’re pressing forward, no matter what. Because the alternative is, for all intents
and purposes, pretty damned sucky and ergo, it would behoove me, I mean them to, ahhh. . .

Yeah, kk. We know.

The Ugly Truth

As I write this, I am about 99% finished with revisions for CHERRY. Which means one of two things: either A) I’m nearly done, or B) I’m never going to finish. As of late, I’ve been opting for B, struggling to find just the right words to end my story. I’m seeking the perfect mix of . . . I don’t know. Pathos and Logos, with a touch of Ethos? Something to tip the scales from ‘good’ to ‘really good’ to ‘really fucking good’ to. . .

Point being, still no cigar.

Part of the difficulty is due to the pressure I’m putting on myself. I’ve said it before: I have to deliver the goods. Agent X offered that R&R at the tail end of last year and it’s now. . . yep. Take a look at the calendar, kk. The clock is ticking.

But that’s just part of the problem. There’s something else I’ve been grappling with, something distasteful and insidious; something I am loathe to admit to myself, let alone anybody else. Even now, I’m not sure I’m going to continue this post. For real, I’m hesitating, thinking I should write about something else, something light and airy that won’t tarnish others’ opinion of me, or me of myself. Truth is, I can’t recall reading another blog post by any other writer who publically, willingly admitted to feeling–

Hell with it.

It started a couple of weeks ago, as I was perusing AbsoluteWrite. Seemed like every other click of the mouse took me to another thread started by a fellow writer who couldn’t wait to share good news. Author X just got an agent and was thrilled beyond belief. Author Y just nailed another book deal. Author Z was swooning over another 5-star review on Amazon.

And there it was–an unpleasant twinge as foreign as it was disconcerting: resentment. I resented those happy writers, posting their happy news. Wtf, man? I couldn’t even finish my book.

My resentment quickly morphed into something even uglier: jealousy, which I immediately tried to squelch with logic: the fact that other writers were succeeding had absolutely nothing to do with my own perceived failures. Intellectually, I knew there was zero correlation between the two; ergo, it made zero sense to compare myself to my fellow writers, and even less sense to resent their own, hard-earned, good fortune. No matter. In my heart of hearts, I resented them. Big time. I even–

No, I’m not even going there right now. Some things are better left unsaid. But this I will say: to anybody reading this post, This isn’t me.

And yet, here I am. I don’t understand it. Where is this shit coming from? The unfamiliar bubble of bile that rose in my throat two weeks ago came out of nowhere, and now it’s lodged there and I can’t seem to swallow it down. I don’t like this feeling at all; don’t like this side of myself. Worse yet, it’s settling on me, becoming way too familiar. Is this what I’m going to be now: the bitter, unpublished writer who laments her failures and begrudges others their successes? I want to deny those ugly thoughts but they keep whispering back to me, turning my heart brittle. Even as I turn my head to listen.

OOPS!…I Did It Again*

*Click here, but only if you wanna: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DEsqGOHo0nI

Attribution: rubel58, Wikimedia Commons

What. A. Mess.

Let’s see, I wrote my last post on January what? Ahh, the eighteenth. And on that fateful day, I wrote (in a blog post aptly titled, ‘The End.’):

I have to consider CHERRY done right now.

That made sense, but just to get it into my thick head, I actually made a declaration, to wit:

My baby, I declare you done. Finished. FIN, baby. Spread your wings and fly, my little dove. In other words, GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE.

Before I change my mind.

Yeah, about that.

I may have jumped the gun just a wee little bit. See, for the last three days I’ve been doing to my last chapter what that there oversized, ant-smashing finger is doing to those oversized ants. It isn’t a pretty sight, and I am not at all proud of myself. At the very least, I’m a simpering wimp who can’t control her tweaking for five flipping minutes. At the very worst, I’m a liar. My sincerest apologies to any and all who stopped by the other day to congratulate me on finishing my revisions. I am unworthy.

Is anybody still there? If you are, kind readers, I want to thank you. I appreciate the hell out of you. And if you’re wondering wtf happened, kk?, perhaps I can explain. See, I wrote that post, then reopened my word doc and read that critical last chapter again. Just to make sure everything was peachy, and most of it was. Really. The first two thirds of the chapter are fine. And the part I’d added, all good. I still liked the very end.

But something just didn’t sit well with me, almost like something was missing, or off, and that won’t do. The ending to CHERRY must be absolute perfection, such that it resonates so beautifully with the rest of the novel that the resultant oscillation creates a singular vibration that . . . wait, am I talking about CHERRY now, or the Tacoma Narrows Bridge? Hopefully, the former, as the latter is a classic cautionary tale of failed construction.

Eek.

Long story short: these last three days have been a struggle for this writer. What else is new, right? I’m trying to end my novel in a way that suits it, me, Agent X, and any and all subsequent potential agents/editors/readers/reviewers. No pressure, kk, she lied. Truth is, I didn’t/don’t want to let anybody down, but the more I tweaked those final two pages, the further from that coveted sweet spot I seemed to be.

And then, late this afternoon–scratch that, late yesterday afternoon–I thought I had it. Almost. I just needed one sentence, placed just so. . .

It is now closing in on 1 a.m., January 22, 2015. I didn’t write that sentence. I don’t know what I need. My novel isn’t done. What I did do, a couple of hours ago, was thumb through CHERRY and take some notes, and read through my unholy AbsoluteWrite query thread for the novel, copying and pasting some of the comments I’d written. Trying to get my head back in the game, as it were. Which I must, must do, because the only thing all that smooshing and smashing and tweaking and deleting gets me is a bloody ol’ mess on my laptop screen, and we can’t have carnage like that at this stage of the game now, can we?

The End.

Attribution: Dysprosia

Add an ‘oh’ before that, and you will know how I referred to my novel, CHERRY, a novel I thought was finished months ago, but which, to my dismay, was anything but.

CHERRY may very well be done. When I say ‘done’, I mean done as in ‘complete’, rather than done as in, you know, ‘history’.

Or ‘toast’.

After slaving over–scratch that–diligently revising my beloved novel, I do believe I may have stumbled upon–scratch that–written and/or rewritten an ending to my novel that may actually, you know, *work*. Work, as in, appease the ‘powers that be’, which, in my case, is referent to a certain literary agent who was kind enough to offer me the chance to revise and resubmit my novel. She took issue with a couple of chapters, and didn’t like the ending, as is. So, I added a chapter close to the end, and revised two other chapters significantly. And added to the actual last chapter. And I revised other chapters. Basically, I rewrote, cut, moved, did all manner of hacking, slashing, and tweaking in order to whip that bad boy into shape, and I think I finally did it.

That last chapter was the toughest. I labored over that sucker for the better part of a week. I can’t tell you how many times I wrote, and subsequently trashed, passages from that chapter. As late as yesterday evening, I wrote a passage I thought would pass muster, and proceeded to delete it. That was at eleven last night. But today. . . today may very well be the day I finished what I started. Referring to the R&R now, that means it took me about 2-1/2 months to revise my book. If referring to when I actually started writing CHERRY, you can change ‘months’ to ‘years’. OMG, that is some scary shit.

I have to consider CHERRY done right now. If I don’t, it never will be. Having said that, there are a couple of places I’m still uncertain about. I even considered cutting a complete chapter out, just today. But for now, I’ll leave it. Wait and see what the powers that be think; which, now that I think about it, includes those two editors who requested the full way back when, but never read it. They shall be seeing CHERRY fresh. Fresh as a damn daisy, bright and shiny and full of promise. A lovely little thing, so purdy. My baby, I declare you done. Finished. FIN, baby. Spread your wings and fly, my little dove. In other words, GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE.

Before I change my mind.