THE THROAT: Damn Fine Writing

Those of you who’ve popped by here every now and again know how I feel about Absolute Write (absolutewrite.com). As a writer, I’ve learned so much from Aye-Dub, not to mention the support and friendships which have sprung up from my time there, enriching my otherwise lowly existence…

🙂

The other day, I noticed a thread on one of the forums : a fellow writer wondered about something he/she had read in King’s ON WRITING. Basically, King posits that, while competent writers can become good writers, poor writers can never become competent, and good writers can never become great writers.

That thread sparked a thought: What makes great writing great? which lead me to think of great writing I’ve had the pleasure of reading. Peter Straub’s THE THROAT–which I’m reading right now–is right up there.

How do I know? Because I’ve found myself wanting to find out what happens next, how the hell all those dots are going to connect. Reading this novel makes me want to find and read the first two books in Straub’s Blue Rose series. That’s a testament to his mastery of the genre: a mystery, no shit.

But for me, what makes THE THROAT so great is the writing. The story is intriguing, but the  writing is the thing. I’ve dog-eared pages to mark passages Straub has  written. Not flowery writing. Not necessarily profound. Mostly, they’re simple lines, perfectly suited to the character and scene, that have a certain something…

Here’s what I mean:

He could not remember her name, but he knew he had stuck her right in the chest, and then stuck her a couple more times while she was still getting used to the idea.

Isn’t that perfect? It’s unexpected and kind of funny in a morbid sort of way. Not profound, but without a great writer writing that, I would’ve never had the pleasure of reading such a quirky, perfectly-constructed line.

Here’s another example, for a different reason:

We had at least two hours of Just Call Me Joyce, which demonstrated once again that when endured long enough, even the really horrible can become boring.

I actually stopped after reading that and thought about it, rolled it around in my little brain, wondering if it were really true. And I kept thinking about it. Such a simple declaration, but one with profound ramifications.

His hoarse, bludgeoning voice slammed each of his short sentences to the ground before picking up the next.

What I found so great about the line above is Straub’s mastery of well-chosen words. What an amazing line, I could SEE it, I could HEAR it. I FELT the reverberation of those slammed sentences, the meatiness of the man speaking: his exhaustion, his passion—

Finally (because if I don’t stop at some point, this ode to Peter Straub will go on and on and on), there’s a part of the novel in which the narrator–a writer, no less–details just how he figured out his novel from beginning to end. It’s a blueprint of how a writer’s mind works, how he gets from A to B to Z, what his thought-processes are, how he cherry-picks from his own life experiences, the feeling that comes from finally, finally, figuring it all out…it’s an incredible insight into how the real-life writer Peter Straub, fiction writer extraordinaire, does what he does so well. And he allows us to be privy to that process? I mean, how lucky are we, his readers?

That’s great writing, folks.

The Importance of Being Earnest

Words are merciless. ~ Oscar Wilde

Hats off to Mr. Wilde, who took his writing seriously.

I’ve started querying again, which means I’m putting in the time again, doing the work again, preparing myself to run the gauntlet once again. It’s what we writers do if we want to find the perfect agent to represent us and our work; if we’re serious about our writing and we are, of course we are. So, how should we do it?

Research.

For me, the first step in my research is the website QueryTracker
( https://querytracker.net/ ) Side note: I personally prefer QT to AgentQuery
( http://www.agentquery.com/ ), as I’ve found the former to be more informative and up to date. YMMV, of course.

At QT, I filter my personal agent search: literary, LGBT, thriller/suspense, offbeat/quirky, commercial. Some agents rep one of those genres; some, more than one. Thinking of the novels I’ve written and tend to write, the more of those genres an agent reps, the better it bodes for me.

I have yet to bite bullet and pay for a year of premium QT access, so my inquiry is limited to the comments section, query response times, and clients. If, after checking those stats, the agent seems like a good fit, I check my own query list to make sure they’re not already on it, that I haven’t already baked that potato.

🙂

If things still look good, I move on to that agent’s agency website. I read the agent’s bio, read about the agency itself, check out the other agents and the clients they rep, genres, all that jazz. I carefully jot down submission requirements and contact information.

Next, I check Preditors and Editors ( http://pred-ed.com/ ) for both the agent and their agency. If both pass muster (at worst, no raised red flags; at best,  P&E’s seal of approval), I check online to learn more about the agent, reading interviews (current is better), blogs, twitter, MSWL ( http://mswishlist.com/ ) , Absolute Write
( http://absolutewrite.com/ ) (the Bewares and Recommendations forum ), etc. Again, I note any relevant information, along with anything else specific to this agent that I think I might need. The more a writer knows about an agent, the more confident she can be about her choice and the more personal she can make her query letter . . . assuming that’s what the agent wants. Be sure to check that. Some do, some don’t.

When I’m satisfied, I draft my email. I type my salutation, paste in the body of my query letter (drafted with a ton of help from the amazing squirrels in Query Letter Hell, over at AW), and personalize the rest.

Then, I check–and double-check–everything. I check the email contact address for the agent, the subject line requirements, my pages and/or the synopsis (if that’s what the agent is asking for). I check the spelling throughout, check the agent’s name again, check every damn thing and then I check it again, because once you hit ‘send’, that’s it.

One more look-see, a deep breath, and . . . yep. After that, it’s back to square one: lather. Rinse. Repeat. . .

*  *  *

On a writer’s best day, finding the perfect agent can be a tough, tough business. When you carefully research your agent pool, you give yourself the best possible shot. And while it’s true that you’re one of hundreds of writers floating in that proverbial sea of slush, agents are right there with you wading through that stuff, eagerly searching the waters for that one amazing query to pluck; that one amazing manuscript to read and fall in love with. You’ve worked your ass off to create something of value and while chances may be slim, it’s possible that what you’ve written is exactly what your dream agent wants.

So do yourself a favor: do the work. Do everything you can to make it worth their while to read your query. The ball is in your court now.

Seriously.

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.

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.

Triolet Tuesday

A Triolet
By Banjo Paterson

Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.
It makes bad writers somewhat worse:
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
That fall beneath a reader’s curse,
It is the feeblest jingle yet.
Of all the sickly forms of verse,
Commend me to the triolet.

Whilst waiting for the inevitable editing notes from a certain agent, I bopped over to AbsoluteWrite’s http://absolutewrite.com/ poetry forum; more specifically, the “The Triolet Trail” thread, because anything is better than waiting for edits. Right?

Ever try writing a %$#&^*@# triolet?

I know, I know. It shouldn’t be that hard. Eight lines–the first, fourth, and seventh lines repeat, as do the second and eighth. Rhyme follows an AB pattern like so: ABaAabAB, with cap letters representing repeated lines.

But it took this writer an embarrassingly long time to get the structure of a triolet square in my head and even now, I check my work two, three, ten times to make absolutely certain I did it right. The original poster of the thread on Aye-Dub added a twist: each poet must begin his/her triolet with the last line from the preceding triolet.

Easy enough. Hell, your first line is basically a free-bee, except some poets are cruel and heartless people who pen nearly impossible last lines. I speak of myself, of course. I swear I don’t do it on purpose, and I freely admit to using the term ‘poet’ with obvious abandon.

Truth is, read a few pages from that thread and you’ll come to the same conclusion I did, almost from the word go: some writers on AW are Really. Fucking. TALENTED. I’m excusing myself from that particular group. I am not worthy, but I do like the challenge. I don’t know how the other posters feel about writing this kind of poem but I find it kind of cathartic, especially on nights like this one, when I’m trying to think about anything but the edits that are going to come hurtling at me in less than twelve flipping hours–

I digress. But when one is teettering somewhere between Joy and Panic, with her entire literary life on the line, it’s kind of nice to take her mind to another place. And if the stars align, she might just pen something decent and so, in honor of my very first “Triolet Tuesday,” which I just now made up because I’m too dang tired to think of anything else 🙂 , here are five kk triolets to read at your leisure.

Or peril. 😉

Riches beyond the sum of our balance,
smearing our greed like a sexual salve,
blurring the limits of ethics and talents.
Riches beyond the sum of our balance,
selling ourselves is longer a dalliance;
anything to amass more than we have:
riches beyond the sum of our balance;
smearing our greed like a sexual salve.

*  *  *

Well hidden from those who nod and smile,
our better selves clutch wounded hearts,
and pocket dreams. Not yet defiled,
well hidden from those who nod and smile,
whilst from their lips, a bitter bile
dissolves all hope from tender parts~
well hidden from those who nod and smile,
our better selves clutch wounded hearts.

*  *  *

Through deaf-still and slant-shadowed trees,
a man stood in the wood, beguiled.
A wood sprite, all elbows and knees
through deaf-still and slant-shadowed trees,
prancy-danced with the crickets and bees,
and the man once again was a child.
Through deaf-still and slant-shadowed trees,
a man stood in the wood, beguiled.

*  *  *

O’er barren wasteland, still and bleak,
the winds of war stir desert sands.
Cruel harbinger of death, bespeak
o’er barren wasteland, still and bleak.
Behold the terrorist mystique:
Death held aloft in trembling hands
o’er barren wasteland, still and bleak.
The winds of war stir desert sands.

*  *  *

The bleak black-fjord fissure men
shoulder it all, on the head of a pin.
Stoically bearing their tasks without end,
the bleak black-fjord fissure men
offer forgiveness, again and again,
finding the good and forgiving the sin.
The bleak black-fjord fissure men.
Shoulder it all, on the head of a pin.

Fin. ❤

Pearls of Wisdom

The world is your oyster* and you’re a pearl of a girl.

Thanks, Mom, for giving your daughters that little pearl of wisdom, sitting all purdy on a bed of confidence and hope. But one of your girls is a writer now, and she knows she can’t take that little gem to the bank, not without a couple of caveats, to wit:

*But you also need the love and support of family and friends, especially on those dark days when your writing chops are wallowing in the dirty glass by the sink, and your inbox is sullied from yet another ‘Dear Author’ rejection, and. . .

. . .you need great beta readers: forces of nature who won’t hesitate to irritate, cajole, nudge, inspire, and/or otherwise KICK YOUR ASS–whatever it takes to move you forward, beyond the dreaded clutches of Complacency and Mediocrity.

Because anyone can write a novel. But not everyone can write a good novel, a great novel. Not alone, anyway. You need folks who have your best interests at heart to shore you up and tell you the truth; bright, intuitive people who recognize poor practices and good writing, and who bring high levels of expertise and objectivity to the table.

By the way, the above may not be mutually exclusive.

My greatest champions for CHERRY were family members and, surprisingly, betas who became really good friends. But I’ve also had a couple of phenomenal betas who specifically told me, You don’t want me to be your friend. I’ll worry about hurting your feelings and you don’t want me to sugarcoat the truth.

Yes, I did, at the beginning of this process,, when I didn’t know diddly squat. But I sure as shit don’t want that now. Tell you what: the best beta readers may or may not be my friends–they may not even be writers–but they are bright, intuitive, pretty damned objective, insightful, great communicators, creative, and able to see the big picture.

And listening to them, considering their suggestions through my own (semi-objective) lens, has drawn CHERRY out of its shell, changed it from a good novel to something–if not of beauty–then, at least, of value.

That’s what I want, not just for CHERRY, but for everything I write.

CHERRY’s good. Good enough to have caught the attention of agents and editors alike. Good enough for one smart young agent to take a chance. I’d like to take all the credit.

No, I don’t. Because I didn’t write CHERRY by myself. I had a virtual army behind me: family, friends, and great beta readers who wouldn’t let me rest on my laurels, not for one second. Because of them, I hacked and slashed, rewrote, added chapters, moved chapters around, revised again, and yet again. . .

Irritating sometimes, sure. But sometimes, irritation is exactly what you need to get your ass in gear. You have to work out the kinks. Start over sometimes. Polish that turd until ain’t a turd no moh. Without that, I wouldn’t have a novel that’s good, maybe good enough to be published. I certainly wouldn’t have my agent.

I wouldn’t be writing today.

Blurp.

Attribution: Ernst Vikne, Wikimedia Commons

That’s been me of late, kind of like that.

Hey guys, long time no post. Just thought I’d stop in, see how everybody’s doing. Good, I hope.

Been kind of upended of late. I heard back from that agency in London, did I mention that? Gave them 30+ days and heard zip, so I bit the bullet and sent a brief email, gently inquiring as to what the hell was going on.

No I didn’t. I was the consummate professional. Still got my ass kicked though. A nice, brief no thank you, we read your story with interest but decided it didn’t fit our list.

So, back to Square One, as they say. I’ve been querying. Proud of myself for doing it, not allowing myself to burn too long from the sting. These things happen. Although, to be totally honest, I have–for the last week or so–been stuck in a kind of a funk. Yesterday was the culmination: I woke unhappy, and it went downhill from there. I felt like yelling and/or crying, didn’t matter which, so I drove to my nature trail which is usually a spiritual balm for me, but it did nada for my piss-poor constitution. What finally helped was getting a decent night’s sleep, which is a crap shoot on my best day.

Today, I feel tuckered out but relatively happy. That’s always a good thing. I’m industrious, too. I just finished taking down all the little farm animal figurines and such from this wooden shelf thing my dad made for my brother back in the late ’50’s. My brother made dinosaur dioramas: sand and plastic dinosaurs, plastic palm trees and trolls and stuff. They’re gone, taken over by little ceramic and glass pigs, cows, lambs and roosters. I washed every pig, cow, lamb and rooster, and they’re drying on the counter as we speak. in my kitchen, right above the table there, in between two windows, one of which is open right now to let in that lovely spring breeze. Getting up to 70 today, very nice outside. Mr. kk took off golfing for the first time this year and I’m going to have a nice chicken dinner waiting for him when he gets home.

We’re going on a trip, did I mention that? Heading down TX way. We’ve been taking other people with us on trips, my mom and mr kk’s mom, our sisters, friends. I swear, I can’t remember the last time he and I went on our own, beholdin’ to nobody. We’re looking forward to it, tell you that. I keep looking at the long-range forecasts for places along our route, it’s early yet and subject to change but right now, I’m seeing some 80 and 90-degree days. I went through my closet already looking for shorts, can you believe it? In April????!! It’s going to be great, I think.

So. Querying. And I committed to the NaNoWriMo Writing Camp thingie for this month. I know, can you believe it? So I pulled up DIARY OF A SOULLESS BOY and I’ve been working on that. Not easy though, my mind’s been kind of scattered. Still, I’ve managed to write a thousand words or so and the month isn’t over. Yet.

As for CHERRY, I am waiting for one more trusted beta to read it and give me the green light. Whilst waiting, I actually messed with the ending. Again. Almost there. I’m feeling really antsy about it because I promised the revised version to two editors back in November. I have to get that thing out. And although both may say no, may decide it doesn’t fit their list or whatever, I have faith in CHERRY and ALBERT both, I do. Maybe I didn’t last week but I do today, and that is going to move me forward, dang it. To query more, get the word out because, as I’ve said numerous times ad nauseam, if I don’t do it, it ain’t getting done.

That’s about it from this neck of the woods. I just wanted to touch base, say hi, tell y’all (note that TX drawl, I’m working it 🙂 ) that kk is still alive and kicking, and doing okay. As of today, anyway.

I hope you guys are, too. ❤

Perspectives

Attribution: Antonio Borrillo

This morning I received an e-mail from the London literary agency who’d requested that exclusive for EFFIN’ ALBERT. The 30-day mark had come and gone, without word. Finally, yesterday morning, I bit the bullet and sent a brief e-mail to the agency, asking about the status. Since then, I’ve been on pins and needles, trying to steel myself against the inevitable rejection I knew was coming, even as I clung desperately to a tiny seed of hope.

This morning, I had my answer. They’d read the manuscript “with interest,” but it “wasn’t right for our list.” I can’t–

I can’t be devastated, no way, not in light of that awful plane crash in the French Alps the other day. To suggest that I’m devastated, when families right now are facing the worst nightmare possibly imaginable, would be absolutely abhorrent on my part. There is no comparison between receiving a manuscript rejection and receiving news that your loved ones just–

No, not devastated. Not even close. I’ll stick with ‘disappointed.’

When you write a novel and try to get it published, disappointment is part of the package. Hope and rejection seem ladled out arbitrarily; often, unequally; sometimes, unfairly. It’s a fickle business–I’ve said that before–and not for the faint of heart. *sigh* So, disappointed. And sad. And ashamed, which surprises me and which I hesitate to admit. But the truth is, I do feel shame right now. I failed to get an offer, ergo, I’m a failure and now everybody knows it.

IF I post this thing.

I will post this thing. My little tag line for this blog is, on writing and figuring it all out, yeah. That’s what I’m doing and this, right here, is part of the process. I have to figure out what’s next for me. Do I dwell, or do I get proactive, start sending out queries again? Or should I hang it up, succumb to the idea that maybe my stuff isn’t commercial enough, isn’t good enough?

I already know my answer. I’m going to keep trying. Each of us, all of us, will find ourselves at a crossroads at some point in our lives. A choice will loom and the decision we make will influence the rest of our lives, for better or for worse. That decision is ours alone to make–a solitary endeavor, but we all share the reality of that and in that regard, we’re all in the same boat, tossed on a tumultuous sea, seeking safe harbor and welcoming arms. Sometimes, that’s all we want. Sometimes, we want more than that. We may want something so badly we can taste it but nothing’s guaranteed. So we have to do what’s best, each one of us, for our own selves.

For me, that means reveling in my misery a little while longer, lamenting today’s perceived failure. I’ll indulge, and then I’ll count my blessings. I get a second chance. I can always try again tomorrow.

Some folks aren’t that lucky.

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.

If I may be so humble. . .

I’ve had time to reflect on yesterday’s blog post and feel the need to add a couple of words to it:

My bad.

May I expand on that?

As I wrote yesterday, I don’t regret my confession on this public–if unread 🙂 –forum. I think it helps to drag the ugly stuff out in the open. Unpleasant feelings tend to fade when exposed to fresh air. Couple that with the passage of time and events transpiring therein, and one will likely find herself looking at her lot in a far more positive light.

Case in point: today. This morning, I languished over a cup of coffee, emailed some good friends, then got myself dressed. Not soon after, I slogged through our snow/slush-covered roads to my mom’s house, drove her to the doctor and grocery store, took her out to lunch, drove home, put crap away, and spent some quality time playing with my beloved kitty cat. I’m at peace today, with one caveat. Hence, today’s post.

I failed to mention something in yesterday’s post and for that, I am taking myself to task. When I wrote about feeling resentful and then, jealous, of my fellow writers at Aye-dub who have reached goals they’d set for themselves, I neglected to mention how happy I initially felt for those fine writers. No, not just initially. I was, and still am, thrilled by their successes; very happy for each and every one of those people. I know some of them well. We’ve beta’d for each other, had fun together, I’ve helped with their queries and they’ve helped me with mine. There was, and is, nothing but joy and happiness in my heart when I read that Authors X, Y, or Z finally, finally are being rewarded for their efforts. I know how hard they’ve worked to get where they are.

It was only later, when I was alone with my incomplete revisions and dark thoughts, that angst sprang forth from my hardened little heart, like some evil little beastie. It tarnished my perspective and their golden moments. No rhyme or reason to it aside from me, giving in to my own selfishness, doubts, impatience, frustration, and fears. As Jen wrote yesterday, it comes with the package. Questioning our abilities, our work, and our chances is something we writers tend to do.

Speaking for myself now, it happens more than I want to admit. Yesterday, I put into words what I suspect a fair number of writers think: it’s tough sometimes being on the outside looking in, seeing the joy and delight and all that wonderful stuff being experienced by somebody close and not being able to taste it. Especially when we all know that getting an agent, and getting our stuff published, is not a given, and that even the best writers among us many never make it to the next level. Writing can be a tough business. It’s not for the faint of heart.

In the last couple of weeks, as I’ve struggled through the final revisions of my novel, I’ve found myself becoming disheartened. Frustration fueled my burgeoning unhappiness, and I began to view the success of my fellow writers as a yardstick against my own perceived failures.

But today, I see their successes as proof that good things happen to good people; fine writers, all. If it can happen to them, surely it can happen to me. What a difference a day makes, huh? Anyhoo, I just wanted to set that record straight. And, just in case anybody out there wonders if my joy at their shared happy news was strained, falsified, or otherwise ringing hollow, let me assure you, I was and am very happy for you, for each and every one of you. You are an inspiration to me, and to all of us writers waiting on the wings, breath held and fingers crossed, hoping.

❤