Is that the best you can do?

In high school I spent one year on the yearbook staff. I started the class really excited, and I ended the class hoping never to speak of it again. When my mother saw the section I’d worked on–the advertising section, which I hated but did work hard on–she said, “That doesn’t look very good. That’s the best you can do?”

Or maybe she said, “That’s terrible.”

It’s hard to remember exactly because what I remember best was the pain that went through my chest. My mother wasn’t a mother of false praise.

The ads weren’t good though. I’d struggled with designing the ads. My relationship with the teacher was a disaster since I realized I wasn’t pretty enough to warrant his attention.

Maybe that wasn’t the problem. But I knew the popular boys and girls invited him to their parties and that sometimes he went.

You probably don’t need to be told I wasn’t ever invited to these parties. But I didn’t want to go to their parties. I wanted my mother to tell me I’d done a great job, that I had talent, that I should be an artist when I grew up.

She said (and this I remember), “I wouldn’t show that work to anyone if I were you.”

Twenty-five years later and I still haven’t.

So, last night I sent my “final” draft of my novel to my publisher. (Final until I get edits backs, that is.) All I have to do is wait for her to read the rewrites and tell me what she thinks.

It’s funny how something said to you years ago can stay lodged in your brain for decades. I wouldn’t show that work to anyone.

And here’s me trying to send my novel out for the world to see. (Although, the world isn’t going to see it. A tiny group of friends and some random strangers.)

We’ll see how it goes.

Navigating New Seas

part of a commissioned piece

In case you have somehow escaped me telling you, I have found a publisher.

This press is small and new and in the UK. Since it was a UK literary journal that published my first short story and the BBC is my favorite channel, a British publisher makes sense really. Don’t you think?

The name of the press is Plum Tree Books.

And no, they aren’t one of the Big Six, but I was never going to find a home with them. This press has enthusiasm and vision for my writing, and I feel as if I will be taken care of, not forgotten and sent straight to remainders.

But this is a new world–being able to say I’ve a publisher. Feels impossible to say.

So, I’ve started a facebook author page, and am figuring out what’s next–oh, yeah. EDITS.

I don’t know what will happen (who does), but I’m glad to travel different waters. Thank you to everyone who’s still with me.

*

P.S. On a side note, I’ve started an online series–The Princess Detective. (For the reader who likes stories of princesses pursuing danger.)

Synopsiphobia Smackdown

So, an agent has asked for a synopsis that reads like a book jacket. I’m not to give too much away, but to sell the story.

I feel the same way about a synopsis as I did about an outline in school.

But anyway. Here is my dumb idea of the day. Let me rephrase that. Here is my idea to toughen my skin.

I’m going to post my little book jacket attempt here. I’d love some feedback. (Yep. Love!) The usual grammar and typo mistakes pointed out. Does it sound compelling? Should it be a little longer? What else might I add? Subtract? You know…tell me that vague inexplicable thing that I want! (You can do that, can’t you?)

So. Here it is: The Blue Jar

Two best friends, Fran and Chesnie, 16, fear the same thing—Chesnie’s older brother Charlie. They both know his violence and his need for control.

Fran wants to forget everything that happened the night Charlie gave her a ride home. Chesnie wants revenge for that night and many others, and she thinks she knows how to make her brother suffer. She steals the blue jar, a sentimental, precious object, from Charlie’s room and goes with Fran into the woods at midnight. With magic Chesnie learned from her grandmother, Milla, the girls cast a spell to get what they each want, but while Charlie ends up in the hospital, his anger and impulses remain intact.

The girls move in with Milla, a midwife and potions-maker, because she is the only adult who believes them and keeps them safe. Safety, however, fails to solve everything as easily as they expect.

Fran bewilders her boyfriend who won’t give up on her no matter how she rejects him. She ignores her parents whose marriage is ending. She underestimates Chesnie’s need for revenge and where it will lead—from a safe haven to a house of prostitution, from desire to violence.

Thank you.

Pick the Right Baby

the lineup

The agent wasn’t taken with the pages I sent from my manuscript The Labyrinth House. I rewrote them, but they still work for her. The agent was willing to read a few pages of The Blue Jar, and she liked those pages enough to ask for more. I’ve sent more, and I’m now waiting.

I have this crazy wish. And yes, I know it is stupid and would never work, so you don’t need to tell me everything wrong with the idea or why it is silly or any other words of wisdom. But if I could, I’d like to send an agent the first chapters of every manuscript I’ve written (eight) and say, “Please pick one.”

Yeah. I know. But it is hard to shake the feeling that I’ve sent the wrong thing. Call me vain, but I love every manuscript. Plenty of writers compare writing a novel to having a baby. Now, I hate this analogy because I’ve had a baby and I think the comparison is insane. The doctor told my husband that if I’d given birth 20 years ago, I might well have died. So. Writing a novel is not like having a baby.

However, just to play a hypocrite, if my novels are babies, how could I say one is bad and stick it under the bed?

But I’ve got my manuscripts lined up…and which one casts a spell? (Ooo! babies that can cast spells! Oh wait. No, no, no.)

Of course, there is always the possibility that the answer is–not a single manuscript works. They’re all first novels really.)

How do you know what you’re writing is working?

It’s not what you think.

How often do you look back on a past moment in your life and wonder if you missed what really happened?

I am very good at this.

thankfully there aren't that many pictures of me in high school

The other day I was reading about some hubbub going on over a storyline on a television series. I don’t watch the series but the issue of writer responsibility caught my attention. In the show a teenage girl has an affair with her teacher. And instead of the usual this-is-very-bad point-of-view, the show seems to have a let’s-hope-they-get-away-with-it point-of-view.

This reminded me of a chemistry teacher in my high school.

I was terrible at chemistry. Half the time I couldn’t even tell if a questions needed a sentence or a formula for an answer.

My chemistry teacher suggested that if I wanted extra help and to take the most recent test over again, I could come to school on the upcoming student holiday—-the teacher work day—-and I could take as much time as I needed to redo the exam.

This wasn’t a class-wide announcement. He stopped me on my way out of class to suggest this. I assumed he stopped other failing students too, but I didn’t ask. I did show up. I was the only student there. But how many students want to go to school on their day off?

I took the test. He and I chatted. He was one of the younger teachers and it was his first year at our high school. Lots of girls thought he was reasonably cute. He was tall and funny.

I never thought teachers were cute. They were teachers. Girls who had crushes on teachers were inexplicable to me.

So as I was gathering my things, my chemistry teacher said that a few months before he’d found a bracelet in the room. No one had ever claimed it, and since it had been such a long time since he’d found it and he wanted to clear out his desk, perhaps I would like it.

Several things occurred to me in something of a muddled order. Things in lost-and-found aren’t supposed to be given up on until the end of the year. Teachers aren’t supposed to give students presents. It wasn’t really a present. It wasn’t like he bought it. Wow, my teacher trusts me enough to give me a present and not get him into trouble. Hmm, maybe I’m not supposed to take it. Well, I can’t say no to a teacher. I’m overthinking. It is just a lost bracelet after all.

I took the bracelet—-a thin gold chain with fake pearls.

I did feel slightly strange standing there with the bracelet in my hand, but I was also flattered. He was a popular teacher after all. But it seemed weird to stay any longer, so I thanked him for the bracelet and left.

Later when I wore the bracelet, he didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t exactly think it was wrong to have it, but at the same time I told only one friend that the teacher had given it to me. She was impressed. I told her it was only a forgotten bracelet about to be thrown away. Still, part of me wanted to hold my wrist up to others and say, “Mr. So-and-so gave me this.” But I didn’t.

I did get a much better score on my retaken exam. My grade went up to a B!

A few weeks passed and my teacher announced to the class that he was leaving. He’d gotten another job—-a better paying job and he needed to money. He wasn’t even able to stay until the end of the school year.

He stopped me after class to tell me that he thought the company he’d be working for was down the street from my house. Honestly, all these years later I can’t remember how he knew where I lived. I may have told him the day I came in to retake the test because I lived out of town away from everything. But there was indeed that one small company at the end of the road. He told me I could come by and see him there at work.

I thought about it. I passed by that company building a lot. It was in walking distance of my house after all. But I also thought, surely a grown man doesn’t really want to see some silly sixteen-year-old girl show up at his office. I never went.

I still think of him when I drive by that building.

Part of me wants to believe he was just a friendly, helpful teacher. My dramatic writer mind puts a different spin on it. Ah, that crazy writer mind.

My point isn’t whether or not my chemistry teacher was innocent and foolish in his thoughtfulness. My point is—-I don’t know. I rarely trust myself to know, for sure, what someone else is really up to. One little voice says, things are not what you think. Another little voice says, you’re over-thinking again, you just want there to be a story here. Stop imagining things.

But I’m always imagining things.

Anyway. When people tell me they like something I’ve written, at first I believe them. Then I don’t. Then I do. Then I can’t decide.

An agent has asked to see more pages of one manuscript. Said agent may or may not feel enthusiastic about me. I can’t tell. So far I could believe this agent has a particular type of personality and is very busy and I shouldn’t worry too much. Or I could believe that this agent is just being nice, making a little extra effort to be sure, and isn’t really that interested. That when it comes down to it, said agent will look at my work, pause, and say no.

And if said agent says no, I’ll spend a lot of time trying to figure out what I did wrong. I won’t be able to decide if it was me (my novel isn’t that good) or the agent (my novel just isn’t that individual’s thing).

I’m sure to keep the rejection letter though. After all, I’ve still got that bracelet.

Faking

I got through high school and college without a boyfriend. I had a few dates, but no one you could call a boyfriend. (By boyfriend I mean someone who would actually refer to me as his girlfriend.)

those college days

So after dating (and I use the term loosely) guys who seemed incapable of anything resembling a actual relationship, I was willing to be someone else.

A friend set me up on a blind date–the reason she decided he and I would make a good pair was that he was taller than me, the general belief being that no relationship begins when the woman is taller than the man. Fine. All my blind dates had been based on height.

We went on a double date to see a play, and while sparks didn’t fly, when he called me to ask me out again, I said yes.

The thing about seeing a play is that you don’t talk much. And when you’re on a double date, you can let the other established couple do all the talking. You can end the evening not revealing much about yourself at all.

He showed up for our second date wearing running shoes, jeans, silver belt buckle, and a plaid short-sleeve shirt. I wore a copper-colered silk blouse, dressy black shorts (pleated and almost to the knee), black stockings, and black flats. And he said, “It’s too bad that’s not a skirt.”

My roommate said to him, “The thing you want to say is, ‘You look great.’”

He looked back at me. “You do. You do look great.”

This, I thought, was going to be a wasted evening.

But okay. Open mind! Positive thinking!

Then I had to climb up the steps of his oversized pickup truck with gun rack.

Open mind! Ooo! Look at that red flag! Isn’t it pretty?

When we pulled into the Denny’s parking lot, my mind made a foolish decision. I decided to barely speak to him and to tell him next to nothing myself. I decided not to be me. I would be the way I thought a desirable girl was supposed to be.

I’d be rubbish at it, of course, and he’d never want to see me again.

All through dinner he talked. I’d ordered a salad, which I’d never done before on dates because salads are too girly and I like to eat. I nodded, and said things like, “Really?” and “Hmmm.” and “Oh, interesting.”

He said, “So, you’re working on some kind of paper thing?”

“Yeah. My Master’s thesis–but you know, I like have to do it.”

He changed the subject. “You’re thinking of joining, what is it, the Peace Corps or something?”

I shrugged. “I’ve filled out the paperwork and had my interview.”

“But you might not go, right?”

I shrugged and changed the subject.

At the end of the evening, I let him come upstairs. My roommate wasn’t home. When he said I was amazing, I assumed this was just talk to let him stay until morning. He told me I was the most interesting girl he’d ever met. “Maybe so,” I said, ” But you’re still going to have to leave soon.”

He said he thought I was “the one.”

He said a few more ridiculous things. They were things no one else had ever said to me, the sorts of things a lovestruck boyfriend ought to say. But he wasn’t my boyfriend and after a while I made him leave.

And that, I thought, was that. I’d talked about almost nothing and let him think the night would end differently than it did. And he lived over an hour away. Surely he wouldn’t call back.

Well, he called. A lot. He sent flowers. He sent a teddybear. He sent a poem. He told my friend that he knew I was the right woman for him.

When my friend asked what I had done to the poor guy, all I could say was, “I wasn’t even me!”

I did feel bad I’d led him on, but I hadn’t thought it would actually work.

I was angry though that apparently the only way I could get a guy to pursue me was to lie. From the moment I’d ordered that salad to the moment I kissed him goodnight at the door, I had been faking who I was. The fake me was called amazing.

The real me…not so much.

All these years later I remember this and wonder about my writing. All the rejections and no agent calling me, I wonder–what about my writing should I change? What would make my work desirable? Maybe I should write about completely different things in completely different ways.

I worry that I would have not to be me.

And then! And then I would have an agent.

But it might be an agent who likes teddybears holding heart-shaped balloons.

Maybe a Temper Tantrum

Sometimes I may begrudge every other published writer everything.

You know, in moments of personality collapse. Meaning, those moments when I’m not the great and fantabulist soul I want to be. (Yes. Fantabulist.) Those moments when I’m resistant, cranky, jealous, and generally not nice.

(All you saints out there can begin throwing stones at any time.)

Talk about publishing makes me cranky. Traditional publishing, e-publishing, indie publishing, self-publishing, publishing in the cogs of the machine, publishing with the rebels, publishing with the I-know-more-than-you-and-you’re-an-idiot crowd, publishing at all is getting on my nerves. As if the effort to write, the constant rejection, the sleep-deprived state of trying to do everything weren’t enough, now I can be hassled absolutely every choice I make.

Well, these articles are not directed at me personally. There isn’t much use in getting into a snit.

No maybe about it though. This is my temper tantrum. And you may want to leave the room.

No. I don’t clean house enough. I don’t volunteer or participate in my kid’s school enough, I don’t eat well enough, I don’t exercise enough, I don’t manage money well enough, I don’t call my friends enough, I don’t keep up with the news enough, I don’t help others enough, I don’t understand enough, I don’t write well enough…

It sure is exhausting not being enough.

I’ve read many interesting and persuasive articles about what is wrong with publishing today and the speed with it the publishing world is changing. I wish I were 20 just so it wouldn’t seem exhausting.

I really wish I could see a self-published (e-published, indie published, whatev) book with a cover I liked. That would help. Seriously. If you know of any great ones, please post a link in the comments. I don’t mean okay or that’s nice ones. I want one that makes me eyes happy.

Of course, what I really want is to be a good writer.

Do I believe that I could self-publish my novels as they are right now and have readers and make money?

No.

This is either because I’m just remarkably honest or markedly insecure. Or crazy. Or hoping for the perfect encouragement.

Of course, I post short stories on my fiction blog (number 13 for today!) and that is self-publishing. And I don’t think my stories are all great. I’m happy with a few of them, but, they are flawed. So. What is the difference between that, and self-publishing a novel?

Don’t know. Doesn’t make sense to me.

But this is my temper tantrum.

Maybe this short-story-a-day thing is taking its toll.

On the other hand, while throwing my temper tantrum here, I got a nice message about my writing from a very nice person who doesn’t know half of how neurotic I can be.

Ah, nice things and flattery. I’m a sucker for them.

And in a little while I’ll stop tantruming, get up, and make my choices.

What about you? Thrown any good temper tantrums lately? Hissy fits? Explosions?

Feel better?

The Common Sense Page from My Brain

The ink is my pen is frozen and so are the keys on my keyboard. Really! It’s true!

Okay. Really, nothing is wrong with the ink or the keyboard. The problem is in my head.

One or two of you may know that a while ago an agent asked to see some pages of my novel. Very exciting, of course.

A few email exchanges and I like said agent. So far, so good.

Agent tells me that the beginning doesn’t pull. What do you think?

Hmm. It isn’t that I dislike those first chapters, but I know the rest of the book, and I know–in my papery, inky, obsessed book-shaped heart–that the first few chapters do not really have much to do with the rest of the story.

I’ll rewrite the beginning. Would that be okay?

The agent agrees to look at the whole novel when I’m done with my edits.

So further, so better. Maybe.

Now the ink won’t move. I know the beginning may not pull a reader in. But I don’t know what worked either. What am I cutting? What should I keep? What was likable enough to keep this conversation going? I’ll read the rest. Then something was okay with it or why bother?

But what?

I cut a few things. I changed a scene.

Have I made it worse?

Someone has torn the common sense page from my brain.

What isn’t missing is the page explaining everything a writer can do wrong. That page is duplicated a thousand times.

Here is an agent willing to talk to me, and my spine cracks under the pressure.

Ridiculous.