Ending the Year Without a Whimper...

I know it's been ages since I've blogged. For those of you who have followed me, it's been a rather long haul, listening to my general frustrations. I hope my basic optimism shone through, all the same. I'd hate to be accused of ending the year with a whimper.

On the agent front, I have nothing new to add. The manuscript for my first book, A Place of Dreams, was read in full by a wonderful, to-die-for New York agent, but eventually rejected as "too quiet". Isn't that sad? Sad for me, of course, but also for all those writers out there who still believe there is a place in literature for stories that contain nothing blood-curdling, gruesome, or violent. According to the agent, the writing is remarkable, characters well-formed, plot momentum excellent, but, in the end, not exciting enough. 

I still have a Full out there for one of my other books, which is in the supernatural genre so beloved by most, but I find it hard to feel much optimism about it. The truth is, as this year closes, I'm not thinking much about my writing at all. I've put everything on the figurative back burner of my brain. 

In the last week, I've produced six new paintings, and have more in my head ready to go for the New Year. They are amazingly therapeutic. I have no idea what other rejected writers do to heal their wounds (Chocolate? Shopping? Booze? Weed? Sex?), but I wish them nothing but the best for 2013, once the healing is complete.

My latest story, which is sitting at about the third chapter, will remain dormant for a while. I found I was thinking about how I could tart it up to make it less quiet, more violent, a little gruesome, and realized that this is a cop-out. I write what I feel, and I don't particularly like writing that other stuff. I certainly don't write what I think will be popular. It's my curse, I guess. 

In the meantime, let's keep on keeping on, all of us. Our eventual readers are waiting for us. (Such patience!) 

May you all have a wonderful Yuletide season and rewarding New Year. 

Earning Something from Writing...Daydream of an Indomitable Writer

I had never missed a month in the years I've been posting this blog. Until now. I overlooked January 2012. Shame on me. I've been painting. No excuse at all.

I am quite poor, you know, mostly as a result of traveling too much (internationally relocating too often, to be precise) and following my two other major raisons-d'etre - writing and painting. I am able to augment my meagre income with the occasional sale of humble artworks, but there is absolutely no financial gain from my (less humble) fiction. To date. Which leads me to my little dream of 'what if?', which rarely presents itself, but when it does, I indulge it.

What if I do sell one of my novels...even all of them (four so far)? How would this change my life? Being very equitable in my attitude to money, I'm not expecting to reap huge rewards. Why should A earn so much, compared with B's earning so little, for the same standard of work? So my theoretical advance from a publisher would be suitably undramatic. A few grand, ten or even twenty. Wouldn't that be nice? No expectations of six figures, which I think is a fantasy some cling to.

To be earning something from my writing would have to be the greatest thing in the world, even if it barely covered a mortgage. I rent at present. It makes me miserable. I am only truly happy owning my own home, even if a lot of it is co-owned by a bank.

Selling a book - whatever the print run - would be heaven. And I've started thinking about that scenario again. Jaded and disillusioned as I sometimes get about the industry, there is still this microscopic - no -  nano-hint of hope in my brain.

You're probably aware (if you've read my snippets before) that I have an agent. She was quite ill in 2011, but is well into recovery now, and actively trying to seduce editors into looking at her undoubtedly fat list of manuscripts. One of them is mine. I daydream about her dialogue with one of said editors..."You must read this one first," she says. "This one will blow your socks off," she says. "Don't look at another submission until you've read this," she says. Oh, and I just love how warmly she says it, and how the editor's eyes widen with anticipation. This then, she thinks, is the one we've been waiting for, to put this company back in the limelight.

I love my daydreams. For a while, I believe. We writers have to be the most optimistic people on the face of the earth. But you knew that.

It's now one year since I completed my last book. Enough is enough. This painting has to stop. It's a substitute for my real work. I hope I have better news next time.

The Incredible Patience of Writers

It takes a huge amount of patience to be a writer. It's a good thing, because those with less strength of commitment, less drive, simply won't finish a book in the first place, permitting a tiny window of opportunity for those of us who persevere.

But, along with the teeth-grinding, the frowning, the cursing, and the occasional weeping with sadness and joy --- the actual day-in, day-out writing -- you need patience for a whole lot more.  Finishing a book is almost easy in comparison with what's ahead.

I've already covered the research part of finding an agent. I've written dozens (a lot discarded) of queries, synopses, blurbs, and made sure I was personal enough with my emails to touch the heart of even the toughest agent. Stupidly, I now understand, I even thanked them when they sent me sharp, rote, rejections.

Getting an agent is a stupendous task. I don't care what you've read about it, that so-and-so found someone through a friend of a friend, or met someone at a writers' conference (I've never even been to one of those...), or had three frenzied agents plying a contract. In real life, in my life, it doesn't happen that way. It took me two years to find a good one.

But you plod on, try to stay optimistic, start on another book. Tell yourself that it will all come out right in the end. You have supreme patience. What choice do you have, after all?

I've heard from my agent at last. She tells me that The Place of Dreams is doing the rounds of editors as I write this. I'm grateful, of course, and a little awed by the idea, but I should be terribly excited too, shouldn't I? It's just that I've grown so used to the time involved in every aspect of this journey. I control the urge to whoop and holler about this new phase because each time I've even whispered a low 'Hurrah!" under my breath, I've had to wait so long for something else to happen. Had I been receiving a salary for the amount of hours I put in just on the agent-chase alone, I would be able to make a downpayment on a little cottage somewhere.

If an enthusiastic editor is found, the next hurdle will be the publisher's editorial board. How scary does that sound? I wonder how long they take? Finally, if they find it print-worthy, a book will be produced. I think this process could be upwards of a year or more.

I read somewhere that it takes, on average, three times the amount of time to publish a novel, as it takes to write it. My first manuscript was hanging around for a decade, but the time I spent on it -- the actual writing - was probably under two years. Therefore, if the above is true, it should take up to six years to get it published, assuming it has any sort of literary merit. Hmm. I finished the total re-write for it back in 2008. I still have another three years to go.

So, there, I've finished today's rant. I know you guys can take it. You're dedicated writers, right?

Remember that old song, 'Life Gets Tedious, Don't It?'  (The full lyrics are here. and Carson Robison sings it here. It's really, really old.)

Hound dog howling so forlorn
Laziest dawg that ever was born
He's howlin' 'cause he's settin' on a thorn
Just too tired to move over.

Well, I'm a bit like that dog. Life does get tedious, but I'm darned if I'm going to move off this painful thorn called Writing. I'll put up with it, but it's not from laziness; I simply have no choice. And I'll remain as patient as ever, even if I grumble about it from time to time.

Talk to you soon. Oh, and sorry for the forlorn howling.