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. 

The 'Dear John' I Sent to My Agent

I have ended the arrangement with my dear agent. The contract expired months ago, but we hung in there together, despite the fact that she was ill for most of last year and was so far behind with her work.

It was a very hard decision for me. She absolutely loved The Place of Dreams - which title she suggested rather than the original, somewhat cumbersome, Hafan Deg. So I will keep it. It's almost representational of all my writing - for when we write, doesn't it feel like a kind of dreaming?

And I continue to dream about what is possible for all my work, despite the setbacks.

Finding an agent who has fallen in love with your work is a very special thing. I clung to the idea that this was the one, this time we would get somewhere...but it wasn't to be. I didn't want to add more stress to her days with constant emails, didn't want to ask where the manuscript had been. I was so very, very patient, and I truly am not getting any younger.

But on Monday, sending off queries for my other books (which I mentioned I'd started doing in my last post), I suddenly saw how underhanded I was being. It felt a little treacherous, even though I had signed with her for only one book, over eighteen months ago. So I sent off my sad little message, suggesting it was time to find someone new. And it felt just like a 'Dear John' letter - really!

So The Place of Dreams is now out there in the agent-ozone, waiting to be opened, to be read, to get a nice "Interesting!" or "Do-able!" response. Or to join the other books on some kind of digital slush pile.

I'm sort of ok with it now, but I was a bit lost after I fired off that email on Monday. Trooper that she is, a true lady, she was friendly and understanding about my decision. She even agreed that we should remain in touch, shoot the breeze from time to time - my need more than hers, I suspect, as a writer does crave a certain amount of sympathy quite regularly.

And once again I'm back at QueryTracker and Publishers Marketplace, et al, every day, researching, researching, looking for that perfect agent who will fall in love with one of my manuscripts - well, let's be frank - who will fall in love with one of my queries.

Shakespeare wrote "The play's the thing!" as Hamlet tried to "...catch the conscience of the King." But the Query is the most important thing from where I'm sitting, as it tries to catch the eye of an agent. Of course, Shakespeare didn't have to look for an agent - in fact, some say he was the agent for the real playwright of all those works he claimed as his.

Boy, did I get off topic. It's been happening a lot, lately.

This querying business could damage one's mental health. Just saying...

Empathy for the Unpublished Writer

I know I've been very quiet, but I've been working hard. It seems irrelevant to put my word count up on my blog as I used to, because this is something that is meant to inspire me, but could irritate those who are in the doldrums with their own work. So nothing about the new book. Absolutely nothing.

My agent is due to check in with me any day. I am not feeling very optimistic right now, as it's been a long time since she sounded really gung-ho about my book's prospects. So, in the interim, pragmatist that I am, I've started querying agents about my other books, not the one that's presently spoken for. Figured that if I got an offer, I could then decide who I go with.

And what a wild ride it is. I'd completely forgotten the amount of work involved in querying.  At least now I have the luxury of deciding which book might suit which agent, and it's rather an enjoyable experience, despite the usual rejections.

Speaking of rejections, does it hurt for an agent to set up a nice, friendly, personal-looking form letter that almost uplifts us? I find the "Not for us, thanks." response totally degrading. Are we not worth just a little bit extra for all the research we do -- all those lovely letters we compose directed to their special preferences, the carefully submitted synopsis and chapters in the body of the email, or as attachments in Word, or submitted via their online forms, no synopsis because they're evil, letter query only, or five pages, ten pages, one chapter, fifty pages, whatever? I am going a little mad here, you'll see... And all of this AFTER we've written the best damned book we were capable of, perfectly proofed, edited again and again, and formatted within an inch of its life.

So (takes deep breath) I sympathize with all of you in this rocky boat. It takes huge courage to decide we are ready to put our work out there. It takes a massive amount of faith and belief in ourselves. I salute all of you for hanging in.

But when we rush to our computers every morning to see what the overnight mail has brought us, it would be so nice, assuming there is yet another rejection, for it to be worded kindly, with empathy. "Not for us, thanks." is like a slap in the face.

Good job we all have thick skin (don't we?) and know we are worthy of far, far more. It will come!

Love you.

88 Books That Shaped America

In case you missed it, The Library of Congress has just released its list of 88 Books 'That Shaped America'. This link is courtesy of USA Today.

I've been too busy lately (the writing fever is back) to even drop by my own blog, but I thought you'd want to see this.

It's reassuring to see some of my own very special favorites, especially "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn" (which convinced me to become a writer) and "To Kill a Mockingbird", and, of course, "The Catcher in the Rye", but nice that they didn't overlook "Silent Spring", which is as relevant today as it was when it was written almost fifty years ago.

I've read most of these books, devouring them during a steep learning curve in my twenties and thirties, but one I will never read is "In Cold Blood." There are some things I'd prefer not to think about.

Until next time, whenever that is, take care.

"Place of Dreams" is On the Road

I heard back from my agent. She's sent Place of Dreams off to several editors over the past couple of months, and she included the names of a few of the publishers. I loved Googling them and imagining by manuscript waiting to be read by one of their best.

This aspect of the business is new to me. I dispensed with the services of my last agent because I received no feedback from him at all...and he refused to give me a list of people he'd approached. So hearing back from my agent, my new friend, who addresses me as "Dear, Dear Fran", is remarkable.

You're all sitting there thinking, "Well, what did she think an agent would do?" I'm saying I just don't know. These mysterious people are capable of all kinds of behaviors, according to everything I've heard. Some regularly speak to you (well, I'm a bit geographically awkward for regular chats), and others apparently check in by email every couple of weeks. And some never contact you and become cross if you take the initiative and timidly ask what the heck is going on.

I believe my agent is just about right. I don't need constant reassurance, just a note now and then to say that my book is out there on the digital road.



I've completed the chapter synopsis for my new book, in rough form, naturally, because this is the very early stage of setting up the structure. I think I have my ending, which is vital to me, and I've finished the draft of the first chapter. Still not quite sure about the title. Have one, but I'm tinkering with it.

Writing in my head a lot, during the day, and just before falling asleep. It's becoming so real, plot-wise, that I'm barely making notes, unless it's a particularly clever bit of dialogue. This is the slow time now, trying to get really caught up in the thing. I'm getting closer and closer every day to taking off with it, feeling the rush of words that can't be ignored.

All this painting lately, and I've really missed my writing...

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.

"...Stay Drunk on Writing So Reality Cannot Destroy You."

Ray Bradbury said that, and I like it.

I do get drunk on writing. Painting isn't the same. I become a bit starchy, and frown a lot more, especially when my little treasures don't sell. Writing transports me. I resist returning to reality.

So I believe I will have to get back to that fifth book in the New Year. Which leads me to wonder why anyone else would be interested in that.

Before we all became so jaded about the publishing industry, there was such a sense of belonging and excitement reading writers' blogs. I was hungry to hear how others were doing, what their feelings were. (I also made a few new friends I've come to count on, some of whom are actually published.) But I believe there's been a distinct shift in thinking. It's tedious to hear, once more, that an agent hasn't been found, or that an agent was found but is finding the book a bit of a hard-sell. To sum up: nothing is happening. Who wants to read that on a regular basis? Masochists most of us are, but why make things worse?

People are split into two camps, it seems, judging by comments on other sites:

Those who love uplifting blogs, where the writer has just sold their first novel, and there's a mention of foreign rights, a TV movie, perhaps. And we know this blogger, don't we? Followed her all last year, didn't we? And now we can share in a little of the triumph.

And there are those who frankly enjoy a bit of misery. Hearing how terribly so-and-so was rejected, and how bitter he is about the whole process. Never going to write again. (Or worse, he's going to self-publish.) People so like reading this sort of thing, and it makes them feel less alone with their own frustrations, and possibly a whole lot better.

But blogs that are neither triumphant nor terribly, terribly poignant are just plain blah, let's face it.  And that's where mine is now. The only new thing  is that my agent (who has been in poor health) wrote that she is 'ready to get back in step and get this book (The Place of Dreams) sold, for heaven's sake!'

And so, in this last week of 2011, I wanted to let you know where my head is. I wanted to thank you for your readership and your comments over the past three years, despite the blahs. Oh, I've been gung-ho and rhapsodic at times, but Reality kicked in and now I need to re-immerse myself in the writing so that it can't destroy me.

My wish for all of us in 2012 is that we all get drunk together on our writing. And screw reality.

Thanks for the tip, Mr. Bradbury.

Christopher Buckley's Homage to Christopher Hitchens

Insightful and moving. Christopher Hitchens might have written it for himself.

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/12/postscript-christopher-hitchens.html

Christopher Eric Hitchens (13 April 1949 – 15 December 2011)

Goodbye, Christopher.


We’ll miss you.



“We are all atheists about most of the gods humanity has ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further.”

- Richard Dawkins (1941-)

Why I'm Not Writing the Fifth Novel

Most of you know by now that I also paint. I've bored you often enough with the little frustrations that brings - I call it Creative Duality - but it was once far more than that.

When I was much younger, I wanted to be a serious jazz singer, and performed professionally a number of times, mostly in down-at-heel pubs. I didn't care for the road trips, or my audiences, for that matter. (And my mother wasn't too pleased with my career choice.) Perhaps if I had found that perfect little club, things would have been different. In any case, I am far too private to have enjoyed that life. My thought that I quite liked the idea of being an actor was also nipped in the bud around then. Public scrutiny isn't something I long for. (I've mentioned that before.) I can handle a blog, or one of  my books in a book store, but standing on a stage? Oh, my...very scary stuff.They say most of us fear public speaking (for me, just standing) almost more than death itself. When you're very young, you're supremely brave - witness my stint at singing. These days, I'm a total wallflower. I really don't want it any other way.

Then I decided it would be great to actually play jazz, and took up the flute. (I would be part of a group, and could hide behind the trombonist, couldn't I?) I wanted so much to be a professional musician, to be part of that life, both classical and jazz. Musicians are fascinating people, truly doing what they love. That only lasted until I ran out of money and couldn't pay my rent, so pawned the flute. I have another one now (after many years) but still can't play much on it, having forgotten the Haydn that I perfected at the conservatorium. Still I promised myself that I would dedicate a regular amount of my time to practice. So why does the flute case look so dusty?

But I always kept up with my painting and writing, dividing my time fairly equally. Now I find I can't do both. It occurs to me that when I paint, I create characters and scenes just as I do with my fiction. I have the bare bones of an idea as I sit down, and then let the thing develop. Exactly the way I am with my novel-writing.

I'm told that my syndrome (because along with the arts, I'm also obsessed with the environment, history, philosophy and world affairs) is called Polymathy. It's an ugly word. A classic Polymath is extremely clever, probably qualified in all the sciences, as well as able to compose and play memorable music, write poetry...possibly turning out the odd oil painting or two when he or she has a spare hour. So not having quite that much talent, or formal education, I guess I am a Generalist with Polymath leanings.

So this is an apology of sorts. I have done no writing. Painting almost a picture a day these last few weeks means I've no inclination to switch to the novel. I jump out of bed with the same excitement I usually have when I'm deep in a book, of course. Otherwise I'd stop doing it.

I have sold a painting. One lone painting. That's okay. That's one more than I've done with any of my books. (I've heard nothing from my agent for a couple of months.)

Just wanted to stop by. You know where I am. You can always check out my art blog link if you want to know what I'm up to.