Writing a Sequel to The Place of Dreams

I officially signed Hafan Deg with the lovely agent on January 3. When I refer to her, I have difficulty saying 'my' agent, as it sounds pretentious. So I say, 'the lovely agent I signed with', which is less in your face. As I become more confident, I'll feel less selfconscious using the 'my'.

Her first official suggestion was to change the name of the manuscript. It's now called The Place of Dreams, which you've probably seen in the sidebar. The second biggie is that she asked if I would consider a sequel to the book. In all my dealings with agents, hinting gently that I have other manuscripts I want to sell, I've never thought about sequels for any of them.

My first reaction was that it couldn't be done. The book had been rather exhausting, taking a long time to get it the way I wanted it. It's something of a saga,  and it took many re-writes to bring the major raison d'etre to a satisfactory conclusion, all the loose ends tied up, and everyone more or less living happily ever after. But I haven't stopped thinking about it since the idea was presented to me--how my protagonist, Karen, could pick up from where we left off.  I now think it could work. I'm two-thirds through the fourth novel, at a tricky forensic pathology (Google is brimming with information on that!) bit in the book, but Karen is now popping into my head constantly and I've even started making some notes.

If my (did it!) agent suggested a sequel, it surely indicates that she believes Karen is too interesting to abandon to one book--that people will be so involved they will want more. Considering how long it took me to get her this far, it's all rather surprising, but very rewarding. As I become more comfortable in this role of agented writer, I'll ask more questions, as there is still much that I don't know, but right now I'm humbled by it all, and will probably remain that way until an editor is found, or until my agent tells me to relax and enjoy the ride.

I think I'm a fairly good writer, certainly do the best I can manage, but it's hard to be too confident in this business, isn't it? How awful to brag about it all, only to fall on your face when a publisher isn't forthcoming. I appreciate a certain amount of irritable rumbling from some of you, 'She's working on her fourth novel?'  But I'll keep on writing, whatever happens. There could be ten novels, who knows? Not one of them published. We don't write to publish, but do have a need to share our ideas, our view of the world, and publication is the only way to do that on a scale larger than this blog.

I suppose what I'm saying is that you should never stop writing just because you have other manuscripts tucked away that have generated little interest. Ten novels, even twenty, doesn't preclude the publication of your very next one, and with luck all those others will then be picked up, too. Except for British writer, R.J. Ellory (he writes who-dunnits exclusively set in the U.S., and does it well, even as he lives in Birmingham, England!), who confesses he has over twenty manuscripts in his attic that never sold, that will remain there. He has since published many subsequent novels, and it frustrates me that he hasn't felt the need to look at the first twenty again, but perhaps, after all this time of honing his craft, he is honest enough to acknowledge that they just weren't good enough, and not worth resurrecting.

Over twenty novels discarded--now that's what I call a true apprenticeship. Good luck with yours. Perhaps you're about to receive your Certificate of Completion in the form of a contract. Not that it will guarantee anything, but you can have it framed, and show it off to your friends. I now have three! I'm hoping the last one holds true to its historical association with good fortune.

Until next time, stay safe, and get back to work.

A Writer's Apprenticeship

What a year this was! 2010, the year we were all forced to come to terms with the new financial reality (all except Australia, which seems blythely unaware of more than a slight hiccup somewhere over there). We started thinking of new ways to make, save, or hide money, and it's brought out a lot of hitherto unacknowledged creativity, if some of those heart-warming TV stories are anything to go by. Some of us are worse off than others, struggling just to get by, and the rest are worried that it could happen to them. But we've become more understanding, more empathetic, through all of this. All in all, 2010 was a year with little to show for itself. But--the good news is that you don't have to keep up with the Joneses anymore, because they're probably having a rougher time than you are.

In the 70s, I was mad for books and TV programs that featured the Simple Life, whether it was back-to-the-land escapist stuff, decorating on a shoe-string, or how to look fabulous wearing clothes from the thrift shop. It was cool to be green, although I did it because I had to, single as I was with three small children in tow, but the philosophy behind it became something of a mantra, and I try to live this way today, even though it's just me now. So learn to enjoy this belt-tightening. It feels like you've suddenly given up bread, or coffee, or even cigarettes, and you'll have withdrawal symptoms, but you can do it. After a while you'll be lecturing others on how to cut corners, where the best deals are.

Oh, and if you think I'm being patronizing? --I've been there, guys. When my husband left, and the kids were tiny, I  lived at a shelter with them, later used food stamps until I was able to scratch out a living and stand on my own two rather wobbly legs. It was then that I decided that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable again. I've had some rough times since, but they were my rough times, not the result of someone else's irresponsibility.

And eventually you get through it. It's corny, but you really do appreciate life, and friendship, and all that other stuff, far more when you've eaten tuna and rice three times in a week. (My grown children are still not too fond of tuna and rice.)

So I'm sorry that my posting today doesn't appear much like a writer's blog, but, if you think about it a bit, it really is. All those years of struggle, of worrying about whether or not one of the children was too ill for school, which in turn meant I'd lose a day's work, or simply trying to keep them in shoes (one of the most difficult tasks), was my writing apprenticeship. You write it all down, or go mad--at least, that's how I was. I wrote a lot of black humor, ironically, because that's how I saw the world. But we got through it, and you'll perhaps be surprised that I don't regret any of it. I can write equally about poverty, and comfortable living, because I've known both. And, to this day, I write about relationships, in all age groups, because my friendships over the years have been my saving grace. 

It would have been great if those writings in the lean years had generated income, but I had no idea what I was doing, or even how serious I was about writing. And so I had to reach this grand decade to decide that it's time to do something about it. Notice that I'm not at all impatient. See that I have reached the age of philosophizing. What is, is. You know, a touch of Buddhist thinking goes a long way.

In the meantime, I am over one-third into the fourth novel, Uncharacteristic Behavior. This is my first whodunnit, and at times I wish I hadn't. It's very tricky stuff to write. If you're at all interested, I've added it to the right side bar (click on the cover to read the synopsis). Speaking of covers, do you like my artwork? Of course, it's unlikely any publisher would use it, because they employ their own people, don't they? (And we wouldn't want to take their jobs away from them.)  But I think my pictures are evocative of the subject matter. Anyway, I like them.

Have a great holiday season. Stay home. What's so great about being somewhere else at this time of the year? You need to bum around, flop on the couch, and not bother with makeup. You don't do that at a resort (you'll be lucky) or someone else's place. And you get to sleep in your own lovely bed.

See you next year.

Surviving the Move

It's been over three months since my last post. Some of you have stopped looking for me, I know. Well, everyone, having recovered from the stress of my move, I am as back to normal as I can ever be. (I wasn't that normal to start with.)

From where I'm sitting now, I can hear a bunch of rainbow parakeets chattering and screeching in the trees in the courtyard here. Members of the parrot family, they are the noisiest birds in the world, but I love every minute of it. They sound so happy to be alive! I don't know if it's their exclusive food, but they hang out in bottle brush trees (so called because their red blossoms look like bottle brushes), and they sip on the nectar all day long. Having two of these trees directly outside means I hear all the action.

So I know where I am; it's audible. Then there is that unique smell - of eucalyptus, jacaranda, and other flora that gently surrounds you the minute you land here. It's as different to Brighton (in both England and Canada) as tea is to coffee, or whiskey is to vodka, but I'm always grateful I've had the opportunity to appreciate all these places, along with the others. I'm a wanderer. Like the song. But time to stay put now, not just for my sake, but my dear cats.

I finished Summer Must End back in August as I predicted. I have yet to pull together a one-page synopsis and shorter jacket blurb for it, but there's plenty of time to do that. With the two other manuscripts patiently waiting their turn, I doubt much will happen for quite a while. Does that matter to me? Not at all.  I am already well into my fourth novel and I'm guessing that there will be more before Summer comes under the microscope. You have to have huge patience in this writing game. But you guys already know that.

The great news is - dare I tell you? You might recall that I dropped an agency last year, and perhaps you thought I didn't  take the process seriously enough - I have a new agent. She is absolutely lovely. The ideal for me always (a bit of a fantasy, I thought)  was having an agent who was very friendly, uncomplicated, excellent at her craft, and available. And then there she was, like an old friend in the way she responded to Hafan Deg (although I'm persuaded that title should change to something more recognizable). It's quite a shock to deal with someone who communicates so easily. I send an email, and she replies immediately, always sounding enthusiastic. Oh, my... (Pinching myself again.)

Jeeves longing to get out there...

Baby contemplatng the garden...

So there it is.


The move to the Antipodes is over; my cats survived it with only a little resentment; I'm working on my new novel; I'm agented for the first. Oh, and another bonus: the local library is directly across the street. What more could a girl want? Seriously.

Love being back here. More about the new book next time.

The End of the Novel - Summer Must End

I know I've been very quiet - for almost two months, in fact - but I've been busy. Summer Must End is in the final furlong. I'll finish it by next weekend.

When I started this book on September 6, 2009, I'd already been composing in my head for months. I knew how it would end. I always know how my books will end, like Stephen King, with whom I share that particular approach. I don't start a book until I have the ending. But getting to that end is the thing - that's where all the exciting, unplanned things occur.

When I write (and I've mentioned this before), I quickly work on each chapter, getting down everything I feel  I need to say at that moment, and later - the same day, or the next morning, whenever - I carefully edit the draft, and move on to the next segment. When that chapter is complete, I go back to the very beginning, because ideas and dialogue are constantly coming to me during the time that I'm not physically writing, roughly scribbled on scraps of paper, and they now need to be inserted. Another careful proofread (well, as careful as any normal person manages) and I'm on to the next chapter. And so on. So what started out as (say) a 10-page chapter becomes 14 pages, perhaps, and the manuscript is becoming the final draft with each re-read and tweak.

The point today is that I'm about to start that final chapter. This one is the payoff - this is what writing all the other 90,000-plus words was leading to, and I'm both excited and relieved. There will be more inserts, of course, before this thing is ready for an agent. No doubt I'll even be tweaking it after I've made my move from Canada. But it will be ready for my trusted critics, those dear friends who again could take the time to give me their own opinions on it. I can only hope they love it as much as I do. It's my homage to Ontario. It's my farewell to Canadian rural life. I leave here at the end of September.

Sometimes when I'm deeply immersed in the work (or is that submerged?),  I find myself wondering if my un-writerly life is going okay. I work on average 5 hours a day, skipping some days to do the usual chores, and then I feel as if I've just returned from a trip, because writing the story, being surrounded by all these characters, genuinely makes me feel as if I've been away. I look at my cats, and wonder if my occasional cuddles in the evening have been enough. Are they feeling neglected?  Baby and Jeevesie, I promise I'll make it up to you. (And soon you'll be chasing lizards together.)

I'll continue my blog, of course - more regularly, I hope - after my move to Sydney. For those of you who have hung in there with me, despite my long absences, I wonder if you'll detect a difference in my demeanor. The light is so different there, and it makes me different. Being so geographically remote, you tend to feel less involved with the world than you do in Canada. My thinking becomes lighter, less introspective and intense. What kind of novel might that produce?

What I haven't mentioned over the last little while is that two - yes, two - lovely agents are presently looking at my first two manuscripts, respectively. They both seem very upbeat about them, and the fact that they communicated this to me is, in itself, a wonder to  behold. We all know how very mysterious most agents appear to us, so this is almost miraculous - this one-to-one contact. I am practical enought to realize that It could come to nothing, which is my usual experience, but one never knows.

Summer must end, but perhaps we'll have an Indian summer. I always live in hope.

Talk to you soon.

I Wonder What My Characters Are Up To?

Since I haven't been devoting myself to the current novel, I feel I've let the side down. Not just my readers, who could be anxious to see whether or not the writing life is all it's cracked up to be, but my characters. Stuck. That's what they are. In limbo. Hanging, like a proofreader's "widow".

Because I am somewhat weird, perhaps, I picture them doing things behind my back, like teenagers left alone at home. I imagine they have been going places, talking about interesting stuff, having the occasional party, and I wasn't invited.  I could check in, of course. In one second I would see that they've been absolutely nowhere, but are still just about to sit down to a scrummy vegetarian Christmas dinner, all of them frozen in time. But I don't check. I rather prefer the idea that they are out there doing their thing, laughing, weeping, and loving.

My own days are taken up with final arrangements for my cats' transport. No one likes to send cats on international journeys. If I had my way, they'd sit next to me on the plane, but that's impossible. I try not to think about it too much, as I look into their little faces. Cats are tough. They will be cranky with the whole business,  but they'll get over it. The experience is going to be more emotionally draining for me, when the time comes.

My friend in Oz asked me today if I was sure about this move. Well, first, it's a bit late to change my mind. All the arrangements, except for booking my flight, are in place. But, second, I know it's time to leave again. Because of the way my offspring are scattered around the globe, it's difficult to settle for too long in any one place. I divide my time almost equally between Canada and Australia, and visit England regularly. All three countries are important to me.  I am an odd arrangement of English, Australian and Canadian. During sports finals, particularly the Olympics, I am totally torn about which teams to root for, and end up being complacent about it. NOT the hockey, of course. There's only one team to cheer on there.  (I just hope I'll be able to get the NHL in Australia. There must be a way. Surely ESPN is available worldwide.)

Only about 15 weeks to go now. I don't know whether I'll get my characters in Summer Must End away from the Christmas dining table during that time. This avoidance is not Writer's Block, but Writer's Distraction. I've so many other things to deal with for now, and can't bring myself back to the novel. It's not going anywhere. A little more stress in the coming months could well produce even better writing. Well, that's what I tell myself.

So forgive the scarcity of my blogs, please. This, too, shall change, once I'm back to normal. Whatever that is.

Oh, do you like the new template? It's full of sky and brightness. I think it's a happy design.

Writing is so Egalitarian

It's been a while. I'm sorry about that. It's been a tiresome month, really. You have them - months like that. One thing after another, right?

I wish I could say that at least the writing is going well, but it's not. I have days when I manage a bunch of pages, but then I lose interest again.  It's the same attitude I have to this blog, which I'm ashamed of (the attitude, not the blog). I just can't seem to work up any enthusiasm for what I'm doing. This includes my move. I should be excited, but I'm not.

A Health Issue presented itself a month or so ago, nothing life-threatening, but certainly life-changing.  (Much time has been spent researching online.) I've been vegetarian/vegan most of my life, so I was floored by the diagnosis. I don't get sick. I don't get colds. I don't get backaches, or headaches, or any of that. I did my little exercise routine each day, including using my small weights.  I'd stopped smoking, too. I was such a good girl. But apparently blood tests don't lie. Smart-ass me was stunned. How could I possibly improve my diet? Of course, I could, and did, but at the time I thought I was already doing absolutely everything right. I know now that genetics has a lot to do with things, but who knew?

Years ago, when the doctor mentioned he thought I was expecting twins, I asked my mother if there were others in the family, and she said no.  Well, that was an outright fabrication. There were several sets of twins, it seems, but she didn't want to worry me, she said. What could be worrying about having twins? It was amazing! So, did anyone ever mention diabetes in my family? Of course not. That would imply some kind of genetic weakness, right? People might worry. And people might start really watching what they ate...

Anyway, I came to the conclusion that my mood of late is because of this challenge to my fitness-ego, and the fact that I have this undeniable and unforgiving birthday on Friday. It's an age where they start looking for cataracts and cute things like that.  I can't write down the number. Why confuse you? It's a mistake, after all. When I see it on a form, I raise my eyebrows and almost lean forward to correct it. That can't be me, can it? That must be someone else...

Which leads me back to Le Grande Move. My heart hasn't been in it. Fatigue sets in as I seal yet another box, and I wonder what the heck's wrong with me, to be doing this all over again. I should be taking things a bit easier, really, so they tell me. I should be settling down once and for all, they say. Am I not getting a bit past all this wandering about, they ask.

When the writing is going well (proof of the agelessness of passion, isn't it?), I can't wait to get to it each day, and even have difficulty turning off the computer at night. I want that feeling back. Writing has no age. Writing, like your animals, doesn't care what year you were born. Writing can be done at 15 or 95 (if you can still sit at your computer unaided). 

I like that about writing. It's so egalitarian.

Treme

It's the first time I've promoted a television show, but I'm overwhelmed by this one. Treme (pronounced "truh-may") is the best series I've seen in years. (The Canadian link is below the picture. If you're in the States, here's your link.)

In case you're wondering, Treme is a New Orleans neighborhood.

I have nothing to add. My words - clever though I sometimes imagine them - just won't do it justice. Watch it.

I can barely wait for next Sunday.

Still Querying, but Tiring Fast.

One of my dearest followers commented that I am always so uplifting with my blog, so very optimistic about my querying process, and I feel like a sham today because I have to admit that it's all smoke and mirrors.

The fact is that I'm a bit tired of this whole query business. I received another rejection today - very generous, very enthusiastic, but none-the-less a rejection. Even the best, most popular, writers must get jaded with the feedback they get at times, so it stands to reason that an unknown, unpublished writer would get saddened by it. I love to write, but it would be oh-so-sweet to be writing for others.

I'm tired of being told that I'm a very good writer, but that my books are too quiet, too instrospective, and not marketable in today's tough, thrill-seeking culture.  I don't write for that readership. Can it be that the very people who might enjoy my books only use their local libraries and have little influence over book sales? Am I writing for a similarly quiet and introspective group who wouldn't know a Kindle if one jumped up and bit them on the nose? Is there such a group? Am I, to put it bluntly, writing only for a phantom audience, perhaps only for myself?

But that was always enough, wasn't it, once upon a time? The pleasure of the words, the poetry, the cleverness we saw - we did it for ourselves, didn't we, as we toiled into the night? I used to show my mother when I was very small, and that was enough, and, much later, my most trusted friends or family members. At what point did it become something we just had to share with the world? When did it become an ego trip? What did we read by one of our favorite, well-published writers that triggered us to think, "I have something new to say about this, and folks will want to read it."?

So, today, I am feeling like Martin Amis's protagonist, Richard Tull, in The Information.  I am despondent, childishly resentful, totally shallow and weepily exhausted by my thankless querying adventure.

Of course, I'm very tired from all of this moving business. Still packing - not all at once, you understand, but as the mood takes me - but there's a lot of mental processing going on about it all the time, and I'm not sleeping well. There is stress, despite my cat-entertaining Hatha Yoga asanas.

I still have queries for two books out there, by the way.  All is not lost. Only my optimism, it seems, at least for the time being.

Like Fagin in Oliver!,  "I am reviewing the situation."  I'm quite good at that.

Nuts and Bolts of Writing 101, and Cats with Sweet Breath.

My cats had bad breath. The vet said they had gingivitis. General anasthetics  and several extractions (and a whole heap of money) were involved. It's done now, but it was rather a hellish week. They're home, of course, with sweet breath, reasonably themselves (although Baby is particularly grouchy with Jeeves - I've never heard such cat language - as if he caused all her discomfort).

But I did no new writing; I was too distracted to concentrate on the current manuscript. I did manage to tweak the short synopsis of Strachan's Attic. Sarahbeth suggested it needed to be a tiny bit more descriptive, that it's a ghost story, whether I like putting those words to it or not.  So I obliged. I guess it's clearer. I amended the sidebar and webpage blurb as well.

I'm no longer making the first chapters for all three novels available on my site, only the blurbs. I thought about it a lot. For those who know me, who like to keep up with my work, it was good to have them there,  and I'll do it for any new books for a brief period, but the idea that an agent might pop by on a whim is overly-optimistic. Knowing what we know about over-worked agents, do we really think that they go blog-browsing, looking for their next great writer? I doubt it. If they do, my blogs alone will have to suffice.

I've mellowed in the sixteen months since I started this blog. Looking back, I was so full of worries and questions, but these postings have been (I've said this before) like a mini-course in the nuts and bolts of writing. I mean, I know how to write (I should do, after all these years), but the technical stuff associated with producing an agent-worthy and pristine manuscript has been hugely useful. I've met so many remarkable writers here, published and unpublished, either because they contacted me, or I noticed them in my research, and they had their own personal anecdotes for producing the most professional-looking manuscript, the most eye-catching query.

I've finished that 101 course now, I guess. I think I've learned all the basic rules; I'm even confident enough to break some. I'm no longer that naive, tentative blogger I was at first. I wonder what's ahead. Just so long as you guys are there as well, I'll be fine. It's like belonging to the best club in the world. A Bloomsbury Group. An Algonquin Round Table. You could charge membership fees.

I have two agents who are prepared to read Hafan Deg's full manuscript. One had requested it over a year ago, just after I signed with the UK agent, and is still interested, but away for two weeks. The other (a friend's agent) is swamped  but will look at it in April.

I've now sent out five queries for Strachan's Attic. I received two instant rejections...you know, "Dear Author"...which means it's doubtful anyone read more than the opening intro, but the other three are still active.

To quote Heather, also in Query Mode, "All appendages that can be crossed, are crossed." For me, I managed six, but as I age, it could soon be eight.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and That Agent in England.

Well, folks, I finally got a response from my agent. It seems that everything we've heard about the economic downturn and the publishing industry, particularly as it pertains to Britain, is true. They just don't want to handle new and unknown writers. The UK is struggling more than most, right now, so I'm going to back off a bit with Hafan Deg. I need a break from it, anyway. I've terminated the arrangement with the agent. In sixty days, under the terms of their contract, I could conceivably sign another agent. Doesn't that sound easy? Like finding a lawyer or an accountant? Hmm, that one sounds nice. I think I'll hire her as my agent...

In the meantime, I have begun the query process for Strachan's Attic, which wasn't under contract. It felt so amazing to send off the letter and the first one hundred  (Yikes!) 25 pages.  I realize now that I quite enjoy the process. It's exciting, at least at first. (We get a little jaded later, to put it mildly, when the rejections start arriving.)

But that process is the thing. Arrival is always as Gertrude Stein quipped, and I paraphrase, "The trouble is that when you get there, there isn't any there there."  We've been told all our lives that it's the journey that counts. It's true, but we don't listen. The thing that gives me such huge pleasure is the anticipation of things possible. My books in bookshops, and people dealing with me as a published writer - all of that will likely prove quite mundane and ordinary, if it ever happens. It's the excitement of the chase, the thrill of the departure, the joy of the now - that's what's important. In a way, we would probably all be much happier (and psychologists do say this) if we never arrive at our goals. It's all a bit like Tantric sex, really.

So today, along with a tiny bit of sadness, I am feeling relief. I no longer have to stress over what's happening with Hafan Deg. She's coming home to Momma for a while, until we can find a new home for her, and Strachan's Attic will be doing the rounds while I'm finishing Summer Must End.



Roz Morris of Dirty White Candy is offering an e-book in PDF format, "Nail Your Novel" which I think could prove helpful to you. It's free to download, and I'm not going to apologize for taking advantage of a technology that augments conventional publishing. This is a great book, available for purchase as a hard copy as well, in case you prefer that.
 
"Nail Your Novel is a writing buddy in a book. It holds the reader’s hand every step of the way, from the blank sheet of paper to the finished manuscript. And at less than 100 pages it's half the size of most writing books - for the reader who wants effective writing advice without the waffle."
 
Take care, everyone. Enjoy the adventure.