word of the day: holy shit. . .

"I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba." ~ Putputt

Before there was AbsoluteWrite, there was nothing.

I'm exaggerating. Before AbsoluteWrite, there was a little blue room and my computer and the cat.  There was a perpetual cup of coffee, perennially cold. There was one window, shade pulled down. There was the door, shut. There was a story in my head, and another one, and another one.

I wrote alone. Revised alone. The former was a furious endeavor. Exhausting. The latter was brief; cosmetic at best. When I finished a novel, I sent the file to OfficeMax and paid for a copy, brought it home and gave it to my husband to read. Then my mom. Then my sisters--oldest to youngest, as is tradition.

Then I wrote a query letter and sent it to some of the most well-respected, powerhouse literary agents out there. And waited for my big break. And waited. And waited. . .

OMG, I screwed up on so many levels. I shared my novels with people dear to me who were not writers. I drafted a query letter without having a fucking CLUE and squandered opportunity after opportunity, sending it out in droves, a plethora of qls flooding literary agencies coast-to-coast. Mind-numbing horror floating through cyberspace, landing on desks of agents who must have taken one look and (metaphorically) tossed that sucker in the trash, or lit it on fire, or slit their own throats. I had no significant feedback; ergo, I thought my shit didn't stink.

Then I found AbsoluteWrite. I won't bore you with accolades. And I won't say it's the perfect site, the perfect set-up. I have nits, I've gotten in some hot water, I've screwed up a few times, paid for it (still am). Not saying I don't screw up now 'cause I do, often--sometimes, spectacularly. But I am not a lonely, clueless writer anymore. Before AbsoluteWrite, I wrote in a vaccuum, or wrapped in gauze. Not anymore. I have learned so effing much it's not even funny, but it is mind-boggling: not only have I've learned so much, but I'm now aware that there is so much yet to learn about about the craft of writing, the business of writing. My writing has improved significantly: I'm more thoughtful, more careful with my choices, more cognizent of style and voice and consistency, tension, characterization. . .

I met writers.

Not actually. Virtually. Doesn't matter, they're there and this is what they do. They get it. All kinds of writers, too, some are so damn talented it's almost scary. Some are newbies learning the ropes. A lot are where I am and we help and support each other. I've posted my stuff, excerpts from CHERRY and EFFIN' ALBERT and I've received some great suggestions and comments. I've found beta readers who have read my work and given me such tremendous advice, unbelieveable. I've turned a piece of shit into a decent--more than decent--query letter, thanks to the folks at AW's Query Letter Hell forum. An amazing forum. Can't say enough about it. I just drafted a synopsis, for God's sake, I was scared to death but I hammered it out, thanks to the writers at AW. 

I met writers. It bears repeating because that's the best thing about AbsoluteWrite. I've conversed with a lot of writers for whom I've developed a real fondness. Some, I adore. I have a wall, I didn't even know what that was, this public message thingie. People can send you comments publically and you can respond publically and why am I explaining? I was probably the only person on earth who had no clue what the hell that was. I started a wall because AW is somehow getting me to open up, try new stuff. Like this blog, for instance.

Back to the wall thing. My first message was from me, to me, saying, Hey, if nobody writes to me on this thing I'm writing to myself. I shouldn't have worried. Right now, on my wall, there are over 240 messages from a bunch of different people, telling me all kinds of stuff, offering support, bugging me, joking around. It's fun, you know it? Plus I write on walls, leave my mark, as they say. Thinking of three, four writers right now with whom I often converse, for whom I'm so indebted, of whom I can't say enough wonderful things. Even though they sometimes drive me nuts, I think I love these people. I never met them. It doesn't matter. How can you not love somebody who writes, "I missed my chance to poop in Cordoba"?? I mean, really.

So thankful that I found AbsoluteWrite. So strange to think I didn't know what I was missing.

"happy birthday to me. . ."

. . .with a CHERRY on top.

As the clock struck twelve last night, I sat in bed, lights off, hunched over my laptop at the behest of a fine writer over at AbsoluteWrite ( http://absolutewrite.com/forums/index.php ) who is struggling with her WIP. She'd sent the thing to betas and received conflicting feedback, which has caused her much distress. She asked if I would share with her my beta experiences relative to CHERRY; seeking from me answers to questions she wasn't even sure how to ask . . . but she did her best, and so did I.

And so, in the early hours of my birthday, I sat in the dark, deconstructing CHERRY.

I wrote CHERRY quickly, as I had my first three novels. The story came to me in a flash, nearly intact, so odd, but I knew the thing from beginning to end, and wrote it, and knew it was good. And thought it was done.

It was good, but it wasn't done.

That realization came to me when I read the critique from my first beta reader. This person and I had started off on the wrong foot over at aye-dub, due to my impatience and arrogance. But I apologized and he gave me a chance, even offering to read CHERRY for me when I was ready. After that rocky start, he and I developed a good report. I critiqued some of his work. I realized he was a thoughtful, insightful writer, and a good one. He was honest and I trusted him.

I sent my manuscript as a word file to this person, sent it half-way across the world. He read my novel and proclaimed it good, but not good enough. But, he said, it could be. I had to decide if I wanted to take it to the next level. He thought it was worth the effort. He thought I could do it.

His critique was a compilation of impressions he'd had whilst reading my novel, then thinking about it afterwards. He offered nothing specific, no specific suggestions as to how to fix my book. Didn't matter. I knew what he was saying: to make CHERRY better, I would have to rework it big time. Rewrite. Cut. Add whole chapters, my God, revamp the thing and I thought it was done. I wanted it done. Dammit.

But this person believed CHERRY was worth the effort, and after I ceased the weeping and gnashing of teeth, I reread CHERRY with his comments in mind, and came to the same conclusion.

He was but the first of a string of betas--all bright, insightful people; good writers, honest--who echoed that man's belief: CHERRY was decent but could be more than that. My final beta reader, another amazing person from AW, challenged me to dig deeper, take my main character to a place I was hesitant to go. He recognized my hesitation before I did, called me on it, told me I had a choice: make my mc a richer, deeper character, or leave him as is. How far was I willing to take this character?

Ultimately, I reworked my ms yet again. When I finally proclaimed CHERRY done, I felt a sense of awe and pride, and still do. I believe I've written something of value, I truly think I have. I couldn't have done it without those people who helped me so selflessly. I wouldn't have done it, I know it. These people had confidence in CHERRY and in me, when I had neither. 

I am blessed and truly grateful to the people who helped me, who believed in me. I shall do my best to return the favor in kind, as I tried to last night, in those wee first hours of my birthday. And on my birthday, I'm thinking of those special people, and thanking them, and wishing them every good thing.

With a cherry on top, of course.

i forgot.

oh ye of little faith. . . 

I'm knee-deep in my WIP and querying my last novel, CHERRY. Both endeavors have been a challenge, nothing new for writers. Trying to write the next great novel whilst trying to sell the last tends to weigh on a writer's mind. Personally, it's been tough for me to keep my mind on anything else and with that came a sense of foreboding and panic; wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into, this perpetual mobius strip of writing and querying and waiting and wondering and worrying. Especially, worrying. Is it good? Is it good enough?

I mentioned the agent who took a pass on CHERRY and my subsequent . . . what? Loss of confidence, maybe. Loss of hope. Which, in retrospect, is silly. He's a great agent but as I've said, he's just one agent. And waiting to hear back from agents or publishers is part of the game. I know that intellectually but emotionally, that agent's pass threw me for a loop. I found myself wondering if I was fooling myself. I'm not talking about getting published. I'm referring to the caliber of my writing, the caliber of my novels, specifically CHERRY.

People who read CHERRY told me it's good. This was after I implemented changes suggested by such phenomenal betas at AbsoluteWrite. I agreed with most of what they said and even though it was difficult to cut some of the narrative, move text around, add new chapters, I listened because it made sense. My novel was the better for it and when I finally proclaimed it 'done'--as done as an unpublished novel can be--I was satisfied with it.

Truth is, I was more than satisfied. I thought it was good. Really good. Should I be humble and say, I thought it was okay, hoping. . .   No, I think the first champion of a writer's work should be the writer. How do you sell your work if you don't believe in it, right?

And I did believe in it, swear to god. I sent the query and sample pages to those few indie publishers and my dream agent--that's what I called him in my heart of hearts--and dared imagine best case scenerios. I actually pictured the agent writing me an email: I'm liking it, kk. A lot. Send me the rest. Then a week went by, and another, and another, and I felt my confidence wane, and then I started doubting myself, doubting my work, wondering, What was I thinking?

My WIP suffered for it. Doubt begats doubt and squelches creativity. And I found myself dreading the prospect of opening my emails and seeing a message from one of those publishers or that agent. And then, there it was. I clicked open the agent's email with trepidation. Truth is, my heart was hammering. I was expecting the worst and he delivered, giving validation to every crud thought I'd had those last two weeks. He didn't want to read the rest; ergo, my writing sucks, my story sucks, I suck and I'm fooling myself to think I wrote anything good, anything worthwhile.

Not a good place to be, so what did I do about it?

I mentioned the disappointing news on my query thread at AW. Some really, really nice people wrote to me, offering their support, saying kind things which I truly appreciated. Then I wrote a blog about it, which helped. Then I spent a really nice evening with my husband at a metropark by our house. We saw some deer and a pair of nesting ospreys. We shared a bottle of cheap wine. He listened as I lamented and told me not to be disheartened. Doesn't matter if the damn thing never gets published, he said.

But it does. I decided I was going to start querying again and I shall do so, next week. Then, yesterday, I grabbed a blanket, beer and my laptop and headed out back. Spread the blanket beneath our apple tree and opened my WIP, and started to write. I'd been at an impasse but the words came easier for some reason. Then I sat back and enjoyed the evening and thought about CHERRY. Was it good?

I used to think so. 

This a.m. there was an email in my inbox from a certain individual who's read another one of my novels. He's an award-winning author, an excellent writer, very generous of his time and expertise. He gave me me great advice which I kept in mind when writing CHERRY. I'd sent the ms to him a while back but he got caught up in all of his own stuff, he has a new book coming out and other wonderful things going on. Anyway, he wrote to me early this a.m., telling me he was finally able to get back to reading my manuscript. And I started wondering, oh man, what have I done? Sent this guy my novel, my God, is it a pile of crap? I opened the file this morning and started reading the thing, and I didn't stop until I was done. 

I finished reading CHERRY a little while ago. It made me cry, just like it did the first time I read it. I love the characters and the story. I think the dialogue's good. I can't believe I wrote it, to tell you the truth. I feel like it's a gift given to me and I shall not squander that, I won't belittle that, I won't discount that. I wrote a good book. I know I did. 

I just forgot.  

alien nation

nifty title, dammit. 

After getting permission from Alan Dean Foster, I shall write my next novel: ALIEN NATION. It opens with a boy, thirteen maybe, contemplating his reflection in the bedroom mirror. It's early. His favorite song, Traffic's The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys, plays in the background.

He's a scrawny kid with dyed jet black hair, blue eyes ringed by black eyeliner and mascara, wearing skivvies and a white tank top. The kid is holding a gun to his head. What's the alternative? If there is one, he doesn't see it. He doesn't fit in so he's checking out.

As a writer, I can relate in that writing is, by default, a solitary thing, an alienating thing, and yet we're trying to find our way, navigate through, make our mark. We're searching for our proper place. We want to be accepted. Respected. We want to matter to somebody.

A lot of somebodies.

I started a thread relative to that on aye-dub, last year was it? It's been an issue with me since pretty much always. You put yourself out there, put yourself out there and then you wait. Hoping somebody responds. Talking as a writer now, hoping somebody reads the damn thing and when you're met with silence, you start wondering, What the hell, man? Is anybody reading my shit? Does anybody even give a shit?

The stuff I write doesn't quite fit the "norm," if there is such a thing. Maybe not, but that's been the general consensus from people who've read my novels. Thinking about CHERRY now, I have to believe there's a place for it, an audience for it. Best case scenario: it transcends arbitrarily-ascribed perameters (whatever they are); touches a nerve, finds an audience which enthusiastically responds to the novel, proving its viability/validity/value, which means, (extrapolating) that what I wrote actually matters; (further extrapolating) meaning, by default, that I actually matter.

Is that selfish? I dunno, ask that boy.

Never mind. The question was rhetorical and anyway, what did I write in that AW thread? This is me doubting myself, which is something I have done consistently, which is self-defeating and ridiculous. Not in Courier, of course. That's just wrong. My point is, writing, like living, is often a solitary endeavor. The very act of writing alienates us from our intended audience. What's the alternative? 

Don't answer that.

Virtual Perpetuality

"Hello?" 

She asks that question to the Universe, having just checked her emails for any sign of life. She had such high hopes, reflected in the day's breaking dawn: crisp and clear, fresh and full of promise. . . 

Actually, it's nippy and kind of cloudy out, and I woke sluggish and out of sorts after sleeping nearly twelve hours to which I say Holy crap, where's my coffee?  I guess I needed it, but that's not the point. The point is, my novel CHERRY is in a state of virtual perpetuality right now. I'm waiting to hear back from a few publishers and a certain agent.

A little backround.

I wrote CHERRY, my fourth novel, then sufficiently shredded the thing based on some amazing beta reader comments and suggestions. I put it back together again, moving chapters, adding new stuff, then I refined it, tweaked it and tweaked it and tweaked it some more, and finally declared it *done*.

Fool that I was.

I shall not bore you, my ersatz readers, with my harrowing tale of woe relative to drafting my query letter for CHERRY. Should anyone be interested, you may peruse my personal journey through Query Letter Hell over on AbsoluteWrite *here* . It started last April (I'm talking 2012) and ended last month. Long story short, I worked that puppy to death, realized CHERRY wasn't done yet, reworked the novel then sent it to betas again, then started from scratch with the query and finally declared both ready to roll.

Novel and query complete, I tentatively sent forth a few queries--six, to be exact. Five to independent publishers and one to an agent. I shall speak more of my reasoning behind going the indie route in another blog thingie. Suffice to say, I thought it was prudent to do so, considering a lot of things, not the least of which is CHERRY's subject matter. As for that lone agent, I found him after a bout of extensive research. I'm not suggesting he was difficult to find--actually, he's well-known, well-respected, owns the agency. The process was extensive only because I made it so, because I tend to do that, because I'm--

Fodder for another blog thingie, perhaps.

Back to it: of the five indies, two have responded thus far; both, within days of sending my query, and both requesting fulls. Endless possibilities danced inside my little pea brain and made me giddy. THEN, barely two days after sending my query to the agent, I received an email from him requesting the first few chapters. Oh joy! Rapture! I sent him the first five chapters then commenced to doing the happy dance, which lasted a week, maybe.

Then harsh reality set in, as it tends to do. Truth is, I may be waiting for a while. I may never hear back. (I shall not mention the harshest reality: that, even if I do hear back, chances of anything actually *happening* are slim. I won't mention that because I'll just get depressed and it ain't even 7 a.m. yet and I ain't even finished my first cuppa joe yet.)

Bottom line is this: Today is June 9, 2013, and I am waiting to hear from two indie publishers and one fine literary agent. I know, I know, it's only been a month--four weeks, that's peanuts in the novel submission waiting game, patience is a virtue my God stop your whining just give it a rest but the waiting is

anybody reads this, i shall shit my pants. . .

Lord have mercy.

This is my first blog. Actually, I started one before, can't remember where or how or what. The point is moot. I'm nervous as hell. Thank you for visiting.

Are you there?

Christ, what the hell am I doing?

Tell you what I'm doing. I am being a smart and savvy writer. Thinking ahead to the time when my book is gonna get published, right? And my agent will say, "Ms. K, we are getting it out there for you but you, my dear, are going to do your civic duty as well. You shall do everything in your power to promote the piss out of your new book. In your blog, for starters. And you shall do that blog-hop business. And post some nifty links, too, like AgentQuery and and QueryTracker and Miss Snark's First Victim, Grammar Girl's still doing her thing. And AbsoluteWrite, amazing. I shall talk about that, presuming I am not speaking into a black hole of nothingness, oh shit. . .

I am new at this but I shall endeavor to do my best. Not sure what that means at this point, nor what it entails. Time will tell, I'm thinking. If you really are there, thank you for visting me and my shiny new blog.

~kk