confessions of a crappy spellre

i sukc. . .

I am the proud owner of a bunch of letters. BFA. MA. Okay, five letters. Worked my little butt off for those damn five letters. Cost me thousands, no lie, and I can't tell you how many hours of HELL I suffered through, getting those two degrees. 

I can write, but I can't spell. 

My god, I am a crappy speller. I've spend countless hours pulling up dictionary.com, checking the spelling of a stoopid woid I should know by now. The enorimity of my disfunction borders on mind-boggling, and makes me want to cringe, or hide under a slimy rock. Or both. Craziest part of the equation is the fact that I've now written--let me count--over 282,500 wirds, I mean. . .

Is this insanity? What the hell am I doing?

Truth is, it doesn't matter. I'm lucky in that I can craft a decent sentence, and another one, and put those two together in a meaningful way. I've written four complete novels and I'm working on number five. Not saying their all good, they ain't. But they're decent, and with more effort on my part, they may be viable one day. Look how I just wrote "viable." No problemo. Sometimes there's no ryme or reason to it. Sometimes I think my little pea brain takes a mini-vacation that I don't know about. Later I pull up something I'm written and think, what the hell? I know how to spell "voratious." I think. Looks funny. Let me look that bad boy up. Oh, crap. J. C. Penney with a damn second e, for chrissake. Ridiculous, how bad I spell.

But like I said, it doesn't matter. In the long run, my mistakes will stick out like a sore thumb. Somebody will catch the screw-ups--if not me, then my betas. If not my betas, my dear husband. He's a voratious reader, a really good speller and if not him, maybe one day, if I'm lucky, an editor will grab that perverbial pen and vomit red all over my beautifully written manuscript. Guess what, folks? That'll be okay with me.

That's what keeps me going, you know it? The thought that one day my manuscript will cross the desk of an editor, on its way to getting published. I gotta believe that. Everybody has there cross to bare, don't they? Maybe I suck at spelling but dammit, I can right.

"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.

"tweet, tweet"

a little boid told me she was taking queries again. . .

I've been waiting a long time for a certain agent to open the floodgates again. And she has. And I learned about it on Twitter, which is totally ridiculous.

For me, I mean. 

Before I reveal this literary agent's name and provide a couple of sobering stats (just to keep myself grounded), I want to talk about this Twitter business.

I've mentioned I'm a luddite, right? But I thought it was important to start putting myself out there in the virtual world, step out of my comfort zone. Hence, this blog. Funny thing about having your own blog: you start checking out other people's blogs. Fascinating how many literary agencies and agents have blogs.

I happened to be reading a certain literary agent's blog and caught a tweet off to the side, from another certain literary agent who just started accepting query submissions again, after a long hiatus. Months long. During that time, she made a significant life change, leaving one agency to join another, and she took some extra, needed time to regroup. Catch her breath.

Her name is Sarah LaPolla. Her new agency is Bradford Literary Agency: http://www.bradfordlit.com/ . And Sarah has a blog: http://glasscaseblog.blogspot.com/ . It is from her June 13 blog that I pluck the following sobering statistics:

Total number of unsolicited queries received from January - April of this year: 1,182

(Note: "Unsolicited" does not include referrals, conference/contest requests, or revisions I had asked for previously.)

Total number of manuscripts requested out of the 1,182 queries: 17

Total offers of representation out of the 17 manuscripts requested: 0

Since January 2013, I signed 1 new client, a YA author who I met through a blog contest.

Sarah is a kind person who added the following, just for me:

But don't be discouraged, querying writers! The year is only halfway through and I just re-opened to queries. I'm at a new agency and am actively growing my list. (snip)

I sent CHERRY's query today to Sarah LaPolla, along with a hastily written synopsis (!) and Chapter One. Chances are slim that Ms. LaPolla will request further chapters but I figure it's worth a shot. Seems like Karma almost, seeing that tweet. 

Gotta believe in something.  

happy father's day, dad.

i remember. . .

It was a long time ago, but I remember bits and pieces. Flashes. Sitting at Kresge's deli counter eating ice cream sundaes. Snuggled in his lap watching Big Time Wrestling. Standing beside him in the bathroom, our faces slathered with shaving cream, father and daughter laughing. Snippets of my dad, the man he was. Imagining the man he might have been. Missing him.

I woke from a sad, sweet dream today. Remembering my father. 

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.  

this too shall pass.

please mr. fantasy, send me an email. . . 

I read your first five chapters of CHERRY, kk. How long have you been writing again? Just a couple of years? Wow. Well, I'm really impressed and I definitely want to read the rest of your novel. Send it as an attachment, attention me. Personally, yep. . .

Like a backhand across the face. What the hell happened?

He read my query and liked it enough to ask for the first few chapters. He read the chapters and took a pass. Nope. No thanks. Good luck and all that. An email, just a couple of lines, succinct, professional.

It knocked me on my ass.

Intellectually, as soon as I read that email I was working it, putting a positive spin on it. Patting myself on the back for making it that far. Telling myself he's only one agent. It wasn't meant to be, that's all. I know CHERRY's good, I just need to find the right fit and I will, it's just a matter of time.

But emotionally, I was wrecked yesterday. Funny how fast one can slip into that sickening, self-indulgent mode: it's crap/I suck. . .

Today I'm sorting through my feelings. Tossing the most ridiculous maudlin shit which serves absolutely no purpose. Filing assorted bits and pieces of the experience away--just in case, for future reference. Stepping back, putting the thing in perspective.

I considered marshalling the troops today, meeting my disappointment head on, searching and querying. But I decided to give myself time. As David Brandt says, I need to process this, so I shall allow myself a couple of days to digest that email, let it work it's way through my system. I shall absorb what's of value and shite the rest.

Yep. This too shall pass.

technical difficulties, can i get an amen. . .

i don't like those gear thingies, lord.

When the bulk of your writing is with a keyboard, technical difficulties are a distinct possibility. In fact, they're part of the game. Problem is, when weird shit starts happening I'm pretty much screwed, being as I am not computer savvy. When something goes bye-bye or locks up or starts smoking, I have no clue what to do.

Case in point: I just typed what I suspect was a bomb blog, which is my nerdy way of saying I think it was pretty good. I wanted to preview the thing before publishing so I hit that little 'preview' button. The gears on the screen start turning. And turning. And turning.

I don't know how to make 'em stop so I'm gonna pretend they aren't there. I think they are, though.

I lost my nifty blog due to technical difficulties. The gist was, I've reached an impasse with my work in progress, EFFIN' ALBERT. I'm getting to the end of the thing and I have to decide which way to go, which way to take it. Leaning toward Plan A but I'm vacillating, darn it. Right now the boys are sitting on their rock, 5:15 blasting through, power from that train rumbling through the rock and into their bodies, making 'em positively giddy, screaming at the top of their lungs, feeling like Superman.

But the reality is, they're in a world of hurt. Only divine intervention is gonna save their scrawny little butts from that cop. 

My dilemma is one of plausibility. If I go the way I'm thinking, it has to be believable. As written, I'm shaking my head. Close, maybe, but I got some rewriting to do, Lucy. If I'm taking Mike and Albert down the path of righteousness I have to do it right. I have to make the implausible, plausible.

Bottom line, I need to think about this some more. I'm at a crossroads, just like those two boys. Where I take the story next is gonna make or break us both. Lord, show me the right way to go here.

And please make those gear thingies go away.