There is nothing quite like the high you feel after finishing a draft. The draft. The one that agents and editors have requested to see. Thirty thousand words that shoot you flying high in a cloud because people other than your family can read it. And then...
The query.
250 words.
250 words that will suck you into a hole faster than mud.
250 words that will force you to use the other side of your brain, which has slowly shriveled away as you etched out thirty thousand.
I don't have a prescriptive formula. I don't have worksheets. There are plenty of other people on the net who have great resources, like Elana Johnson.
But after twelve hours of staring at the computer and multiple drafts of drivelous puke, the query that worked had something different than the others. It stood out above them.
Because I made it my own.
Much to the surprise of both sides of my brain, I wrote my query the same way I wrote my book. Draft after draft. After draft. After draft. Draft. Draftdraftdraft.
No formula. No worksheets. Just me, showing them what they need to know.
So now I can go fly high again. Until I have to send them out this week. But that's another story...
How is your query process going? Are you ready to? Or thankfully done with it?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Every word counts
I was a chatterbox as a kid and my mother used to warn me:
Someday your mouth
will get you in trouble.
So I stopped talking so much and took up writing, thinking, "Ha! Now I can't get in trouble. I can fix the words with an eraser, a white typwriter ink removal strip, or a delete button."
But my mother was still right.
I am toast. Burnt. Dried out. No butter or jelly.
If you look up the word 'pathetic' there are two definitions:
1. causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc.
2. miserably or contemptibly inadequate.
And when I wrote about House as a compelling character a few months ago I used that word (in addition to many complimentary words) sort of comparing House to my hubby. I was thinking: brilliant, funny guy who helps people. Who also seems unhappy in a way that makes you want things to be better for him.
I was thinking sympathetic sadness.
My hubby went with miserably inadequate.
So...yeah. I'm toast.
I've apologized. And I'm owning up and taking the lumps I deserve because I should have known better.
Every word counts when you are writing. Every word needs to be the one that captures exactly what you want to say. The audience brings their own experiences to the table which will impact how and what they take away from your story, but that is no excuse not to be specific with your words.
Because sometimes you don't get an eraser. Or a white typwriter ink removal strip. Or a delete button.
Even if you really want one.
But my mother was still right.
I am toast. Burnt. Dried out. No butter or jelly.
If you look up the word 'pathetic' there are two definitions:
1. causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc.
2. miserably or contemptibly inadequate.
And when I wrote about House as a compelling character a few months ago I used that word (in addition to many complimentary words) sort of comparing House to my hubby. I was thinking: brilliant, funny guy who helps people. Who also seems unhappy in a way that makes you want things to be better for him.
I was thinking sympathetic sadness.
My hubby went with miserably inadequate.
So...yeah. I'm toast.
I've apologized. And I'm owning up and taking the lumps I deserve because I should have known better.
Every word counts when you are writing. Every word needs to be the one that captures exactly what you want to say. The audience brings their own experiences to the table which will impact how and what they take away from your story, but that is no excuse not to be specific with your words.
Because sometimes you don't get an eraser. Or a white typwriter ink removal strip. Or a delete button.
Even if you really want one.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Every. Day.
I didn't post about being thankful in November because I am a firm believer in being thankful every day.
Every. Day.
And I'm writing about it today because when a very good person dies, it reminds you to say it out loud.
My husband has already lost two medics on this deployment. SGT James Ayube died on December 8th; PFC Paul Cuzzupe died on August 8th. They were good guys. The kind that, even though you only met them in passing and knew of them from your spouse, make you break your once a year crying rule.
So you cry.
A lot.
And then you are thankful.
For your kids. Even when they drive you absolutely stinking bonkers.
For your spouse/significant other/friends. Because Today We're Not on the Bus.
And for words. Because when a person is gone the words we give them in a conversation...a story...at the bottom of a photo...are the only way we have to remember them.
To be thankful for them.
Every. Day.
Every. Day.
And I'm writing about it today because when a very good person dies, it reminds you to say it out loud.
My husband has already lost two medics on this deployment. SGT James Ayube died on December 8th; PFC Paul Cuzzupe died on August 8th. They were good guys. The kind that, even though you only met them in passing and knew of them from your spouse, make you break your once a year crying rule.
So you cry.
A lot.
And then you are thankful.
For your kids. Even when they drive you absolutely stinking bonkers.
For your spouse/significant other/friends. Because Today We're Not on the Bus.
And for words. Because when a person is gone the words we give them in a conversation...a story...at the bottom of a photo...are the only way we have to remember them.
To be thankful for them.
Every. Day.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dry Spells
The dreaded dry spell.
The time we feel shriveled, bloated, wrinkled beyond belief, unable to produce anything worth anything, all the while feeling unbelievable pressure to do something.
Sort of like...having a period for the rest of your life.
This is what you sign up for when you decide to write: Heat waves. Flashes. Tears. Moodiness. The 'don't even think of touching me' lack of desire. Semi-psychotic behavior that has no true physiological basis.
Only it's not on a monthly schedule and there's no menopause to free you from it happening over. And over. And over.
But I think dry spells are good for us. And I don't think they're dry at all.
Sure you might not be putting thousands of words on the page a day. Or have any flashes of inspiration. Your semi-psychotic behavior might drive you to rewrite the same chapter forty times and then burn the pages in some ceremonial expulsion of demons. You'll probably do a little bit of crying. And 'have a happy period' will have NOTHING to do with fixing the punctuation in a sentence.
But you will be taking things in.
You will find yourself listening to things you might not have heard otherwise in your rush to get words on the page.
And without that...you wouldn't have anything to write.
The time we feel shriveled, bloated, wrinkled beyond belief, unable to produce anything worth anything, all the while feeling unbelievable pressure to do something.
Sort of like...having a period for the rest of your life.
This is what you sign up for when you decide to write: Heat waves. Flashes. Tears. Moodiness. The 'don't even think of touching me' lack of desire. Semi-psychotic behavior that has no true physiological basis.
Only it's not on a monthly schedule and there's no menopause to free you from it happening over. And over. And over.
But I think dry spells are good for us. And I don't think they're dry at all.
Sure you might not be putting thousands of words on the page a day. Or have any flashes of inspiration. Your semi-psychotic behavior might drive you to rewrite the same chapter forty times and then burn the pages in some ceremonial expulsion of demons. You'll probably do a little bit of crying. And 'have a happy period' will have NOTHING to do with fixing the punctuation in a sentence.
But you will be taking things in.
You will find yourself listening to things you might not have heard otherwise in your rush to get words on the page.
And without that...you wouldn't have anything to write.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
George is BACK!
Since many of you are new here, I have to backtrack a little.
If you've never seen the speech by Elizabeth Gilbert about having a writing genius, you should...so follow the link:
Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity Video on TED.com
Sorry I didn't make it look prettier and imbed the video, but I'm buried under 8 inches of snow with two kids stuck in the house and a dog who is suddenly too delicate to do his business because of, you guessed it, 8 inches of snow.
Though to be fair, when he raises his leg his privates are still buried 2 inches below sunshine, so I don't know that I could do my business with that kind of cold down there either.
Anyway...
George is BACK!
That is what I call my creative genius, who's been play hookie since this summer.
I've been struggling at my computer for a rewrite that's taking half of forever, always getting stuck at Chapter 8, waiting for George to show.
And he wasn't.
And he wasn't.
And he wasn't.
So I said, "Fine, George. I'm going to write whatever I d@*n well please." And I started to butcher my story. Total meat cleaver job, though I didn't go so far as bringing in a vampire.
And George showed up, "Fine. All right. So much for holidays and paid vacations. I'm here."
He's been working, maybe a little begrudgingly, ever since. All the way up to Chapter 14. Though I'm still trying to figure out just where he went that he got a paid vacation. Maybe he was visiting Elizabeth.
Anyway...
What do you do when your creative genius is playing hookie? How do you get him/her to show up and do their part of the job, whether it's pounding out a rewrite or getting your kids to do their homework?
If you've never seen the speech by Elizabeth Gilbert about having a writing genius, you should...so follow the link:
Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity Video on TED.com
Sorry I didn't make it look prettier and imbed the video, but I'm buried under 8 inches of snow with two kids stuck in the house and a dog who is suddenly too delicate to do his business because of, you guessed it, 8 inches of snow.
Though to be fair, when he raises his leg his privates are still buried 2 inches below sunshine, so I don't know that I could do my business with that kind of cold down there either.
Anyway...
George is BACK!
That is what I call my creative genius, who's been play hookie since this summer.
I've been struggling at my computer for a rewrite that's taking half of forever, always getting stuck at Chapter 8, waiting for George to show.
And he wasn't.
And he wasn't.
And he wasn't.
So I said, "Fine, George. I'm going to write whatever I d@*n well please." And I started to butcher my story. Total meat cleaver job, though I didn't go so far as bringing in a vampire.
And George showed up, "Fine. All right. So much for holidays and paid vacations. I'm here."
He's been working, maybe a little begrudgingly, ever since. All the way up to Chapter 14. Though I'm still trying to figure out just where he went that he got a paid vacation. Maybe he was visiting Elizabeth.
Anyway...
What do you do when your creative genius is playing hookie? How do you get him/her to show up and do their part of the job, whether it's pounding out a rewrite or getting your kids to do their homework?
Monday, November 15, 2010
Emotions
Yes, I do have them.
Occasionally.
I think I even cried once about five months ago.
Which means I'm good for another seven months, if I follow my once a year crying holiday rule.
But I was definitely clenched teeth, peel your fingers off of whatever is gripped in your clutches angry last night.
My son and I were walking Beemer, our Yorkie, who was quite content sniffing and peeing his way through the neighborhood, when an unleashed German shephard raced out of nowhere and attacked.
After multiple kicks I got the brute off my dog, only to have the German shephard go after my son. And then me. When the owner finally showed up, several bites and a side full of scratches on my Yorkie later, there were still many more minutes of me kicking and snarling to get it off of me and my dog.
I was so ticked I went straight into my house. Washed up the dog wounds. Called the police. And then took my dog back outside so he wouldn't be scared all night.
All in the attempt to calm myself as much as anything.
I didn't sigh...or stare off into space...or think...or wander aimlessly...like many characters are apt to do when you first start writing. I took action to fix the problem.
And that's how you write emotions in your books.
Emotions are the response of characters to the action, the plot, of your story. Newton had it right: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I live by that rule in my stories.
I'm not saying my characters never sigh...or stare off into space...or think...or wander aimlessly, but I only let them do it in limited quantities because it makes them cry.
And that's only saved for once a year special occasions.
Occasionally.
I think I even cried once about five months ago.
Which means I'm good for another seven months, if I follow my once a year crying holiday rule.
But I was definitely clenched teeth, peel your fingers off of whatever is gripped in your clutches angry last night.
My son and I were walking Beemer, our Yorkie, who was quite content sniffing and peeing his way through the neighborhood, when an unleashed German shephard raced out of nowhere and attacked.
After multiple kicks I got the brute off my dog, only to have the German shephard go after my son. And then me. When the owner finally showed up, several bites and a side full of scratches on my Yorkie later, there were still many more minutes of me kicking and snarling to get it off of me and my dog.
I was so ticked I went straight into my house. Washed up the dog wounds. Called the police. And then took my dog back outside so he wouldn't be scared all night.
All in the attempt to calm myself as much as anything.
I didn't sigh...or stare off into space...or think...or wander aimlessly...like many characters are apt to do when you first start writing. I took action to fix the problem.
And that's how you write emotions in your books.
Emotions are the response of characters to the action, the plot, of your story. Newton had it right: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I live by that rule in my stories.
I'm not saying my characters never sigh...or stare off into space...or think...or wander aimlessly, but I only let them do it in limited quantities because it makes them cry.
And that's only saved for once a year special occasions.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Moving Forces, Stationary Objects
My son walked into a chair Friday night and stubbed his toe. It hurt. A lot.
He almost swore a word that would earn a bar of soap in his mouth, adding a few letters to change it at the last syllable. After wrapping a bag of frozen vegetables to his foot for an hour it wasn't hurting so much, and he fell asleep on the couch.
So on Saturday when he was hobbling around, going all drama king about his foot hurting, I told him to suck it up. It's just a stubbed toe for cripes sake. Of course it hurts. It's supposed to hurt when you smash a moving force into a stationary object.
No complaints from him the rest of the day. And none on Sunday morning.
So when I looked at his toe Sunday afternoon and saw it was black underneath, I, of course, finished his word without changing the last syllable and took him to the German hospital emergency room where, after a four hour wait, the doctor promptly confirmed that I am the world's worst mother.
Because his toe is broken.
As broken, unfortunately, as the lousy rewrite I am currently working on...which could use some moving force smashing into the stationary object.
See, I'm at that magic draft where you think you can't possible learn anything else about your story and then: Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Something bops you upside the head and you suddenly have new eyes.
Eyes which, fortunately, can see right through to the black underside that needs fixing. Immediately. Without several more days of pain and suffering.
So today, I proudly wear the World's Worst Mother badge while both my son and my story hobble around, reminding me they needed fixing in the first place.
He almost swore a word that would earn a bar of soap in his mouth, adding a few letters to change it at the last syllable. After wrapping a bag of frozen vegetables to his foot for an hour it wasn't hurting so much, and he fell asleep on the couch.
So on Saturday when he was hobbling around, going all drama king about his foot hurting, I told him to suck it up. It's just a stubbed toe for cripes sake. Of course it hurts. It's supposed to hurt when you smash a moving force into a stationary object.
No complaints from him the rest of the day. And none on Sunday morning.
So when I looked at his toe Sunday afternoon and saw it was black underneath, I, of course, finished his word without changing the last syllable and took him to the German hospital emergency room where, after a four hour wait, the doctor promptly confirmed that I am the world's worst mother.
Because his toe is broken.
As broken, unfortunately, as the lousy rewrite I am currently working on...which could use some moving force smashing into the stationary object.
See, I'm at that magic draft where you think you can't possible learn anything else about your story and then: Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Something bops you upside the head and you suddenly have new eyes.
Eyes which, fortunately, can see right through to the black underside that needs fixing. Immediately. Without several more days of pain and suffering.
So today, I proudly wear the World's Worst Mother badge while both my son and my story hobble around, reminding me they needed fixing in the first place.
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