A little reading is all the therapy a person needs sometimes.—Unknown

A writer friend of mine is struggling to write a scene that hits too close to something she herself has experienced. It turns out she has never dealt with the incident; she found it too traumatizing. Yet, she is about to incorporate it in her novel. She insists that it must be there for the sake of the plot. I say, you can start a tale anywhere you want and by making it backstory, you don't need to delve as deeply. But, she holds fast to using it authentically. Why? Perhaps, it is time to work through her own anxiety. I think writers have that marvelous and unique opportunity to work personal things out through their stories.

I believe this is true for readers too. Many fictional novels mimic real life events, both on a large scale and on the miniscule level of daily human existence. They make us laugh, they make us angry, and, sometimes, they scare the bejesus out of us. More importantly, they allow us to explore hurt and sorrow, recreating moments that may have caused profound pain in our own lives—letting us weep, wrapped in the comfort and safety of their pages. It can be cathartic.

Other fiction provides delightful diversion as well. Escaping into the other worlds provided by SciFi and Fantasy allows us to leave this one. Thrillers, Mysteries and Adventures keep our adrenalin high and we become heroes for a brief time. Romance is probably the epitome of escapism. There is a reason that Romance novels are among the top-selling genres in the industry. They too can provide emotional release and all of the elements listed above, but they come with a positive caveat not given by any other genre. They guarantee a happy-ever-after.

In light of the ongoing turmoil in the world, I crave comfort. I think I'll grab a romance and curl up this afternoon. At least, for a few hours, I can be assured of a happy ending.

An Amateur's Guide to Publishing

Last month, I mentioned that an agent had asked for my full manuscript. Friends and strangers alike squealed in delight—yes, sounds transmit quite well through email J—and they congratulated me profusely on my accomplishment. It was then that I realized that I have a whole passel full of non-writers who read my blog and that, perhaps, I should take some time to review the process of moving toward publication.

While a request for a full manuscript is terrific, it is but one step on a very long journey in the world of a writer. I did not start out writing with an eye to publication. I began because a story kept percolating and bubbling into my consciousness and I was curious about whether or not I could get it down on paper. Two and a half novels and three novellas later, it seems that I can.

As I refined my writing through beta feedback, multiple edits and endless revisions, it was inevitable that the thought of entering the competitive world of publishing should enter my mind. After all, it's a lot of work to simply tuck away in the proverbial drawer. My betas (for the uninitiated, these are folks who read your manuscript and tell you, either in a broad or narrow sense, what works for them and what doesn't) are strangers and have no vested interest in humouring me. They give constructive feedback and assure me that they like my stories, enjoy my writing. So, between the hours of creation and the stroking of ego, I decided to enter the business side of writing.

In this day and age, there are basically two options: traditional or self-publishing. Now, self-publishing is filled with success stories and certainly has proven to be lucrative for many. As an added bonus, you don't have to jump the often-defeating hoops of traditional publishing. I won't say any more about it because, quite frankly, I haven't explored it in great detail. I am old fashioned enough to want to make an honest go at the traditional route. So, this is what that looks like:

1.       Agonize, fret, gnash your teeth and pull your hair out…that's the writing the novel part.

2.       Build an online presence so, if you are ever published, people can find you. This blog is part of that. You can also find me on Twitter @roserambles1.

3.       Search far and wide and create a list of agents who are interested in your genre, who seem like a good fit (you stalk them on Twitter and their blogs to make this decision) and who are actually open to looking at new authors.

4.       You query the agent(s) of your choice. Now, the query is your talent in a nutshell, disguised as a business letter. In 200 or so words, your letter must grab the agent's attention enough for him/her to want to see what you've got. Keep in mind, in any given week, this letter hits that agent's inbox along with a hundred or so others.

5.       Agonize, fret, gnash your teeth and pull your hair out…waiting to hear back from agent.

6.       Odds are in favour that you get a polite, usually kind, form rejection. You don't know if said agent has even read your query or if an assistant has decided it's a "no go." (A no response means no interest is the worst of these. Did they even receive the query? Are they just behind in reading their emails? Not even being worthy of a standard rejection does make one feel like the lowest of the low.) Now, if you're lucky, you go to #7. If you're really lucky, you jump to #8.

7.       Agent likes your query and requests a partial, which is literally a piece of your manuscript—30 pages, 50 pages; it depends on the agent. You go back and hang out at #5, hoping it won't take too long and that you'll be able to move on to #8.

8.       Agent likes your query and requests full manuscript. You ship that puppy off faster than you can shout "Yahoo!" and then you go directly to #9.

9.       Agonize, fret, gnash your teeth and pull your hair out…waiting to see if you actually have an agent.

10.   This is the best stage of this part of the game or the worst. Either you get a rejection on your manuscript, that baby you slaved over and love oh, so much, or you get a phone call offering representation. If it is the first, you go back to #4 and start all over again. If it's the latter, you pull out that special bottle of champagne you've been keeping just for that moment. (Well, you pull out a bottle of champagne because the first ten you've saved for that moment have already been consumed because you keep stalling at #6, #7 or option one in #10. J)

Then, my dear non-writer friends, you know what happens with your book? Absolutely nothing…yet. This process starts all over again, only this time you have a partner in agony—your agent—and you both get to work through the pain of finding an editor who wants your work. And, do you know what happens when you hook an editor's attention? You got it, they have to present to the acquisition board and it has to pass muster to move into the publishing process…which is a whole other blog. And, I haven't even touched upon the potential rewriting that occurs between agent and acquisition!

The road to publishing is not an easy one to travel. Writing is my happy place and I hate leaving it to make the journey. Self-doubt hides around every corner, discouragement sits waiting at dead-ends. But you, dear readers, with your interest and your curiosity, are part of the fuel that fires the dream. I thank you for dropping by each week, for sending me emails, for making me feel like I am someone worth reading.

Surrey International Writers' Conference

The Surrey International Writers' Conference was a blast. An absolute blast. I ate great food, rubbed shoulders with amazing people and, as hoped, learned a little somethin’ somethin’ about this business called writing. But, you know what bowled me over, what left me breathless and giddy at times and downright teary-eyed at others? The pervading spirit of generosity.

I should have known. The signs were there long before the conference began. New to Vancouver Island, I was perplexed by the public transportation system that would lead me to Surrey. Well, I optimistically hoped it might—after four or five transfers with suitcase and laptop in tow. My Twitter friend, Jenny, offered a ride. She connected me with other writers who might also be able to help out. Unfortunately, I was leaving a day earlier than everyone because I was taking a master class (Thank you, Laurie McLean. It was outstanding!) and I had to get there on my own steam, but it was not for lack of considerate offers to get me to the other shore on the Thursday. This was followed up at the end of the conference with a ride to the ferry by a writer I had previously “met” online. If not for Kathleen’s thoughtfulness, I would not have made it back so directly and quickly to DH, and for that I am grateful…because I sure missed DH.

The volunteers welcomed me when I signed in. They were energetic and enthusiastic and I immediately caught the buzz. The organizers checked in to see if all was well, if I knew where I was going, if I was happy with the conference. This didn’t just occur on day one, but each of the four. Kathy, in particular, was genuinely concerned that everyone felt comfortable and that all concerns were addressed. Not that I had any concerns. Well, except for the unventilated public washrooms, but that would be a Sheraton issue not a conference issue. Seriously, Sheraton, get some air moving in there!

The conference exploded with munificence. From the consideration of those giving up their seats in a crowded room to the presenters who gave due diligence to delivering intelligent, informative and, often, amusing workshops, to those attendees who were invitational in the elevator, in the dining room and at the bar.

Jasper Fforde joined our table one evening. He was witty and entertaining—I have ordered his books and can hardly wait for them to arrive. We talked about pitching and he said, “Hit me!” He was offering me the opportunity to practice my pitch. Not wanting to intrude upon his dinner, I refrained, but I did ask him for his pitch so that I might learn. He gave it and that is why I will now own Jasper Fforde books. J

I did do my pitch, nervous as a young girl at her first job interview. Quite frankly, it stunk. I’ve never been good at auditions, although I believe I have some talent to offer the stage. It is no different, apparently, in a live pitch. Patricia Nelson of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency was exceptionally gracious. She opened up the dialogue to explore my genre and confirmed what I have debated all along. Raven’s Path is historical fiction…with a strong romantic theme. Her explanation of marketing and how important it is to get this one right since I have sequels to consider, left me stammering, stumbling, and eternally thankful. Raven’s Path is historical fiction. I worked hard at my research to ensure that it reflected the political and cultural truths of the time. Thank you, Patricia, for naming it. I will now own it with pride.

The list of magnanimous moments is endless. Online writing companions became flesh and blood friends. Thank you Theresa and Kathleen for taking the reins and hosting an amazing Compuserve Forum party—and for stocking champagne! This same group of writers encouraged me to attend in the first place, celebrated the successes of one another (You go Ru, idol queen!), and are now reflecting and sharing notes with those who were unable to attend. Then there was Jack Whyte, who graciously whispered the opening paragraph from Raven’s Path with scotch-infused breath, giving life to the name Anabla Tarleton McGregor. Ah, the rumble of his burr will forever remain with me.

Generous moments. Too many to list. It was a waterfall of beneficence. But, within the splash and fall of such largesse, two moments stand out for me. The first came at my blue pencil. This is an opportunity to put three pages of your work in front of a published author for feedback. I was fortunate enough to have Susanna Kearsley. Now, I picked her because I love her novels and I thought, regardless of what she said about my writing, I would get to chat with someone I admire. She was so supportive and, truly, beyond generous. I’m not sure my feet touched the ground after our session.

The other poignant moment of thoughtfulness came with our final keynote speaker, Terry Fallis. It was a tough time slot and he had to follow some exceptional keynote speakers. He was witty and charming and caught my attention with his story of winning the Leacock Medal for Humour. I lived 30+ years near Orillia, where Leacock is very much featured and honoured, and I recognized the value of such an award. Terry moved beyond entertaining and touched the vulnerable hearts of all of us when he talked about our name tags. He had noticed that all tags had names along with the addition of agent, editor, publisher, volunteer and writer. But many just had the place the person came from. He told us to take off our tags and put writer beneath our names. Because that was what we were, published or not. My vision blurs and I sniffle at the memory.

Terry says I am a writer. Susanna concurs and says to keep on writing. Their voices shout, echo and then quietly mingle to become the chorus to my dreams. I am a writer. I will keep on writing. And, I consider myself privileged to belong to such a generous group of people.

 

I am still learning. —Michelangelo

Last week I stated that one of my goals this year was to learn...and learn more. Well, this week I am off to the 23rd annual Surrey International Writers' Conference. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. In the meantime, consider me:

My life is better with every year of living it. —Rachel Maddow

I turned another year wiser on Monday. Not a raucous momentous occasion, but a wonderful day nonetheless. As I get older, I cannot help but reflect upon what has come before and what lies ahead. Rather than ramble contemplatively ad nauseam, I thought I’d give it in a nutshell. Well, a bullet list—which is the written version of a nutshell.

 What I learned this year:

• Just when I thought I knew where I was going, I didn’t.
• It’s fun not to know where you’re going.
• A clean and tidy house isn’t really that important.
• People are kind and generous.
• Good friends are irreplaceable.
• New friends are a treasure found.
• I can write anywhere.
• I can dream anywhere.
• True joy lives in the simple moments.

What I hope I do in the year to come:

• Embrace new adventures.
• Live healthily—we now live in a climate where we have no excuse not to be active.
• Write…and then write some more.
• Read…and then read some more.
• Learn…and, you guessed it, learn some more.
• Find an agent.
• Slow down and enjoy every minute with DH and the fur babies.

 Does your birthday make you pause and ponder? If so, what do you hope for as your birthday rolls into sight?

 

 

Laughter is an instant vacation. —Milton Berle

Writing takes effort. It’s pleasurable but hard work.  No different than any other job I’ve ever undertaken, I need a consistent schedule. It is the only way I can get words on the page. I like to write when I feel fresh, when my mind is free from any weight the day might add. For that reason, mornings are sacred in our house. DH understands and leaves me alone, snugged in my corner of the couch. Even the girls accept it, routinely curling up beside me in quiet support.

Yes, it is protected time. Until it is not. I will allow one thing to disrupt it. Friends. I value our friends, appreciate the effort they make to come see us and truly enjoy their company. We have a flurry of visitors over the next week or so, beginning this afternoon and I can hardly wait. I fretted for a moment about interrupted writing routines, but moved past that quickly since I know that I will adjust and write late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. I don’t sleep many hours, so it’s an easy shift to make.

However, having said that, something’s gotta give. And, it will be this blog. So, dear readers, I will be turning over my blogging shingle to the closed side. Or perhaps it should say On Vacation. Laughter, food, wine and good friends. Yes, vacation. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to tell you all about it. J

Listen with the intent to understand, not the intent to reply. —Stephen Covey

I was going to write about querying this week. I have merely dabbled in it and am now ready to go full tilt. But, as I diligently research agents, a voice whispers and demands to be heard. Her name is Lizzy. She is 16 years old and she is in pain.

Lizzy is a cutter. She does not want attention. She just wants to curl up under a sprawling tree and melt into the earth. She thinks, she worries, she feels—and, oh my, she hurts. Lizzy knows all of the things that cause her agony. She can list them as clearly and perfunctorily as her first grade spelling tests. But her thoughts are not as numbing as those lists. They’re painful. And, the only thing that eases them is a razor.

I will query Raven’s Path and Love Denied. I will also continue to write historicals. They are too much a part of me to set aside for any length of time. But, I feel that I must listen to Lizzy too. She is speaking to me in snippets and is anxious to share her story.

Jo dangled her new bracelet in front of Lizzy’s nose. Not that she’d know it was new if Jo hadn’t shoved every purchase of silver and cheap tawdry designer rip off in front of her nose since last semester. “Look, this is just like Angelina Jolie’s when she was with that ugly older guy. See the skeleton in the middle? She was so cool then.”

Lizzy gave her a quick applaud with an “Oh!” but really she was sick of it. She could clearly see the strips of purple, of yellow, of healed brown. Jo pretended she was hiding the cuts, but really she was dressing them up, wrapping them in glamour and yelling “Look at me!” She got pulled out regularly by school guidance for “the talk.” She’d return all coy and humble but she was preening at the attention. A peacock amongst swallows.

Jo cut for show. She cut for attention. Maybe she felt some pain. Who knew? But, she screamed for someone to feel sorry for her. Well, Lizzy knew cutting and she didn’t feel anything for the scars on Jo’s arms. She didn’t feel anything for Jo. As a matter of fact she didn’t give a shit about World History either.

She pushed from the desk and stood, gathering her papers and shoving them into her bag. Mr. Hobard stopped talking and stared at her, the hand that had been swirling through the air frozen, the whiteboard marker clenched between fingers suspended midair. His eyes bulged like that guy in that stupid movie her mom watched over and over, alone, laughing too loud and too much. They popped right out of his head.

“Lizzy, what’s up? You’re giving Hobard a heart attack.”

Lizzy could care less if Hobard keeled over in front of the whole class. She needed to get out. Needed to grab some air. Needed to leave the fake pain and go prick her own.