“I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” – Sylvia Plath

You have to have tough skin to be a writer. To be an artist of any kind, really. Heck, everyone needs tough skin to venture into personally unchartered territory. It doesn't matter what you are pursuing, if it's new, it's daunting. I remember auditioning when I first came to Toronto. Only a few times. I didn't like the pressure of competing. I didn't have the guts. Maybe I didn't have the talent. Who knows? I'll certainly never know, because I skittered away like a frightened animal into a maelstrom of jobs.

Eventually, I grew a set. As a result, I've had some amazing experiences and a fabulous career. I discovered that if I worked hard, and stuck to it no matter the ups and downs, good things happened. My dreams unfolded. I have faith that the same applies to writing. I am working hard to improve, not just my specific stories, but my writing in general. And, I am approaching it with the same doggedness I adopted all those years ago.

Still, rejection is hard and it's tempting to put tail between legs and head into the proverbial hills. I've only sent out a handful of queries. I stopped for the reasons listed in my previous posts, but am revving up to begin again. So many of my writer peeps have almost exhausted their lists and are defeated. I am bracing myself for that, but not running. No, I am going to stand tall, keep reading, keep learning, keep writing. I'm holding to my formula: hard work + stick-to-it-ness = success. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day.

And, it's not just wishful thinking. I have proof. Check out the sampling of authors below and the rejections they endured before landing an agent or a publishing contract. Because, for those who don't know, querying to get an agent is the first gauntlet. You run a similar one with publishers after you get an agent. But I digress. Back to my belief in my formula. As you can see, it's founded on experience and definitive evidence from the field of writing. J

Cheers to all my writer friends and anyone else striving to reach a goal. We're in this together, and our time will come.

 

Agatha Christie was rejected for years before getting a contract.

Margaret Mitchell's Gone with the Wind was rejected 38 times.

Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen's Chicken Soup for the Soul was rejected 134 times.

Stephen King's Carrie was rejected 30 times.

Kathryn Stockett's The Help was rejected 60 times.

J.K. Rowlings' Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was rejected by 12 publishers.

 

To read some of the defeating comments that writers have risen above, check out LitRejections.

 

 

I like to write first-person because I like to become the character I'm writing. —Wally Lamb

I've had several emails asking me what the heck I am talking about with my revisions—close third to first person. Wha? I forget that many of you are not writers and have long ago forfeited the structural analysis of writing for the vagaries of day-to-day living. You are not wallowing in the debate of the worth of your words. You are out in the world, making your way and working hard. But, I like to think, you are hoping a good book awaits you as a reward at the end of a weary day. That's where my gnashing of teeth and biting of nails come in. And my revision.

I initially wrote Lizzy's story from her point of view but not from her headspace. While the story unfolded from her viewpoint, Lizzy was she and her. It was close third POV but there was still an element of a camera watching. It was also told in the past tense. So she said, he looked, they went. Contrast that with first person present where the action is happening now, and the reader is in her head—I say, he looks, we go.

Once I started the rewrite, I was addicted. I began to see what Lizzy sees, feel what she feels. When I looked at scenes directly through her lens, I found I needed to flesh them out more fully, to delve more deeply into the dynamics of her interactions with others. It has resulted in several thousand more words. I think they're good words. Strong words. Words that better convey the layered agonies of Lizzy's world.

Below is the first page of Cutting to the Chase. The first is my original opening in third person. The second is the revised first person. Hopefully, it lends clarity to what I have tried to explain above. If you feel comfortable, let me know what you think.

 

THIRD PERSON POV

Lizzy lay the steel against her leg, its smooth metal a cool caress. The slight scrape as it dragged across her skin sent a chill down her spine and she shivered, anticipating. Spreading her legs wider, she allowed her hand to slip to her inner thigh, inhaling deeply before edging the corner of the razor into the soft flesh.

She held her breath, riveted, waiting. The first crimson drop hit the water—the silent splash echoing in the small room, shouting in her mind—then it dissipated into watery nothingness, becoming whispers of agony. She exhaled slowly, drawing the blade in a straight path, fascinated as always by the gentle folding away of skin. Like pulling the strip on a Babybel. Except, she was the cheese inside out.

“You’ve been in there 30 minutes!”

She pulled the roll of toilet paper and pressed a clump of it against the cut. The little shit could wait.

“I timed it. Thirty stinkin’ minutes. You don’t own the freakin’ washroom!” The door reverberated from his banging.

“Shut up.” She wiped, but she’d gone deeper this time and it kept dripping. Grabbing more tissue, she managed to smear the blood, the mess looking a lot like her watercolor attempt last week. Mrs. Opal had described it as a sailor's warning, whatever the hell that meant.

 

FIRST PERSON POV

The metal is cool against my leg. I want to put it away, shove it back in the cabinet out of sight, forget it exists. But, I can't. Instead, I tip it and drag it across my skin, scraping slowly. Chills run down my spine, making me shiver. I spread my legs wider, allow my hand to slip to my inner thigh, totally giving in to it, edging the corner of the razor blade in. It's easy. Flesh is soft.

I hold my breath and wait. The first crimson drop hits the water—the silent splash echoes in the room, shouts in my mind—then it disappears into watery nothingness. The buzzing in my head softens Mom's angry words to whispers. I can breathe now and my heart starts to thump normally. The sharp pain eases. I draw the blade in a straight path. I love how the skin folds away. Like pulling the strip on a Babybel. Except I'm the cheese inside out.

“You’ve been in there 30 minutes!”

I pull at the roll of toilet paper and press a clump of it against the cut. The little shit can wait.

“I timed it. Thirty stinkin’ minutes. You don’t own the freakin’ washroom!” The door reverberates from his banging.

“Shut up.” I wipe, but I've gone deeper this time and it keeps dripping. Grabbing more tissue, I manage to smear the blood, the mess looking a lot like my watercolor attempt last week. Mrs. Opal had described it as a sailor's warning, whatever the hell that means.

 

***I submitted my first page to the Secret Agent Contest at Ms. Snark's First Victim. It was an amazing experience. The secret agent critiqued the first pages of forty writers. I learned so much from reading the submissions as well as the thoughtful and thorough critiques. I was so pleased to discover that, not only is the secret agent one I would love as my representative, but she also picked my first page as a runner up—which means she will now definitely be reading my query, first five chapters and synopsis. It makes me feel really good about the hours spent on revising to first person.

 

Somethin's Gotta Give

I apologize to those of you who take the time to find me out here in cyber world, but it's a non-blog week. DH and I tackled the 800 square foot deck this week. Sanding and staining has been a time-consuming task. And, when I'm not knee-deep in Cedar tone #2053, I am busy with the revision.

However, I don't want you to leave disappointed. I give you the girls for your viewing pleasure. See you next week!

You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view. —Harper Lee

Stop the presses! Not that they've actually started, but it's a line I've always wanted to say and have never had the context to use it. Well, now I do. Sorta. I am slamming the breaks on querying Cutting to the Chase for a few weeks.

One of my author friends suggested I write it in the first person point of view (POV). Now, to be honest, she encouraged me to do this quite some time ago. I resisted. I've never written in first person and was overwhelmed at the prospect of a full rewrite in a POV that did not come naturally to me. The story is told in close third POV, so it's almost the same thing. Right? (Insert irritating disqualifying buzzer here.) Wrong.

Her suggestion niggled at me as I continued to read a plethora of young adult novels—all of which are written in the first person. And, I have found myself drawn in, immersed. Unbeknownst to my conscious mind (Because, had I recognized I was doing this, would I have begun to query at all?), I started absorbing how to do it. And, shortly after hitting send on a few queries, I sat down and played with chapter one.

I learned two things immediately. First, I can write in first person. Second, and more importantly, it's worth the extra work. I am really getting into Lizzy's headspace. Scenes that were previously fine are now more than that. They are stronger. They pop.

I love writing so many different kinds of stories but, right now, young adult hums for me. It feels familiar, comfortable, like coming home. It taps into years of work in education and, in a way, helps me remain connected with youth, something I miss now that I have left the field. As for the work that is currently going into switching POV? It is part of the thrill of writing—you never stop learning.

 

I suppose with any good writing and interesting characters, you can have that awfully overused word: a journey. —Alan Rickman

I am sending Cutting to the Chase out into the big wide world. It is difficult to let it go. When writing a story, I am immersed in the world and the characters become very real to me. It is difficult to say goodbye to them. I believe it is why I think of my stories in clusters. Raven's Path, my historical fiction, is the first of a three-part saga. Love Denied, my Romance, is one of an interconnected series dealing with taboo subjects of the Regency era. And, Cutting to the Chase introduced characters that are screaming for their own stories.

I am currently knee-deep in Mags' story, who I met in Cutting to the Chase. I talked in an earlier post about how difficult it was for me to throw her off the cliff, but I did and we are now currently climbing out. Not a quick scale, mind you. There is a lot for her to figure out before there will be any resolution or peace in her life. I am full of angst as I write, but we're in it together, Mags and I, and we will come out on the other side.

Becky's storyline is beginning to blossom too. What started out as snippets and scenes is quickly evolving into a full story arc. I am trying to keep her quiet while I focus on Mags, but she is one determined girl and keeps pushing into my thoughts. So, I capture snapshots to pacify her and hope that she backs off for a bit and gives me some space.

That's two connected but very different stories sprouting from Cutting to the Chase, and I have been quite satisfied with the situation. I mean, three is the perfect number, right? Well, it seems that Stu doesn't think so. He has started to tap on my shoulder and remind me that he too has a life. I've explained to him that writing from the point of view of a teenaged guy might be a bit much for me. He just takes off his cap, runs his hand through those ridiculous curls of his and winks. Says I'm up to it. He's got his own file now, because who am I to argue?

 

 

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies. —Aristotle

Today is our anniversary. I love. I am loved. Unconditionally. It's why I believe in happy ever afters.

You kissed me

And I didn't know

That in that moment

That singular spectacular moment

My life changed for the better

Forever

My heart, my life, my Keev.

 

(For those curious about our anniversary song...Cathy, Sadie...this year we have chosen Over and Over Again by Nathan Sykes.)

It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy, that makes happiness. —Charles Spurgeon

I live in a bubble, I really do. I'm not sure when that happened. It wasn't always that way. I am no stranger to life's trials and heartaches. None of us are immune. Yet, more and more I cannot help but think I am the luckiest person on the planet. Although, perhaps my happiness stems from recognizing and celebrating the good things in my life rather than dwelling on the not-so-good things? I have come to believe that negatives can be undermined by positives. So, that means you have to put your positives in the spotlight in order to keep the negatives in the wings…or better yet, to toss those negatives into the gutter behind the theatre of your life.

I used to keep a "grateful" journal. Each night I'd write three things that I was grateful for that day. Eventually, I internalized it and, while the journal still resides in my nightstand, I rarely write in it. Instead, I say it out loud. To my husband. To myself. To the universe. I thought I'd share some things in my life that I am grateful for, that make me want to do a happy dance just thinking about them.

1.       My good health. I begin every day with a thankful nod to it. For, without it, my bubble might pop.

2.       My husband. Best friends, we tell each other "I love you" every single day. More importantly, we mean it.

3.       My two little dogs. They make my heart swell with love and maternal instinct, and they make me laugh every day.

4.       My home. Pastoral, mountain and ocean views, it is an ever-changing watercolour outside my living room window. It reminds me every day that I am but a small part of something bigger, and that helps keep things in perspective.

5.       My writing. The artist in me craves creativity and writing feeds that part of my soul. Add to that 100% support from DH and the time to pursue it, well, how lucky can a gal get?

6.       My friends. Old and new, near and far. They don't allow me to slip into an insular writer's world. Instead, they insist that I come out and play and always reach out when I am MIA too long.

7.       Books. I stinkin' love books. From romance novels to picture books to atlases, surround me, submerge me, freakin' drown me in books. I adore the look of them, the feel of them in my hands and I love, love, love getting lost in them.

8.       Champagne. It's a good thing I am not rich. I would live on the stuff. Mind you, even in my quiet little life there is always a reason to pop a bottle of bubbly.

9.       Chocolate. We enjoy a piece of chocolate every day. It is decadent and delicious.

10.   Gardening. I have always loved planning a flower garden. Now I have seven raised beds waiting for my exploration into vegetable gardening…and a climate that makes this new endeavour oh so exciting.

I urge you to make a list and to focus on the great things in your every day. To the best of our knowledge, we only get one chance at this thing called life. Let's kick up our heels a little and celebrate all things good.