Not to be boxed in, to be able to transcend boundaries: for an artist, it's essential.—Shahzia Sikander

I'm not quite sure anymore how to define myself as a writer. Two years ago I would have told you I write historical fiction and historical romance. I began eight years ago with research-heavy historical fiction and loved it. Still love it. Then, I dabbled in historical romance, writing three novellas before writing my first Regency romance. What a romp! Lizzy's voice began as a whisper during that novel and I opened myself up to telling her story. It has led me to Mags' story and an outline for two other characters from Lizzy's tale. So, I spend most of my time writing young adult. Does that make me a YA writer?

This has been on my mind as I query and include links to my Twitter feed and the blog. The look and feel of the blog was designed to reflect my earlier writing. My bio, while revamped somewhat over the years, reflects the diversity of my writing choices. My blog entries are eclectic, truly rambling between writing thoughts and sharing moments of my personal life. They are inextricably wound. Will this mishmash of images be a deterrent to an agent? Do I look like someone who waffles, who lacks direction?

To this end, I decided to start a YA blog. It's a work in progress and any suggestions would be gratefully appreciated. It is a place where I hope to eventually add me, the YA author. Which brings me back to the original conundrum. Am I now a YA writer? The adage write what you know is certainly applicable for this genre. My career centered around the lives of kids and teens. I have listened to, cried for and rejoiced with the Lizzys, the Mags, and the Beckys. I am lost in their worlds once again and it feels a bit like coming home.

But, while I am not a person who lacks direction, I am a person who seeks stimulation, variety and change. I am still writing scenes for my Regency novels—I have two more mapped out. I am still chasing historical tidbits down rabbit holes and making notes for the sequel to Raven's Path, dabbling at writing it from time to time. When I hit a wall in my YA, I find turning to these pieces takes away anxiety and frees up my creativity again. Ultimately, that leads me back to my YA.

So, although I have finally come to the conclusion that I am, indeed, a writer, I fret and fuss about definitions and parameters. Do I need to? Must I be boxed into a genre, defined by it? Am I shooting myself in the foot by advertising that I write this…and that…oh, and, that too? Does it show versatility and unlimited potential or do I just look a tad aimless?

I suppose none of it matters at the moment. Perhaps, it will when I have representation and a book in the offing. Until then, I'm fairly certain, I will remain, metaphorically and concretely, rambling Rose.

Jack-of-all-trades in a box. J

 

Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards. – Robert A. Heinlein

This writing journey is interesting, enlightening and, at times, overwhelming. It is fraught with highs and lows. Some days what pours onto the page enlivens me, other days it frustrates the heck out of me. Querying, synopsis writing and sending my work out into the big ol' world is exciting and intimidating. The whole process is an emotional roller coaster.

I have no desire to stop the ride and get off. It is what I do. It's what I've been focussed on for eight years. Now that I can write full-time, it has become an even more powerful force in my life. Yet, I have always been hesitant to identify myself as a writer. As I debate the financial wisdom of attending the Surrey International Writers' Conference again, I am reminded of the euphoria I felt listening to Jack Fallis' keynote speech, the final speech of the conference. 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.

That's when my thinking shifted. I began to treat writing as my job. I now dedicate several hours every morning, seven days a week. Sometimes I write longer, but it is rare that I skip a day.  I began to talk more openly with friends about my writing. I started to share snippets, something I was incredibly uncomfortable doing in years past.

The other day someone was here measuring our windows for shades and she asked what I do. I immediately said "I write." I actually said it aloud to a stranger! Now, perhaps it's because of the validation I am receiving from my queries. I have several full manuscript requests from agents based on the query letter and sample chapter(s). For my non-writer readers, that does not mean I am necessarily on the road to acquiring an agent but it does mean that my writing has something going on, enough to catch the attention of folks who know writing. And, I'll take that affirmation and save it for when I hit the lows of the journey.

But, I digress. Back to my easy response of "I write." She immediately asked what I'd written, and then wanted to know where she could buy my books. A year ago, I would have felt boxed in a corner, felt stupid for declaring myself a writer without having so much as an agent. But, not now. It was easy to answer. "Oh, I'm not published…not yet."

I listen to the voices. —William Faulkner

While Lizzy is out touring the world via the query process (she's travelling at a leisurely pace and visiting only a few agents at a time), Mags has been making her way into her own story. She's very different from Lizzy. Whereas Lizzy is full of angst and anger, Mags is upbeat and bubbly and sees the good in everyone. Lizzy is disengaged from life; Mags revels in it. Unfortunately, she has recently found herself unexpectedly in a difficult situation. But, she is resilient and resourceful. She will find a way out. I know she will.

Tentatively, this is the opening paragraph. Mags is about to say goodbye to her childhood friends, knows that things will never be the same between them again, and she's struggling with it. So, without further ado, Dear Readers, meet Mags.

I love to laugh. I laugh 'til I snort like a pot-bellied pig. I know it's gross, but I can't help it. Snorting makes me laugh all the harder until I'm bent over with the pain and have to calm down before I die from not breathing. Yeah, I love to laugh. But not today. There's no laughter inside me today.

 

 

“You can experience the same thing over and over again but how you feel about it will never be the same as the first.” ― Lik Hock Yap Ivan

I've been pondering firsts lately. Possibly because, in writing YA, I am engaged in creating many firsts. First kiss, first job, first love. As I've reflected back on my own youth even those harsh firsts—first heartache, first loss of friendship, first time living alone and being lonely—bring a gentle melancholy, a soft smile.

Dear friends of ours had to say goodbye to their little furbaby last week. Sophi, a beautiful little spirit, has been a part of their lives for fifteen years. I have thought about them all week and about how they too are living through firsts. The first night, the first morning, the first walk without her. As of today, they have passed the first week without her in their days. Those firsts are agonizing.

There are still landmark firsts to face like first month, first birthday and first year when the loss will bring a fresh surge of pain. But, our hearts have a way of easing it over time. Eventually, memories of Sophi will bring that gentle melancholy and soft smile.

Firsts. So bittersweet.



The incomparable Sophi.

“The here and now is all we have, and if we play it right it's all we'll need.” ― Ann Richards

My apologies for my absence last week. The one thing that any kind of loss teaches you is that you need to stop sometimes and be in the here and now. So, that's what I did. I drastically reduced my time on computer and iPad and, instead, spent many peaceful hours in my gardens weeding and planting. I took long walks with the love of my life and played with my pups. I took the time to enjoy friends, old and new.

I did send out a handful of queries, but that is all I did in terms of writing. I think I needed a break from it. I write seven days a week and, while discipline is important, time off is essential too. I am feeling refreshed, renewed and ready to dive back into Mags' story. Querying? Well, perhaps I'll hold back on that task until I see if there is any feedback on the few I sent out. I'd rather direct my energy into creation right now. And, when my words are exhausted, I will remember to balance the remainder of each day with those other things that nurture my soul—my husband, my dogs, my friends. And, oh yes, my gardens. J

Nothing Compares 2 U—Prince

I've always loved purple. When I was a kid, I got to pick the carpet for my room; I chose purple shag. My bedspread was mauve as were my curtains. I would choose purple stuffed animals, purple doll clothes and put that Laurentien pencil crayon #5 to good use whenever an opportunity presented itself. I suppose it was inevitable that I would fall for Prince.

I first met his work in Dirty Mind and Controversy. There is little purple prose on those albums. They are raw and they are real. Struggling with finding my place in the world, trying to figure out who I was as a young adult, and exploring my sexuality, the unfiltered lyrics and driving vibe of those albums hit the sweet spot. I listened to them over and over, not knowing yet, that it was the launch of my adult version of loving purple.

When I saw Purple Rain I was sandwiched between my boyfriend and his brother at a drive-in theatre. They ceased to exist. I knew the acting was terrible and the movie incredibly simplistic, but Prince was mesmerizing. My body vibrated with the music and I totally crushed on this man who was like no man I'd ever known, yet personified love and sex. That November, I went to his Purple Rain concert. He proved that his talent was no hype. I was spellbound from start to finish. Nothing has equalled it for me.

His "take me as I am" attitude, showed me time and again that it's okay to be different. More than okay—it's important to accept and rejoice in differences as well as commonalities. He was about connecting on a primal level, about being human and about celebrating that mixed bag of experiences and emotions that defines our species.

I have made no secret of my love of all things Prince, as the friends who sent emails and texts on Thursday, checking in on me, can attest. But, I'm not a gaga-for-celebrities kind of person as a rule. I don't hunt down news of them or obsess about their lives. I don't feel they owe me anything or that they are my friends. Yet, I am devastated by Prince's death. I feel truly gutted.

He has been with me since I was seventeen. Controversy was the background to my first long-term relationship. My husband went to the Purple Rain concert with me, although we went with a group of friends as friends and had no idea that we had a lifetime together ahead of us. But, he loved that show and the music as much as I did and I fell a little bit in love with him that night. Prince gave us the music to dance to, allowing us to release that after-performance adrenaline. Our theatre troupe, our dearest of friends, would squeal at the first notes of Let's Go Crazy and hit the stage. And, when we closed the bedroom door at night, Prince serenaded.

His music has been the soundtrack of my life. I will miss him, this man I never knew. Goodbye my purple friend.

 

“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.