The Writing

I guess I’ve been talking about my books and it’s kinda hard to know what I’m talking about without reading any of it. Like I said previously it’s middle grade—for ages 8-12.

Enjoy!

Excerpt from HURRICANE DANIEL:

“I’m gonna make some popcorn. You want some?” Mom asked.

“Sure, you want me to pause it?” asked Dad. He reached across the coffee table to get the remote.

“Okay.”

Mom went to the kitchen and got two bags of popcorn from the box in the snack drawer. She looked over at Daniel and his friends in the family room. They were gathered around Daniel’s laptop, tracking the storm. She put one of the bags in the microwave and went down the hall to the bathroom.

It was dark in the hallway and she stepped on something small and furry. She thought it was Darwin for about a half a second and then realized it was some kind of toy. Maybe one of Darwin’s little squeaky toys. She reached along the wall inside the bathroom door, feeling for the light switch. She felt something along her arm, like a cobweb or a stray hair or something. She switched on the light and jerked her arm back out.

At first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. The air in the bathroom was so thick that she couldn’t even see her hands held out in front of her. Wait, this can’t be right. I took my shower hours ago. How can it still be all steamy in here? It didn’t feel right, either. It should feel warm, but this stuff felt cold and misty. She could definitely hear the wind from the storm in here.

She reached back and flipped the switch for the fan. The air started moving and swirling and cleared up a little. She took one of the blue hand towels from the little holder by the sink and started wiping down the mirror with it. Then something in the mirror caught her eye. Some kind of movement behind her. She turned around quickly and made a small gasping sound. The fan cleared more of the steam from the room and she was able to see that the bathroom window was open just a crack. Is it coming from outside? Is it fog? During a hurricane?

She walked over to the window and pushed down on it but it wouldn’t close all the way. She stood on her tiptoes to get some leverage and pushed as hard as she could. It still wouldn’t close. She shoved it back up a little and then slammed it. This time it went down easily. A loud clunking sound followed, coming from outside the window. It sounded like something hitting the side of the house. She pulled the little metal clasp over to lock the window and ran out the door almost tripping over Darwin in the hall. She reached down and gave him a little hug. Darwin tried to pull away. She let go of him and he walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the window.

He growled softly in his throat.

Other Stuff

So my oldest just graduated from high school and I can’t help but compare his applying for college scholarships to my querying agents.  I guess some would find applying to colleges equally humbling, but my awesome son managed to get accepted at EVERY SCHOOL HE APPLIED TO—we’re still amazed at this considering how tough it is to get into some of these schools.  The seemingly endless scholarship opportunities out there were a much different story, however.

He ended up applying for fifteen different scholarships. Most of them required answering pages and pages of mind-numbing questions, doing art projects, supplying transcripts, tax forms and other documents, writing essays . . .  Trying to get my son to write even a one page essay was the reason we applied to 15 scholarships and not 50.  Deadlines would come and go.  Others he just simply refused to attempt.  And all the while he was doing projects for school, studying for finals and AP exams, doing all that stuff for graduation, etc.

And how many scholarships did he get?  One.  One scholarship.   And that was the state scholarship he was awarded for four years of hard work, community volunteer hours and awesome SAT scores.  The rest of the scholarships were all “Nos”.  Or, more precisely and in querying lingo, they were all “Closed, no response”.

I have to admit my husband and I were much more disappointed than my son was.  In fact, I doubt he felt the sting of rejection at all—except maybe for the couple of creative projects he worked on.  When we went to school we didn’t have to do any of this.  Going to college didn’t cost a fortune back then.

Of course, we get to do it all over again with the other two kids in a few years.  We have that to look forward to.

The picture is an original work by the graduate.

Never Give Up. Never.

I believe in my story.

Because of this one thing, I will never give up.

Every rejection will only bring me closer to my goal.

 

Each one is a necessary step along the way,

Helping me to hone my craft.

I savor them all.

Because of them--not in spite of them,

I am a writer.        

blah   blah   blah   blah   blah

Alice in Queryland

It’s funny how sometimes life can just stop you in your tracks.  I‘ve learned that rejection can definitely creep into your head and—if you’re not extremely careful—begin defining your days and commanding your nights. I began believing that not only was my book lousy, but any new ideas I had for books were also lame and I would never get a novel published.

I suspect my experience has a lot to do with my, at times, debilitating perfectionism. I’ve had problems with it in the past and overcame it quite nicely. I just need to remember what worked then and then do that again. Right?

Years ago I was working at a state institution in Texas and I had to collect various data on a weekly basis and then present everything graphically and precisely.  All of my work was then reviewed by the Data Nazi and reported back to me by percent completed and percent correct. No matter how hard I worked I could never get 100%. At some point I decided that I was never going to get 100% and it was stupid to try. In fact, my new plan was to deliberately not get 100%. Every week I would “forget” at least one thing or miscalculate some data. I know this sounds weird, but for me it was liberating. Not having to strive for perfection made for a much happier me. I have to do my best and then just sort of let go of it.

I’ve just barely started querying my first book—I’ve sent out fewer than 30 queries—and after 18 rejections I just stopped. I felt like if I couldn’t even get one request then I was just fooling myself. Everyone says just keep trying: tweak your query letter and get back out there. About this time I had a death in my family. I definitely needed some time off.

So now I’ve recovered on some level. I’m reworking my query, contemplating changing my title and getting ready to hold my breath and jump straight into the rabbit-hole again.       

                        Wish me luck.

Keep Calm and Write On

I've been reading and researching about how to get a novel published long enough to know that the average journey is no cake walk (or a cupcake walk, either). A lot of authors could probably wallpaper at least one wall of their home with the rejections they've received--and some of them could cover a room or two.

Of course, there are those other stories out there, too. The authors that walk out their front door one morning, trip over an agent lying on the sidewalk, sign with them on their way to get the paper and then get an awesome book deal on their way back to the house. Don't you just hate them? They tell you their story and want you to jump up and down and squeal with delight along with them over their incredible fortune. Instead, you are standing there thinking:  No! It was supposed to be me!

I don't really hate them. I probably would not have a completed manuscript if it weren't for them. There's nothing like other writers passing you by to light a fire under your butt and get you motivated. And no matter how effortless their success appears to be, nobody gets there without tons of hard work and persistence; writing a novel in itself is not an easy thing to accomplish.

So I've just begun querying agents and I'm entering a few contests, too. And I spend a lot of time COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT.
SERIOUSLY.

But I've found there's really only one cure for that.

So now I'm a few thousand words into my second novel . . .

Out There

I finally did it. I finished my middle grade sci-fi novel. Not only finished it, but placed my little darling carefully and lovingly up on the very edgiest edge of the nest and gave it just the slightest little PUSH.

Will it catch a gust of wind and soar to amazing heights? Will it sputter and flutter only to be spotted and then devoured and spit out, a partially digested snack for the cattiest of feline agents? Will it drop like a rock and just lie there kicking and weeping in the dirt? Or will it shoot straight up into space like a rocket and leave me choking on fumes and wondering what the heck happened?

It took me years to go from that first small kernel of an idea about a kid and a bit of science magic to realizing that it was more than just a short story to actually believing I could write an entire novel. Once I had set that goal for myself I kept writing, revising, writing some more, revising some more. And in those last few months: revising, revising, revising till I was almost ready to strangle the thing (not really), and then revising some more and then finally feeling like I was ready for someone else to see it.

Of course, after getting amazing feedback from a few writer friends (mostly about my seemingly random choice of verb tenses at times) I was again revising and revising and revising. And then finally: DONE.

And now, after the briefest of celebrations, I’m out there.

 

 

I made sure I met the “You Must Be This Tall to Ride” requirements and now I’m waiting in line for the biggest rollercoaster in Queryland.

My plans are to hang on tight and try not to barf.