Success! Have finished short story.
I started it in England as something to keep the gears going between HOUSE OF AUTUMN and NaNoWriMo. I uncovered it the other day and decided to see about finishing it, since it was more than halfway done anyway.
So I did.
I have no idea how bad it is. I do know that it's gonna need some pretty serious editing. Especially the last half, since everything I write these days is awful. But, it's 9,812 words in total, and a pretty good story (if I do say so myself). At the very least, I enjoyed it. So we'll see if I can lop it down, trim the fat, and sell it somewhere.
Anyway, that's all.
C is reading Foundation, Isaac Asimov
C is listening to more construction.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Doom (or, why I need a new hobby)
So, the query process is going pretty poorly. I've received four form rejections, but that's okay. Those don't bother me at all. In fact, I'm rather proud of the buggers. They're so professionally written and full of noncommital support for future endeavors of an unspecific nature. They're very, you know, self-actualized.
What's driving me into the ground is my inability to write a proper query to begin with. Somehow (and I'm sure I have griped about this before) I am capable of writing hundreds of pages of passable prose. And yet, I cannot write a paragraph.
The worst part of the whole thing is that this literary paralysis has translated into a massively unpleasant round of writer's block. Now, I freeze up with frustration and fear every time I sit down at the computer, or in front of a notebook and pen. The result? I can barely manage 500 passable words a day.
Once upon a time, I could crank out 2-or-3,000 good words in an hour. Not just passable ones, good ones. It was like a golden age.
On the plus side, this has driven me back into the arms of an old love, (i.e. knitting). I have a tendancy to pick up ambitious knitting projects, get them about 3/4 of the way finished, and then abandon them in the heat of writerly passion. Now, of course, there is no writerly passion, and I have devoted some long-promised time and energy to fiber. I finished HOT (Hideous Orange Thing), and am a little more than 1/3 of the way through a baby blanket for my cousin's rug-monster-to-be (it's coming in December).
I started the baby blanket after finished HOT, when I was desperate for something square and stockinette that I could work on in the car, while watching t.v., etc. Now, of course, I'm miles into the proverbial stockinette wasteland with no end in sight, and I'm looking enviously at all the lovely sweaters, socks, and non-blanket things people are doing.
Although I did have a great gift idea for Faye the Magnificent. I just have to, you know, start on it. And with my rekindled enthusiasm for knitting, I am predictably lured into the expensive yarn websites wherein lie the cotton/silk blends and alpaca.
The only problem is that I've been knitting so much recently, my hands are beginning to ache. Which leads me to believe that I should perhaps pick up some other crafty-type endeavor to augment the knittery. Luckily for me, I've got a pile of stuff from London sitting around, and mum just bought me a scrapbooking kit.
...and there's that quilt.
C is reading Foundation, Isaac Asimov
C is listening to the clack of the keyboard, and the dulcet tones of construction overhead.
P.S.: Pictures of projects forthcoming.
What's driving me into the ground is my inability to write a proper query to begin with. Somehow (and I'm sure I have griped about this before) I am capable of writing hundreds of pages of passable prose. And yet, I cannot write a paragraph.
The worst part of the whole thing is that this literary paralysis has translated into a massively unpleasant round of writer's block. Now, I freeze up with frustration and fear every time I sit down at the computer, or in front of a notebook and pen. The result? I can barely manage 500 passable words a day.
Once upon a time, I could crank out 2-or-3,000 good words in an hour. Not just passable ones, good ones. It was like a golden age.
On the plus side, this has driven me back into the arms of an old love, (i.e. knitting). I have a tendancy to pick up ambitious knitting projects, get them about 3/4 of the way finished, and then abandon them in the heat of writerly passion. Now, of course, there is no writerly passion, and I have devoted some long-promised time and energy to fiber. I finished HOT (Hideous Orange Thing), and am a little more than 1/3 of the way through a baby blanket for my cousin's rug-monster-to-be (it's coming in December).
I started the baby blanket after finished HOT, when I was desperate for something square and stockinette that I could work on in the car, while watching t.v., etc. Now, of course, I'm miles into the proverbial stockinette wasteland with no end in sight, and I'm looking enviously at all the lovely sweaters, socks, and non-blanket things people are doing.
Although I did have a great gift idea for Faye the Magnificent. I just have to, you know, start on it. And with my rekindled enthusiasm for knitting, I am predictably lured into the expensive yarn websites wherein lie the cotton/silk blends and alpaca.
The only problem is that I've been knitting so much recently, my hands are beginning to ache. Which leads me to believe that I should perhaps pick up some other crafty-type endeavor to augment the knittery. Luckily for me, I've got a pile of stuff from London sitting around, and mum just bought me a scrapbooking kit.
...and there's that quilt.
C is reading Foundation, Isaac Asimov
C is listening to the clack of the keyboard, and the dulcet tones of construction overhead.
P.S.: Pictures of projects forthcoming.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
P.S.
Finished Atwood's Blind Assassin. It was awesome. Made me want to hug my sister, and punch a politician.
Querying (or, why I'm going to become an accountant)
Recognizing that my query skills are rotten, this Epimetheus submitted her query to critique on the Absolute Write board. The experience is simultaneously edifying and frustrating because
a) On the one hand, all the comments are things I expected. I know my weaknesses, at the very least. There were no surprises, like: "oh, damn, I hadn't even thought of that;" or (worse) "but I *liked* that part."
b) On the other hand, recognizing mistakes is only as useful as how well you fix them afterwards. In my case, that would be a usefulness rating of 0. I know where I've gone wrong, but I still feel like I'm moving backwards.
And I'm sure that somebody out there is asking, "if you already knew what was wrong with it, why did you bother putting it up for critique?" To which I answer in two parts (again).
1) To make sure that I wasn't missing anything (that there wasn't a mistake I overlooked). Although my default is being overly self-critical, even I can lapse into satisfaction with my work. This must be curtailed.
2) I was hoping that maybe seeing someone else say it would trigger the little gray cells, get them kicking again. Alas; so far, this has failed to happen.
So basically, it's time to whip the dead horse some more as I struggle to write an enticing hook/summary. Frustrating? Yes. Disheartening? Yes. Makes-you-want-to-give-up-and-become-an-accountant? Sweet mother Frigga, yes.
But I can't do that. I've been slogging at this thing for four years, and it would be stupid to give up now.
Besides, I can't be an accountant. I can't count.
a) On the one hand, all the comments are things I expected. I know my weaknesses, at the very least. There were no surprises, like: "oh, damn, I hadn't even thought of that;" or (worse) "but I *liked* that part."
b) On the other hand, recognizing mistakes is only as useful as how well you fix them afterwards. In my case, that would be a usefulness rating of 0. I know where I've gone wrong, but I still feel like I'm moving backwards.
And I'm sure that somebody out there is asking, "if you already knew what was wrong with it, why did you bother putting it up for critique?" To which I answer in two parts (again).
1) To make sure that I wasn't missing anything (that there wasn't a mistake I overlooked). Although my default is being overly self-critical, even I can lapse into satisfaction with my work. This must be curtailed.
2) I was hoping that maybe seeing someone else say it would trigger the little gray cells, get them kicking again. Alas; so far, this has failed to happen.
So basically, it's time to whip the dead horse some more as I struggle to write an enticing hook/summary. Frustrating? Yes. Disheartening? Yes. Makes-you-want-to-give-up-and-become-an-accountant? Sweet mother Frigga, yes.
But I can't do that. I've been slogging at this thing for four years, and it would be stupid to give up now.
Besides, I can't be an accountant. I can't count.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Dear [Insert Name Here]
Ah, the sweet smell of rejection. I sent the first batch of queries out last week, and I've already got two agents crossed off the list. Disappointing? Maybe, but there are plenty of fish left in the sea (as my grandmother would say), and I'm calf-deep in the next novel, so it's not the end of the world.
I figure if worst comes to worst, and I don't find anyone to represent HoA, that just gives me time to build other publication credits before I go out querying the next novel. Sometimes, I think that's my biggest disadvantage--I don't have a pile of short stories scattered all over the market. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how people manage it, writing a novel AND short stories AND keeping up with their other jobs/schoolwork. During the semester, I hardly have time to sleep, much less write.
But maybe that's my own problem. I should try to carve out a more consistent time to write every day, so that I'm always getting something down--even if it's just a few words before rehearsal, or in-between classes.
Anyway, that's the status for right now.
C is reading The Kindly Ones, Sandman IX (Neil Gaiman)
C is listening to the crows outside.
I figure if worst comes to worst, and I don't find anyone to represent HoA, that just gives me time to build other publication credits before I go out querying the next novel. Sometimes, I think that's my biggest disadvantage--I don't have a pile of short stories scattered all over the market. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how people manage it, writing a novel AND short stories AND keeping up with their other jobs/schoolwork. During the semester, I hardly have time to sleep, much less write.
But maybe that's my own problem. I should try to carve out a more consistent time to write every day, so that I'm always getting something down--even if it's just a few words before rehearsal, or in-between classes.
Anyway, that's the status for right now.
C is reading The Kindly Ones, Sandman IX (Neil Gaiman)
C is listening to the crows outside.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The New Frontier
First off, allow me to apologize for my post on Monday. It's a little thatchet-y and hard to follow; mostly because I was spinning like a top. Finally finishing HoA is like getting punched in the gut with a delicious cake. On the one hand, there's cake. On the other hand, it just punched me in the gut.
Now that crazy revisions are over, I know what the next step is. I've been preparing for the next step since I finished filling all the plot holes in London.
Querying.
Yesterday, after several days of fidgeting and making faces, I submitted my first agent query. I'd been putting it off, making lists and quadruple-checking things, but I finally took the plunge. I thought maybe I'd feel better after I did so, but that's a lie. Mostly, I still feel nervous and all bunched up inside. It's like a punch in the gut again, but this time without cake.
I'm trying to resign myself to rejection, because I know that's the way it works. But that would be so much easier to take if I didn't have to wait.
Anyway, there's only two things to do in the meantime--keep submitting, and keep working on the next novel (a modern gothic tentatively titled "Shalott"). Also, make an appointment with the eye doctor, because my prescription is two years out of date.
C is reading The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
C is listening to computer noises at work
Now that crazy revisions are over, I know what the next step is. I've been preparing for the next step since I finished filling all the plot holes in London.
Querying.
Yesterday, after several days of fidgeting and making faces, I submitted my first agent query. I'd been putting it off, making lists and quadruple-checking things, but I finally took the plunge. I thought maybe I'd feel better after I did so, but that's a lie. Mostly, I still feel nervous and all bunched up inside. It's like a punch in the gut again, but this time without cake.
I'm trying to resign myself to rejection, because I know that's the way it works. But that would be so much easier to take if I didn't have to wait.
Anyway, there's only two things to do in the meantime--keep submitting, and keep working on the next novel (a modern gothic tentatively titled "Shalott"). Also, make an appointment with the eye doctor, because my prescription is two years out of date.
C is reading The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
C is listening to computer noises at work
Monday, June 16, 2008
June 16th and Other Things
Happy Bloomsday. Can't say that I'm Joyce's biggest fan, but we were pretty buddy-buddy in high school. Mostly because he and Ulysses helped me show up someone who may best be described as a travesty against the written word.
That is not, however, the reason I have tuned in. I'm here because yesterday at 4:48pm, I finished The House of Autumn. Edits, finished. End quote, written. All that's left is a spellcheck, and I'm good to start sending sample pages.
After four years (I still can't believe it's been that long), I'm finally happy enough with it to start sending it out. Not entirely happy with it, mind you--but I could edit that stupid thing forever if I was given half a chance. I talked to one of my favorite people about it, and she said: "Listen, even if you could make this one perfect, you don't want to. Do you really want this to be your Citizen Kane?"
Which is a good point, honestly. Nothing's ever perfect. And frankly, I'd rather my work start out good, and get better from there. How unsatisfying would it be for the first novel to be the best? Everything after that would just...be worse.
So I'm taking a deep breath, telling myself that this is not (nor should it be) my Citizen Kane, and writing my query letters.
I wonder how many years I can get away with editing those? (Joke, I swear).
C is reading Sandman: World's End, Neil Gaiman and assorted other geniuses (finally borrowed most of the series from Brion, and am loving them to death)
C is listening to the intercom radio at work.
That is not, however, the reason I have tuned in. I'm here because yesterday at 4:48pm, I finished The House of Autumn. Edits, finished. End quote, written. All that's left is a spellcheck, and I'm good to start sending sample pages.
After four years (I still can't believe it's been that long), I'm finally happy enough with it to start sending it out. Not entirely happy with it, mind you--but I could edit that stupid thing forever if I was given half a chance. I talked to one of my favorite people about it, and she said: "Listen, even if you could make this one perfect, you don't want to. Do you really want this to be your Citizen Kane?"
Which is a good point, honestly. Nothing's ever perfect. And frankly, I'd rather my work start out good, and get better from there. How unsatisfying would it be for the first novel to be the best? Everything after that would just...be worse.
So I'm taking a deep breath, telling myself that this is not (nor should it be) my Citizen Kane, and writing my query letters.
I wonder how many years I can get away with editing those? (Joke, I swear).
C is reading Sandman: World's End, Neil Gaiman and assorted other geniuses (finally borrowed most of the series from Brion, and am loving them to death)
C is listening to the intercom radio at work.
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