Writing a book is hard work. I've discovered editing to be an even trickier slope to climb.
Through my efforts at finding an agent, I've had the chance to correspond with Paul, a marvelous human being who has provided me with an in-depth review on a portion of my work and excellent advice on how to make First Act of War better. (This is in stark contrast to the other three agents who politely said no, and nothing else.)
Editing, it seems, is where books thrive or die.
For a long time, I thought just getting the entire story down on paper was the most challenging aspect of writing a book. I've now accomplished this twice and it takes an unbelievable amount of time and commitment to actually finish a novel. Paul has clearly articulated that editing is where the real work begins. Apparently many people can write books, but there are precious few quality editors out there willing to tackle manuscripts and truly refine them into something worthy of publishing.
I thought I was a pretty good editor. But after comments from my excellent alpha readers, and after Paul's partial review, I realized that I yet have my work cut out for me. It's not that I'm lousy at it. I'm just inexperienced, and let's face it, editing 165,000 words isn't like editing a blog post.
The next steps are fortunately clear. Kathe, my first college English professor, and also the professor who worked with me on Noble Born, my honors thesis, is currently editing my book. Having already worked with me on one 100,000-plus-word book, she knows what she's getting into. The book is in good hands. I'll tackle it once she's finished and I expect the end result will be quite a bit better than anything I could have ever managed on my own.
In short, if you're seriously writing a novel, find yourself a good editor who isn't you, especially if you're relatively new to the process. Writing is just the first step. Editing is an entire flight of stairs.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
I Killed Santa
This is one of my least-proud and possibly most hilarious Christmas stories.
I was in second grade--the same grade my oldest son now attends, and I got into an argument with another 7-year-old. He was attempting to explain to me exactly how Santa enters his house because they didn't have a chimney. I believe it had something to do with leaving the back door unlocked and lighting a kind of runway in the back yard so he'd know not to land on the roof. The child was positive this worked because each year he received all the presents he asked for.
I calmly explained to this child, and all the children around me that Santa Claus did not exist, and that their parents were only fooling them so they'd behave for a few weeks before Christmas day. You see, my parents hadn't raised me to believe in Santa Claus. I really don't count it a loss. I remember my mother placing the wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree weeks before Christmas and I would sit in front of the tree and imagine what the colorful packages might contain. My children do the exact same thing now. (We compromised though--my kids believe Santa stuffs their stockings. It's the best of both worlds!)
At any rate, my declaration did not go over well in my second-grade class. There was much shouting and several kids burst into tears. My teacher finally took me out into the hallway. The exchange in the hallway is forever etched into my mind.
"Jeremy, you can't tell kids there's no Santa. They believe he's real."
"But he's not real. You know that right?"
"Well...yes."
"So, it's lying! Are you telling me to lie to them?"
The look on her face was priceless. "Well, just don't talk about it then."
It was a collision of cold reality and beautiful child-like faith, and I'm surprised that as I've grown older, such collisions have actually become more frequent.
I was in second grade--the same grade my oldest son now attends, and I got into an argument with another 7-year-old. He was attempting to explain to me exactly how Santa enters his house because they didn't have a chimney. I believe it had something to do with leaving the back door unlocked and lighting a kind of runway in the back yard so he'd know not to land on the roof. The child was positive this worked because each year he received all the presents he asked for.
I calmly explained to this child, and all the children around me that Santa Claus did not exist, and that their parents were only fooling them so they'd behave for a few weeks before Christmas day. You see, my parents hadn't raised me to believe in Santa Claus. I really don't count it a loss. I remember my mother placing the wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree weeks before Christmas and I would sit in front of the tree and imagine what the colorful packages might contain. My children do the exact same thing now. (We compromised though--my kids believe Santa stuffs their stockings. It's the best of both worlds!)
At any rate, my declaration did not go over well in my second-grade class. There was much shouting and several kids burst into tears. My teacher finally took me out into the hallway. The exchange in the hallway is forever etched into my mind.
"Jeremy, you can't tell kids there's no Santa. They believe he's real."
"But he's not real. You know that right?"
"Well...yes."
"So, it's lying! Are you telling me to lie to them?"
The look on her face was priceless. "Well, just don't talk about it then."
It was a collision of cold reality and beautiful child-like faith, and I'm surprised that as I've grown older, such collisions have actually become more frequent.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
More Rejection
This one hurt a little more.
The first rejection of my manuscript was hardly a rejection. It was more a statement saying the agent lacked the time to consider it. That agent didn't even read a synopsis of First Act of War.
This time, the agent read through my query, a synopsis and the first five chapters, and then declined to represent me. Ouch. I should have expected as much, but for some reason I was really expecting something else. The agent was quite nice. She even gave me a little feedback after I requested it. But she avoided saying anything directly about my manuscript. Double ouch. Maybe it wasn't her cup of tea. Maybe she was looking for something else entirely. I don't know.
I now have one official rejection. Put it on the wall. Time to go after the second.
The first rejection of my manuscript was hardly a rejection. It was more a statement saying the agent lacked the time to consider it. That agent didn't even read a synopsis of First Act of War.
This time, the agent read through my query, a synopsis and the first five chapters, and then declined to represent me. Ouch. I should have expected as much, but for some reason I was really expecting something else. The agent was quite nice. She even gave me a little feedback after I requested it. But she avoided saying anything directly about my manuscript. Double ouch. Maybe it wasn't her cup of tea. Maybe she was looking for something else entirely. I don't know.
I now have one official rejection. Put it on the wall. Time to go after the second.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Poetry Monday
I'm out on a limb here. I'm not a poet. I've never claimed to be. I fancy myself a solid prose writer, so I'm not sure if this little poem is even worthy of the term. I wrote this as simple writing practice. Quite a few writers say that writing poetry, even bad poetry, is a good exercise. So, I submit this for your consumption. Tell me what you think.
Thoughtless
There is nothing on these pages,
Turning wrinkled and fluttering
Through veils of belief and necessity.
The walk is littered with fragrances,
Of heather and sand and dung
Bled and mattered over is and not.
Rusting in failing festooned garments,
Riding a wave of fractaled cement
To light on monuments of false gods.
Painted smiles tracked with grief,
Pour endlessly into a barren
Fountain of sand and epitaphs.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Another Love Letter to LeBron
Dear LeBron,
Before you return to Cleveland tonight to play your former team in the house you literally ruled for seven years, I have a few pieces of advice. This is not the advice of a scorned lover, this is straight-up solid advice from a marketing professional in regards to your now sullied image.
Let's face facts. Things have not gone as expected. I don't think anything anyone told you could have prepared you for the animosity you are facing in arenas across the league. You are the villain of your own story. Exacerbating that is your team's slow start to the year. With expectations so high, with everyone asking whether or not you could challenge the 72-win Bulls, the lackluster start to this season's campaign already has your coach "embattled" and pundits writing about the fall of LeBron.
Understand that this is a monster of your own making. The fact that you left Cleveland isn't nearly as much of a problem as the manner in which you left. You turned Cleveland into a victim--a victim everyone empathizes with. Everyone outside of Miami is rooting harder for Cleveland tonight than possibly they've ever rooted before. It's not because they like Cleveland. It's because they hate you.
Here is your recipe to fix all that.
Do not ask your buddies for advice on this. Certainly don't ask for permission. If you want to ask your Nike rep, go ahead, I'm sure he'll be fully onboard. They have a lot invested in you, and right now your celebrity equity is falling faster than real estate prices in 2008. They're banking on a market turnaround. So surprise everyone with this rail turn.
Schedule a press conference several hours before the game and say the following:
1. Apologize to Cleveland. Not to your "fans everywhere", just to Cleveland. Apologize for stringing them along and then dumping them in the worst way possible. They took it personally, LeBron. Accept this and offer them the apology they deserve.
2. Apologize to your fans around the league for the narcissistic manner with which you approached free agency. Tell them you listened to some bad advice and you really should have conducted yourself differently. Don't say what you would do differently if you could do it again. Just apologize.
3. Tell Clevelanders how much you love them. Tell them how much you loved the great times you had here. Tell them that you still make your home here, and you plan to for the rest of your life. Remind them of that game against Detroit in the Eastern Conference finals in 2007, and how that was possibly your favorite moment on any court. Don't try to justify your performance in the 2010 playoffs with some lame excuse. Don't mention it at all.
4. Tell Cleveland that the decision to leave for Miami didn't come down to money, or a better chance at a title (we all realize that Cleveland had the best record in the entire NBA for two years running); tell them it simply came down to a desire to play with your buddies. Under no circumstance should you address the theory that you all planned to do this at the last Olympic games. Don't even bring that up.
5. Tell Cleveland how difficult that decision was, and how you agonized over it. Tell them this was the most difficult decision you ever made, and that you're very sorry it hurt them. Don't say you're "sorry IF it hurt them". It did.
6. Make an announcement that you're opening some kind of nonprofit foundation in Cleveland that will benefit underprivileged children, and donate a million dollars to the cause. A million dollars isn't really that much for you, but it still sounds like a lot in Cleveland.
7. Finally, finish by telling Cleveland fans that you miss them, and by all means, leave the door open for a future romance. Slap on that boysih grin and remind them that your current contract is really only for three years, and you're only twenty-five. Don't worry, Clevelanders will put the pieces together, and every sports writer from here to China will suddenly be writing about the next "summer of LeBron".
Don't take any questions. Shake a few hands and act genuine--just like you did for all those years in a Cavs uniform.
After this, take the floor with confidence, and realize that if Cleveland does something nasty to you or your family, suddenly, you'll look like the victim, and Cleveland will look like an angry ex that didn't deserve you in the first place. The rest of the world will quickly come back to your side and Cleveland can return to being an afterthought in the sports world.
Follow this advice and you cannot go wrong.
I'm not one of your sycophantic handlers, so you won't take this advice, and part of me is actually glad. Because if you did, people might stop booing you relentlessly. So stick to what you're doing. You're brand is fine. People will come around. And if they don't--blame your coach, or your teammates, or your current NBA city, because it can't be your fault, you're the "Chosen 1".
Before you return to Cleveland tonight to play your former team in the house you literally ruled for seven years, I have a few pieces of advice. This is not the advice of a scorned lover, this is straight-up solid advice from a marketing professional in regards to your now sullied image.
Let's face facts. Things have not gone as expected. I don't think anything anyone told you could have prepared you for the animosity you are facing in arenas across the league. You are the villain of your own story. Exacerbating that is your team's slow start to the year. With expectations so high, with everyone asking whether or not you could challenge the 72-win Bulls, the lackluster start to this season's campaign already has your coach "embattled" and pundits writing about the fall of LeBron.
Understand that this is a monster of your own making. The fact that you left Cleveland isn't nearly as much of a problem as the manner in which you left. You turned Cleveland into a victim--a victim everyone empathizes with. Everyone outside of Miami is rooting harder for Cleveland tonight than possibly they've ever rooted before. It's not because they like Cleveland. It's because they hate you.
Here is your recipe to fix all that.
Do not ask your buddies for advice on this. Certainly don't ask for permission. If you want to ask your Nike rep, go ahead, I'm sure he'll be fully onboard. They have a lot invested in you, and right now your celebrity equity is falling faster than real estate prices in 2008. They're banking on a market turnaround. So surprise everyone with this rail turn.
Schedule a press conference several hours before the game and say the following:
1. Apologize to Cleveland. Not to your "fans everywhere", just to Cleveland. Apologize for stringing them along and then dumping them in the worst way possible. They took it personally, LeBron. Accept this and offer them the apology they deserve.
2. Apologize to your fans around the league for the narcissistic manner with which you approached free agency. Tell them you listened to some bad advice and you really should have conducted yourself differently. Don't say what you would do differently if you could do it again. Just apologize.
3. Tell Clevelanders how much you love them. Tell them how much you loved the great times you had here. Tell them that you still make your home here, and you plan to for the rest of your life. Remind them of that game against Detroit in the Eastern Conference finals in 2007, and how that was possibly your favorite moment on any court. Don't try to justify your performance in the 2010 playoffs with some lame excuse. Don't mention it at all.
4. Tell Cleveland that the decision to leave for Miami didn't come down to money, or a better chance at a title (we all realize that Cleveland had the best record in the entire NBA for two years running); tell them it simply came down to a desire to play with your buddies. Under no circumstance should you address the theory that you all planned to do this at the last Olympic games. Don't even bring that up.
5. Tell Cleveland how difficult that decision was, and how you agonized over it. Tell them this was the most difficult decision you ever made, and that you're very sorry it hurt them. Don't say you're "sorry IF it hurt them". It did.
6. Make an announcement that you're opening some kind of nonprofit foundation in Cleveland that will benefit underprivileged children, and donate a million dollars to the cause. A million dollars isn't really that much for you, but it still sounds like a lot in Cleveland.
7. Finally, finish by telling Cleveland fans that you miss them, and by all means, leave the door open for a future romance. Slap on that boysih grin and remind them that your current contract is really only for three years, and you're only twenty-five. Don't worry, Clevelanders will put the pieces together, and every sports writer from here to China will suddenly be writing about the next "summer of LeBron".
Don't take any questions. Shake a few hands and act genuine--just like you did for all those years in a Cavs uniform.
After this, take the floor with confidence, and realize that if Cleveland does something nasty to you or your family, suddenly, you'll look like the victim, and Cleveland will look like an angry ex that didn't deserve you in the first place. The rest of the world will quickly come back to your side and Cleveland can return to being an afterthought in the sports world.
Follow this advice and you cannot go wrong.
I'm not one of your sycophantic handlers, so you won't take this advice, and part of me is actually glad. Because if you did, people might stop booing you relentlessly. So stick to what you're doing. You're brand is fine. People will come around. And if they don't--blame your coach, or your teammates, or your current NBA city, because it can't be your fault, you're the "Chosen 1".
Monday, November 29, 2010
A Question of Security
One stolen ATM card number and $500 later, I have become a statistic in a growing problem. My wife and I take great care of our personal information, so it came as quite a shock when I discovered $500 missing from my checking account. The money had been withdrawn from an ATM in Chicago. Please don't feel badly for me--we'll get the money back. Feel bad for the financial institutions who have to deal with this on an alarming scale.
While I was chatting with the representative from my bank, she told me that my call was the first of the day, and she was sure to have 10 more before her shift ended. Multiply that number by the number of work days and the number of phone reps the bank employs and the number of people hit by this kind of theft is startling.
I'm posting this so hopefully you'll pay attention to any public credit/debit/atm machine where you can swipe a card. I also post this to hopefully instill in everyone a sense of patience over the new security measures that seem to be popping up everywhere. On Cybermonday - when cyberthieves are no doubt raking in the cash off unsuspecting shoppers, and stealing thousands of dollars from financial institutions everywhere, a little prudence and willingness to adhere to general security rules will be a great assistance to those attempting to combat high-tech theft.
While I was chatting with the representative from my bank, she told me that my call was the first of the day, and she was sure to have 10 more before her shift ended. Multiply that number by the number of work days and the number of phone reps the bank employs and the number of people hit by this kind of theft is startling.
I'm posting this so hopefully you'll pay attention to any public credit/debit/atm machine where you can swipe a card. I also post this to hopefully instill in everyone a sense of patience over the new security measures that seem to be popping up everywhere. On Cybermonday - when cyberthieves are no doubt raking in the cash off unsuspecting shoppers, and stealing thousands of dollars from financial institutions everywhere, a little prudence and willingness to adhere to general security rules will be a great assistance to those attempting to combat high-tech theft.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Progress
I finished the 5th round of revisions on First Act of War last week. Needless to say, I was quite pumped. I felt like it was done! And it is indeed a beautiful feeling. Then I began the arduous task of getting the book published. So I started where everyone should start when attempting this - I started with research.
Blindly sending your manuscript to agents and publishers will get you nothing. There are submission guidelines to follow, strategies to employ and a great deal of selling yet to be done.
I previously wrote about my first rejection. Rejection is very normal in the business, but I want to give myself the best possible opportunity. I really don't want a wall full of canned rejection letters. So here's my strategy:
1. I researched what the agents are looking for when they read the first few pages of a manuscript. Needless to say, it was a little different than what I expected. They want you to hook the reader in 1500 words and have your story sold to them by the time you reach 10,000 words. I realized that the opening to my story took far too many words. I need to get into it sooner.
2. I must find an agent that actually deals with the fantasy genre. Asking someone who works in nonfiction to help me publish a fantasy novel is a massive waste of effort.
3. I wrote an excellent short synopsis of my book and a very clear introduction letter. Basically you have to present yourself well in order to give yourself the best the shot of actually having your manuscript read by an agent.
4. I'm starting to market myself. This blog will help. I have a Facebook page about my book started up. I've got some people working on artwork, and I've got some people already working on a personal website.
All this presupposes that I've completed my novel, reviewed and edited it several times, and garnered comments from multiple readers, most of whom are not related to me. I'm convinced that I will give myself a better shot by following these rules.
I guess time will tell. For now it's on to sixth round revisions. I need to cut about 3k words out of the beginning of my novel to speed it up.
Blindly sending your manuscript to agents and publishers will get you nothing. There are submission guidelines to follow, strategies to employ and a great deal of selling yet to be done.
I previously wrote about my first rejection. Rejection is very normal in the business, but I want to give myself the best possible opportunity. I really don't want a wall full of canned rejection letters. So here's my strategy:
1. I researched what the agents are looking for when they read the first few pages of a manuscript. Needless to say, it was a little different than what I expected. They want you to hook the reader in 1500 words and have your story sold to them by the time you reach 10,000 words. I realized that the opening to my story took far too many words. I need to get into it sooner.
2. I must find an agent that actually deals with the fantasy genre. Asking someone who works in nonfiction to help me publish a fantasy novel is a massive waste of effort.
3. I wrote an excellent short synopsis of my book and a very clear introduction letter. Basically you have to present yourself well in order to give yourself the best the shot of actually having your manuscript read by an agent.
4. I'm starting to market myself. This blog will help. I have a Facebook page about my book started up. I've got some people working on artwork, and I've got some people already working on a personal website.
All this presupposes that I've completed my novel, reviewed and edited it several times, and garnered comments from multiple readers, most of whom are not related to me. I'm convinced that I will give myself a better shot by following these rules.
I guess time will tell. For now it's on to sixth round revisions. I need to cut about 3k words out of the beginning of my novel to speed it up.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Is There a Scale for That?
As part of my regular blog, I'd like to post reviews of books I've read and movies I seen. A few ground rules are necessary before I get started.
Since I have aspirations of becoming an author, I will be careful about what I write in my reviews. I am now acutely aware of what it takes to write a book, and I understand the difficulties that lie in crafting a story that is cohesive and entertaining. So, while I am a super-critic at heart, I will be much more open-minded about books that I read. I will not be so nice when it comes to movies. I love movies. I don't get to see enough of them. I get perturbed when I waste my time on a movie that was poorly done.
Because one just doesn't quite capture all the elements, I have two scales for grading: Quality and Readability. I will review books based on a ten-point scale (and I'll actually use all ten points). Five is average, and there will be very few, if any, tens - likewise with ones.
Why Quality and Readability? I've read plenty of books that I enjoyed immensely, but I got to the end and I felt like I'd just eaten two doughnuts. It was good going in. Not so good upon reflection. Likewise, I've read plenty of books that can only be described boring and hard to read, but then at the end I realize there was an amazing story buried in all that muck, and I'm really glad I read that book. Great example of high Readability and questionable Quality is The DaVinci Code.
I read The DaVinci Code to see what all the hubub was about, and I was genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed the read. It is a page-turner. Lots of intrigue, a world-wide conspiracy, fun characters and some good old-fashioned suspense, made it exciting. After I was done and I bothered to start thinking about it... it really didn't hold together. Parts of the plot just don't make sense. The premise that Jesus was married and has a line of children is neat, but doesn't change the message he was bringing to the world. It definitely doesn't set the stage for some clandestine matriarchal society, that the Catholic church is desperately trying to squash in favor of the existing patriarchal society. The crippled villain ends up being way over-the-top by the end. I would have stuck to the "Indiana Jones" parts and left off the religious commentary.
Bottom line: The DaVinci Code gets Readability-7, Quality-3.
On the flip side of that is Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast novels. They are a twisted ride through varied psychoses, portrayed in bizarre characters that seem dredged from a bad acid trip. Reading them is like slogging through a knee-deep mire, but when you finish, you sit back and say "wow." A great example of his writing is the paragraph he spends describing a fat man smiling. It's overdone and bone chilling at the same time.
Bottom line: Gormenghast novels get R-3, Q-8.
So there you go. There's my scale. Readability and Quality. Movies will have Readability flipped for Watchability.
Since I have aspirations of becoming an author, I will be careful about what I write in my reviews. I am now acutely aware of what it takes to write a book, and I understand the difficulties that lie in crafting a story that is cohesive and entertaining. So, while I am a super-critic at heart, I will be much more open-minded about books that I read. I will not be so nice when it comes to movies. I love movies. I don't get to see enough of them. I get perturbed when I waste my time on a movie that was poorly done.
Because one just doesn't quite capture all the elements, I have two scales for grading: Quality and Readability. I will review books based on a ten-point scale (and I'll actually use all ten points). Five is average, and there will be very few, if any, tens - likewise with ones.
Why Quality and Readability? I've read plenty of books that I enjoyed immensely, but I got to the end and I felt like I'd just eaten two doughnuts. It was good going in. Not so good upon reflection. Likewise, I've read plenty of books that can only be described boring and hard to read, but then at the end I realize there was an amazing story buried in all that muck, and I'm really glad I read that book. Great example of high Readability and questionable Quality is The DaVinci Code.
I read The DaVinci Code to see what all the hubub was about, and I was genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed the read. It is a page-turner. Lots of intrigue, a world-wide conspiracy, fun characters and some good old-fashioned suspense, made it exciting. After I was done and I bothered to start thinking about it... it really didn't hold together. Parts of the plot just don't make sense. The premise that Jesus was married and has a line of children is neat, but doesn't change the message he was bringing to the world. It definitely doesn't set the stage for some clandestine matriarchal society, that the Catholic church is desperately trying to squash in favor of the existing patriarchal society. The crippled villain ends up being way over-the-top by the end. I would have stuck to the "Indiana Jones" parts and left off the religious commentary.
Bottom line: The DaVinci Code gets Readability-7, Quality-3.
On the flip side of that is Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast novels. They are a twisted ride through varied psychoses, portrayed in bizarre characters that seem dredged from a bad acid trip. Reading them is like slogging through a knee-deep mire, but when you finish, you sit back and say "wow." A great example of his writing is the paragraph he spends describing a fat man smiling. It's overdone and bone chilling at the same time.
Bottom line: Gormenghast novels get R-3, Q-8.
So there you go. There's my scale. Readability and Quality. Movies will have Readability flipped for Watchability.
Friday, November 12, 2010
On Rejection
Can you really call something a rejection when it was exactly what you were expecting?
If that is a rejection, then I have received my first. I suppose I should be excited. It means I've actually created something worthy of rejection. That sounds odd, but bear with me.
I am nearing the end of my 5th round of revisions on First Act of War. After the 4th round of revisions, I sent the book to people who graciously agreed to cut time out of their busy schedules to read my book and give me feedback. These are the wonderful and amazing people who should be winning the lottery. And they have genuinely loved my book. Loved it! I'm beaming.
During the incredibly tense few weeks as I waited for my wonderful and stupendous readers to finish my novel, the JABberwocky agency opened their doors to unsolicited query letters. Now, this agency doesn't always accept queries, and it is home to one Joshua Bilmes - a high lord of Epic Fantasy agents. Publishers have said to Mr. Bilmes, "We love your authors!" He has secured wonderful publishing deals for unknowns and well-knowns alike. He is exactly the sort of person I want representing me.
So I sent a query letter the moment the gates opened.
Now sending a query letter is a little like buying a lottery ticket. You're pretty much just wasting the $1 on envelopes, paper and postage. But the excitment you have as you dump the fresh letter that contains all your hopes and dreams into the mail is such a rush that some people will literally do this several times a week for the rest of their lives! (I really, really don't want to be that person.) Your odds are a bit better than the lottery, but it also means you had to write a book, so you can see where lottery tickets are more popular.
Today I received Joshua Bilmes' kind response. It is on a cut piece of paper that slips easily into a #10 envelope. It contains a logo, address, and no personal salutation whatsover. It does say, however, that Joshua was delighted to receive my query, and that he had given my work his most careful consideration.
For those scoring at home, it's not looking good for the home team. It's kind of like when you went up to the prettiest girl in your English class and asked her to homecoming, and she says, "Oh. Wow. You know, I really like you, but..."
Oh, I hate the "but". Brief aside: if anyone ever says "but" after "I'm sorry" please realize they are not apologizing. They are justifying.
Mr. Bilmes did not use the word "but". He used the oh-so different "alas". Give the man points for originality.
So, Joshua Bilmes rejected my query letter. I'm not really that sad about it. Well, I am, but pretty much in the same way I am when I don't win the lottery. Now, ask me this same question a year from now, after 100 more rejections of similar ilk, and you might find me crying in my soup. I still want Mr. Bilmes as my agent. Actually, I just want an agent.
But, for now, it's cool.
If that is a rejection, then I have received my first. I suppose I should be excited. It means I've actually created something worthy of rejection. That sounds odd, but bear with me.
I am nearing the end of my 5th round of revisions on First Act of War. After the 4th round of revisions, I sent the book to people who graciously agreed to cut time out of their busy schedules to read my book and give me feedback. These are the wonderful and amazing people who should be winning the lottery. And they have genuinely loved my book. Loved it! I'm beaming.
During the incredibly tense few weeks as I waited for my wonderful and stupendous readers to finish my novel, the JABberwocky agency opened their doors to unsolicited query letters. Now, this agency doesn't always accept queries, and it is home to one Joshua Bilmes - a high lord of Epic Fantasy agents. Publishers have said to Mr. Bilmes, "We love your authors!" He has secured wonderful publishing deals for unknowns and well-knowns alike. He is exactly the sort of person I want representing me.
So I sent a query letter the moment the gates opened.
Now sending a query letter is a little like buying a lottery ticket. You're pretty much just wasting the $1 on envelopes, paper and postage. But the excitment you have as you dump the fresh letter that contains all your hopes and dreams into the mail is such a rush that some people will literally do this several times a week for the rest of their lives! (I really, really don't want to be that person.) Your odds are a bit better than the lottery, but it also means you had to write a book, so you can see where lottery tickets are more popular.
Today I received Joshua Bilmes' kind response. It is on a cut piece of paper that slips easily into a #10 envelope. It contains a logo, address, and no personal salutation whatsover. It does say, however, that Joshua was delighted to receive my query, and that he had given my work his most careful consideration.
For those scoring at home, it's not looking good for the home team. It's kind of like when you went up to the prettiest girl in your English class and asked her to homecoming, and she says, "Oh. Wow. You know, I really like you, but..."
Oh, I hate the "but". Brief aside: if anyone ever says "but" after "I'm sorry" please realize they are not apologizing. They are justifying.
Mr. Bilmes did not use the word "but". He used the oh-so different "alas". Give the man points for originality.
So, Joshua Bilmes rejected my query letter. I'm not really that sad about it. Well, I am, but pretty much in the same way I am when I don't win the lottery. Now, ask me this same question a year from now, after 100 more rejections of similar ilk, and you might find me crying in my soup. I still want Mr. Bilmes as my agent. Actually, I just want an agent.
But, for now, it's cool.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I Break Easily
I don't mean to say that I fold under pressure. Actually, I'm normally at my best when the pressure's high. Give me a difficult task and set an impossible deadline and I'll probably knock your socks off. I love that stuff. Not all the time, mind you, but in small doses it's wonderful - gets the blood pumping.
I'm certainly not one of those people who bounces back and forth between two sides of an argument. You know the type I'm talking about. They take a stand on an issue, but then someone hits them with a solid argument and they fold. I don't compromise my beliefs. I love listening to other arguments. I love people who challenge what I believe. Hey, if what I believe can't stand up to the challenges, then it wouldn't be worth believing.
I do find ways of getting odd injuries while participating in physical activities. Whether it's backyard football, dancing at a wedding or playing an indoor basketball game with a bunch of jr. highers - I can certainly find a way to hurt myself. It's irritating, really. But that's not what I mean either.
I break easy, because I have a broken heart.
It's not from lost love. I'm married to the most wonderful woman on the planet. Really. Truly. You think you got better? No way, dude.
It's not from the death of someone close to me. My parents are still alive. I've never attended the funeral of a close friend. The closest person to me I've ever seen buried was my stepfather, Tom. I miss him. I love him. I'll see him again. It's cool.
What it comes right down to is I am accutely aware of who God is and how he works. He has broken me. Broken me and reformed me. Time and again. And he's not done.
I love seeing him work in others' lives as well. That's what really gets me. The differences in the people who have surrendered. Their stories are awesome. What do Brian "Head" Welch, Colt McCoy, and Anne Rice have in common?
Not much. Besides Jesus.
I like it when he reminds my to check my pride and ability at the door. He's enough, always. I even like it when he humbles me. (Which is more often than I care to admit.) It's all part of the breaking. And it's beautiful.
I find as the years walk on, I break easier and easier. It's perfect, because when I am weak, he is strong.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise. Psalm 51:17
I'm certainly not one of those people who bounces back and forth between two sides of an argument. You know the type I'm talking about. They take a stand on an issue, but then someone hits them with a solid argument and they fold. I don't compromise my beliefs. I love listening to other arguments. I love people who challenge what I believe. Hey, if what I believe can't stand up to the challenges, then it wouldn't be worth believing.
I do find ways of getting odd injuries while participating in physical activities. Whether it's backyard football, dancing at a wedding or playing an indoor basketball game with a bunch of jr. highers - I can certainly find a way to hurt myself. It's irritating, really. But that's not what I mean either.
I break easy, because I have a broken heart.
It's not from lost love. I'm married to the most wonderful woman on the planet. Really. Truly. You think you got better? No way, dude.
It's not from the death of someone close to me. My parents are still alive. I've never attended the funeral of a close friend. The closest person to me I've ever seen buried was my stepfather, Tom. I miss him. I love him. I'll see him again. It's cool.
What it comes right down to is I am accutely aware of who God is and how he works. He has broken me. Broken me and reformed me. Time and again. And he's not done.
I love seeing him work in others' lives as well. That's what really gets me. The differences in the people who have surrendered. Their stories are awesome. What do Brian "Head" Welch, Colt McCoy, and Anne Rice have in common?
Not much. Besides Jesus.
I like it when he reminds my to check my pride and ability at the door. He's enough, always. I even like it when he humbles me. (Which is more often than I care to admit.) It's all part of the breaking. And it's beautiful.
I find as the years walk on, I break easier and easier. It's perfect, because when I am weak, he is strong.
My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise. Psalm 51:17
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Towers of Midnight
Today is release day for for the second-to-last book in the epic fantasy series The Wheel of Time, by Robert Jordan (finished by Brandon Sanderson).
This series holds a special place in my heart. I joined the Science Fiction book club back in 1991 during my junior year of high school, and I had seven to ten books that I was allowed to select for a penny. (It's really a marvelous deal, as long as you remember to send in the little form every month.) I selected the first three books of the Wheel of Time series based on their blurbs, reviews and cover art. The rest is history.
The Wheel of Time wasn't the first fantasy series I'd read. I'd read Narnia, and a couple of series by Stephen Lawhead, but this was the first epic fantasy, and it changed how I viewed fantasy. I loved it in a new and profound way. With great anticipation I waited for each new release in the series, normally rereading all the prior books before the release of the new one.
In the middle to later books, Robert Jordan seemed to struggle. I don't know if it was the sheer number of characters, or the weight of the many storylines, but the pacing of the books slowed, before picking back up again as Jordan neared the finish line of his series. Then, the unthinkable happened. Robert Jordan passed away with the series unfinished. Fortunately, his widow quickly found Brandon Sanderson to finish the series.
For those of you who don't know, Sanderson is a delightful author, and I have to give him a great deal of credit for helping me to understand that I could actually write a book. The Gathering Storm, book 12, was excellent, and Towers of Midnight promises to continue the resolution of plot threads as the overall story nears its climax.
If you're a fan of the series, be sure to grab your copy this week. If you've never heard of the series, pick up Eye of the World, and you can start the journey that has enchanted so many.
This series holds a special place in my heart. I joined the Science Fiction book club back in 1991 during my junior year of high school, and I had seven to ten books that I was allowed to select for a penny. (It's really a marvelous deal, as long as you remember to send in the little form every month.) I selected the first three books of the Wheel of Time series based on their blurbs, reviews and cover art. The rest is history.
The Wheel of Time wasn't the first fantasy series I'd read. I'd read Narnia, and a couple of series by Stephen Lawhead, but this was the first epic fantasy, and it changed how I viewed fantasy. I loved it in a new and profound way. With great anticipation I waited for each new release in the series, normally rereading all the prior books before the release of the new one.
In the middle to later books, Robert Jordan seemed to struggle. I don't know if it was the sheer number of characters, or the weight of the many storylines, but the pacing of the books slowed, before picking back up again as Jordan neared the finish line of his series. Then, the unthinkable happened. Robert Jordan passed away with the series unfinished. Fortunately, his widow quickly found Brandon Sanderson to finish the series.
For those of you who don't know, Sanderson is a delightful author, and I have to give him a great deal of credit for helping me to understand that I could actually write a book. The Gathering Storm, book 12, was excellent, and Towers of Midnight promises to continue the resolution of plot threads as the overall story nears its climax.
If you're a fan of the series, be sure to grab your copy this week. If you've never heard of the series, pick up Eye of the World, and you can start the journey that has enchanted so many.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Subtle Differences in Looting
It's amazing how two people that have sprung from virtually the same gene pool can have such vastly different demeanors, abilities, and tenacity.
I'm speaking of my sons. The microcosm of their differences was on full display tonight as we partook in the age-old tribute to self-indulgence better known as Trick-or-Treating.
Once my wife had returned from the first go-round with the boys and their younger sister, we left the little ladies at home and me and the boys embarked on a candy grabbing experience that can only be described as purely frenetic. At about the half-way point, my second son (an endless fount of energy) was racing ahead, while his older brother began to lag behind. We completed the circuit, and returned to the house, where #2 emptied his sack into a plastic bad, and announced he was ready for more. #1 plopped on the ground and said, "I'm done."
Half an hour later, #2 had doubled his take - the happy recipient of many people who were anxious to dump excess candy now that the evening's festivities were almost over. He proudly proclaimed himself the victor in the candy arms race over his older brother. To which #1 said, "It's not a race. I wasn't playing."
What #1 doesn't understand is that it IS a race and everyone is playing. He's just playing a different game - and in his head, I'm sure he's winning.
I'm speaking of my sons. The microcosm of their differences was on full display tonight as we partook in the age-old tribute to self-indulgence better known as Trick-or-Treating.
Once my wife had returned from the first go-round with the boys and their younger sister, we left the little ladies at home and me and the boys embarked on a candy grabbing experience that can only be described as purely frenetic. At about the half-way point, my second son (an endless fount of energy) was racing ahead, while his older brother began to lag behind. We completed the circuit, and returned to the house, where #2 emptied his sack into a plastic bad, and announced he was ready for more. #1 plopped on the ground and said, "I'm done."
Half an hour later, #2 had doubled his take - the happy recipient of many people who were anxious to dump excess candy now that the evening's festivities were almost over. He proudly proclaimed himself the victor in the candy arms race over his older brother. To which #1 said, "It's not a race. I wasn't playing."
What #1 doesn't understand is that it IS a race and everyone is playing. He's just playing a different game - and in his head, I'm sure he's winning.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Love Letter to Lebron
Dear Lebron James:
The 2011-2012 NBA season opens today with you playing the Boston Celtics. Again. This is exactly how last year started as well. Except instead of playing with Shaq, you’ll be playing against him; and instead of playing with Mo Williams, you’ll be playing with Dwayne Wade, and instead of playing in front of screaming fans, you’ll be playing in front of screaming fans.
Last year, my wife and I looked forward to every game. We gleefully replayed feats that can only be described as inhuman. We savored every win. Especially on Christmas day. It was like getting to open presents twice. We laughed at our son who would don his mother’s headband and proudly proclaim he was “being Lebron”. We went to as many games as we could, and we talked into the night about how the team and season was something ultimately special.
As the postseason of 2010 began, anything short of a championship appearance was simply not enough. The Bulls came and went – barely a speed bump. Charles Barkley inelegantly proclaimed the Cavs would beat the Celtics handily. Game one was everything we expected. Game two was a letdown. Game three proved to us that you were the unstoppable force that nothing could derail. Then... the unthinkable happened. Maybe it was the elbow. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was frustration with the coach. Maybe it was just the Celtics. But for whatever reason, you quit.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
We recovered as only people living in NE Ohio can. Quickly. We watched your documentary. We saw you develop from a young talented boy into a young talented man. We heard the words of your coach and friends and found frank truth and honesty. You lost the championship game your junior year because you and your team had bought the hype. Your coach stared at the camera and said he had lost track of what was important. That he worried about games instead of you and making a better team instead of helping you to become better men. We felt like we were looking through a window into your soul. You were committed. You were driven. But most of all, you were loyal. We knew you would never leave NE Ohio.
Then came your decision.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
My wife actually cried. We didn’t hurl insults as others did. We didn’t agree with the owner of the Cavs. We didn’t and don’t hate you. But we learned something. We learned that no matter what face you put forward, we know you now. The boy that became a man is committed, driven and loyal – to himself.
Good luck on the upcoming season. We’ll certainly miss you in NE Ohio. Maybe you’ll finally fulfill your goal of winning an NBA championship this year. Although, I can’t really say your chances are any better than they’ve been the last two years, considering the Cavs won more games than any other team during that stretch. Maybe that was just because of you, and your former teammates are a bunch of no-names without yours glittering above them in the box scores.
Still, I can’t help but think of your legacy. The great ones all leave their marks – even if they never win a championship. The best to have ever played elevated everyone around them, defied all odds, overcame the obstacles, forged a path out of sheer will, and became known for their play in the biggest moments of the season. What will you be known for? Right now, all I can think of is about twelve minutes. And, ironically enough, you weren’t even holding a basketball.
The 2011-2012 NBA season opens today with you playing the Boston Celtics. Again. This is exactly how last year started as well. Except instead of playing with Shaq, you’ll be playing against him; and instead of playing with Mo Williams, you’ll be playing with Dwayne Wade, and instead of playing in front of screaming fans, you’ll be playing in front of screaming fans.
Last year, my wife and I looked forward to every game. We gleefully replayed feats that can only be described as inhuman. We savored every win. Especially on Christmas day. It was like getting to open presents twice. We laughed at our son who would don his mother’s headband and proudly proclaim he was “being Lebron”. We went to as many games as we could, and we talked into the night about how the team and season was something ultimately special.
As the postseason of 2010 began, anything short of a championship appearance was simply not enough. The Bulls came and went – barely a speed bump. Charles Barkley inelegantly proclaimed the Cavs would beat the Celtics handily. Game one was everything we expected. Game two was a letdown. Game three proved to us that you were the unstoppable force that nothing could derail. Then... the unthinkable happened. Maybe it was the elbow. Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was frustration with the coach. Maybe it was just the Celtics. But for whatever reason, you quit.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
We recovered as only people living in NE Ohio can. Quickly. We watched your documentary. We saw you develop from a young talented boy into a young talented man. We heard the words of your coach and friends and found frank truth and honesty. You lost the championship game your junior year because you and your team had bought the hype. Your coach stared at the camera and said he had lost track of what was important. That he worried about games instead of you and making a better team instead of helping you to become better men. We felt like we were looking through a window into your soul. You were committed. You were driven. But most of all, you were loyal. We knew you would never leave NE Ohio.
Then came your decision.
Disappointment seemed an inadequate word.
My wife actually cried. We didn’t hurl insults as others did. We didn’t agree with the owner of the Cavs. We didn’t and don’t hate you. But we learned something. We learned that no matter what face you put forward, we know you now. The boy that became a man is committed, driven and loyal – to himself.
Good luck on the upcoming season. We’ll certainly miss you in NE Ohio. Maybe you’ll finally fulfill your goal of winning an NBA championship this year. Although, I can’t really say your chances are any better than they’ve been the last two years, considering the Cavs won more games than any other team during that stretch. Maybe that was just because of you, and your former teammates are a bunch of no-names without yours glittering above them in the box scores.
Still, I can’t help but think of your legacy. The great ones all leave their marks – even if they never win a championship. The best to have ever played elevated everyone around them, defied all odds, overcame the obstacles, forged a path out of sheer will, and became known for their play in the biggest moments of the season. What will you be known for? Right now, all I can think of is about twelve minutes. And, ironically enough, you weren’t even holding a basketball.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Alpha Readers #1
I am writing a novel.
It's so much fun to say that! My book is titled First Act of War and it is the first of hopefully many in a series. It is an epic fantasy novel and I've tried to do some things differently than many of the great fantasy writers that I've enjoyed recently. The novel is over 170k words long and I am currently through 4 rounds of revisions.
Earlier this month I sent the book out to alpha readers. These are the people that will read the book, and (I hope) give me critical feedback. My readers are a smattering of family, friends and acquaintences, all of whom are avid readers or writers, and not all read fantasy regularly.
The reviews and criticism are starting to trickle in. It's not the easiest thing to listen to someone dissect your story, or a character, or a particular part of your writing style, but it's very necessary if you want to improve as a writer.
Two major points so far are some inconsistencies in character motivation and a fairly significant plot hole at the end. Actually, it's less a hole and more a loose end that should have had a big pay-off. Regardless, they're both excellent thoughts provided by excellent readers. As more readers finish and tell me what they think, I'm sure my to-do list for revision 5 will be quite long. But my book will be much better for it.
It's so much fun to say that! My book is titled First Act of War and it is the first of hopefully many in a series. It is an epic fantasy novel and I've tried to do some things differently than many of the great fantasy writers that I've enjoyed recently. The novel is over 170k words long and I am currently through 4 rounds of revisions.
Earlier this month I sent the book out to alpha readers. These are the people that will read the book, and (I hope) give me critical feedback. My readers are a smattering of family, friends and acquaintences, all of whom are avid readers or writers, and not all read fantasy regularly.
The reviews and criticism are starting to trickle in. It's not the easiest thing to listen to someone dissect your story, or a character, or a particular part of your writing style, but it's very necessary if you want to improve as a writer.
Two major points so far are some inconsistencies in character motivation and a fairly significant plot hole at the end. Actually, it's less a hole and more a loose end that should have had a big pay-off. Regardless, they're both excellent thoughts provided by excellent readers. As more readers finish and tell me what they think, I'm sure my to-do list for revision 5 will be quite long. But my book will be much better for it.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Start
Why "Left Side of Nowhere?"
We love to give monikers to positions, places, ideals and events. It's how we communicate. It's how we identify ourselves as different or unique. And eventually we come to be known more by these monikers, than by our own names.
I am a husband, brother, son, father. Caucasian, straight, monogamous. Friend, sports-addict, gamer. Writer, reader, critic. Christian, moderate, liberally educated. Middleclass, suburb yuppie, commuter. Metal head, classical, hair-rocker. Western, sci-fi, comedy. Successful, manager, nine-to-five daily grinder. Pretentious, excellent, inadequate. Humbled by circumstances.
But that isn’t who I am.
I am an amalgamation of: preacher’s kid, youth group, contemporary worship. Split home, stepdad, stepmom. Salad, white meat, cereal and milk. English, accounting, history. Slacker, backslider, lazy. Driven, committed, motivated. Hater, moral, judger. Lover, open, accepting. Tree-climbing, kid-chasing, selfish, generous, broken, altruist.
I am a walking, breathing dichotomy of terms.
Culture happily lumps everyone into categories and types and yet I am utterly indefinable. And so is everyone else.
Where does that put us? Nowhere. We're all somewhere between nothing and everything, and if you know exactly where you stand, then you're either lying to yourself or you're just plain silly. You can’t truly know someone until you’ve stood in their clothes and seen through their eyes. The news can give you a hundredth of the story from only one perspective. Your friend never shares all the details, and no matter what face is put forward, it’s only a mask to hide something else.
Since we’re all nowhere, I figured it best to give a name to the place I’m standing. It’s entirely arbitrary and meaningless, and serves only to separate myself from the rest of you. If you wish to join me, you can share the moniker, until you decide you feel, look, smell, or act differently enough from me, that you should be on the “right side.”
Call yourself what you will. I’m left, because I’m hardly ever right.
We love to give monikers to positions, places, ideals and events. It's how we communicate. It's how we identify ourselves as different or unique. And eventually we come to be known more by these monikers, than by our own names.
I am a husband, brother, son, father. Caucasian, straight, monogamous. Friend, sports-addict, gamer. Writer, reader, critic. Christian, moderate, liberally educated. Middleclass, suburb yuppie, commuter. Metal head, classical, hair-rocker. Western, sci-fi, comedy. Successful, manager, nine-to-five daily grinder. Pretentious, excellent, inadequate. Humbled by circumstances.
But that isn’t who I am.
I am an amalgamation of: preacher’s kid, youth group, contemporary worship. Split home, stepdad, stepmom. Salad, white meat, cereal and milk. English, accounting, history. Slacker, backslider, lazy. Driven, committed, motivated. Hater, moral, judger. Lover, open, accepting. Tree-climbing, kid-chasing, selfish, generous, broken, altruist.
I am a walking, breathing dichotomy of terms.
Culture happily lumps everyone into categories and types and yet I am utterly indefinable. And so is everyone else.
Where does that put us? Nowhere. We're all somewhere between nothing and everything, and if you know exactly where you stand, then you're either lying to yourself or you're just plain silly. You can’t truly know someone until you’ve stood in their clothes and seen through their eyes. The news can give you a hundredth of the story from only one perspective. Your friend never shares all the details, and no matter what face is put forward, it’s only a mask to hide something else.
Since we’re all nowhere, I figured it best to give a name to the place I’m standing. It’s entirely arbitrary and meaningless, and serves only to separate myself from the rest of you. If you wish to join me, you can share the moniker, until you decide you feel, look, smell, or act differently enough from me, that you should be on the “right side.”
Call yourself what you will. I’m left, because I’m hardly ever right.
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