Belletrinsic

How can a little slip of paper (or piece of mail shipped across the Internet) break your heart? It reminds me of the one boy I loved enough to let him rip my heart to shreds. It’s that same instantaneous pang I feel every time I open a rejection letter.

How can two very different things cause the same emotional hurt? Both are rejection, sure, but of completely different kinds. Well, they may not be so different after all.

A first love is a sweet, simple thing. That beginning infatuation, thoughts skimming more and more frequently over the new person. Then time spent together, at first flirtatious but then increasingly familiar. In time it’s all-consuming, a passion that drives thoughts and desires. Eventually, that bright, smiling, wide-eyed love wants to spill over and envelop everyone near, willing or not.

Remind you of something?

As writers, we fall in love with the words we write, the way we feel while putting words to paper. We love that we can be called writers, part of an elite group revered by society. And, most importantly, we fall in love with the stories we tell.

How is it, then, that someone can come along and tell us that the thing we love isn’t good enough?

“Someone someday may love it, but I don’t,” they say, “at least not enough to give it a good home. Better luck finding someone else.”

Not only that, but it hits hardest because that rejection feels personal, like that agent or editor is saying we aren’t good enough, our lives aren’t valid because the stories that come from us aren’t worth anything.

Really, that’s not what they’re saying at all, but it’s what we tell ourselves it means about us that hurts. When that rejection seems to mean that we can’t cut it as writers, that we should just give up—that is when we have to push back. Not against the agent or editor, but against those self-doubts and fears.

Rejection is hard, and it is scary, but if you believe enough in yourself, those little breezes won’t knock you down; they’ll toughen you for when the real gales blow.

Why do I write this? Because I feel the pain of rejection from both sides: as an editor and as a writer. I send out those disheartening letters, and sometimes at home I am the recipient of them. I just received one tonight, and I can tell you it stings.

But that does not mean I’m about to quit, even when I feel like doing just that after stewing over the message for hours until I had it memorized. That is when I have to step back, take a breath, and realize that success isn’t instantaneous—at least not the kind worth having. I want the lasting kind of success that comes from hard work and determination, from character-building defeat and persistence. I want to prove to all the naysayers that I can do this no matter what they say.

So the moral here? Rejection sucks, but don’t let it ruin your dreams. You are the only one who can control those dreams. Don’t give that power to a little slip of paper that says, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Your dreams and stories are worth more than that. And so are mine.

It’s something I’ve been hearing a lot at work lately: with hard economic times, we have to work harder by working smarter. What does that mean? It means eliminating inefficiencies, focusing on priorities, bringing up the quality of work in addition to the quantity.

Want an example from a literary agent? Here’s what Greg Johnson from WordServe Literary had to say in a guest post on Rachelle Gardner’s blog:

“[The current atmosphere in publishing] will force a new author to do what they should have been doing all along—working harder on the front end: finding the right hook, using high concepts, mastering your craft, building a website or starting a blog, growing a speaking platform, writing newspaper columns, even developing a TV presence to 200 markets! The era where someone with a home computer can stay safely in their PJ’s behind their computer screen and write (and let someone else market) is over. Some novelists can still create and not worry about building a readership, but most will have to write AND market.”

So how, dear authors, does that relate to us? It means that we need to be better at being writers. We can’t sit about on our laurels anymore and expect a contract to fall into our laps.

Publishers are cutting back on the number of books they publish, focusing on established writers. New writers will have to work smarter to break into the publishing world.

How?

—Write a great query letter. There is an art to it. I’m not kidding. It takes finesse to write a synopsis of your book that makes the story come alive while leaving a touch of mystery. If you need help writing queries, there are books, websites, and other resources to help. But the best thing I can advise is to have another writer critique it to make sure that the query is in top shape before sending it out. It is important to note that with many agents, one shot is all you get. So make sure you get it right because it will be the only chance you get to query them.

—Make sure your manuscript is revised as close to perfection as you can get it before sending it out agents and publishers. They aren’t going to take as much time whipping a book into shape as they once did. With the layoffs, fewer people are doing more work. They don’t have time to do what you should have done already.

—This means using spell check, and maybe even paying a freelance editor to proof your work. Stupid errors can kill a book’s chances, especially if there are tons of them.

—Join a professional organization. They abound throughout the country, depending on what type of books you write. I write young adult, so SCBWI is my first choice. There are groups for romance writers, science fiction and fantasy, children’s. You name it, there probably is one. Find out where they meet and connect with others writers. You’ll learn a lot from each other. And you may be able to . . .

—Join or form a critique group. I just found one for YA writers in my area. We’ve had two meetings so far, and I’m excited by the possibilities of how we’ll develop as writers.

—If you can’t find a group in your area, find one online. As I’ve mentioned before, I participated in Authonomy for a good six months, and I can’t tell you all the wonderful advice and criticism I received from other writers. I am a better writer because of it, and I’ve made invaluable friends (who also happen to be writers) from the experience.

Use your time wisely, and it will pay off in the end. I’ve heard people lament about how hard it is to break into publishing and how you have to play by so many rules to make it. Sorry. That’s the way it is. So you may as well learn how to play the game well now and benefit sooner than later.

One of my favorite books on writing is Anne Lammott’s Bird by Bird. In it she offers advice for writers who just can’t seem to get writing. The whole thing was inspiring, but I especially liked one piece of advice she gave, and it helped me to get over the mountain of self-doubt that had been plaguing me as a writer:

Write crappy* first drafts

It sounds simple, but it blew the top off my overloaded brain when I realized that I could write absolute garbage for a first draft and it wouldn’t matter. Write whatever comes to mind, it’s okay. Even if it’s the worst sentence ever to afflict mankind, just start writing. You can always go back and clean it up or delete it later.

That said, I’m conducting a very unscientific survey to find the Best Writing Advice Ever.

What writing advice has struck you so hard it nearly knocked you over? Do tell. Anything goes. We’d all love to partake of the shared wisdom.

*She used another term, but I generally don’t swear.

For nearly six months I was an avid participant on Authonomy, a writers’ website devoted to those hoping to be published. While there, I learned some invaluable lessons from other writers about the importance of self-editing. Here is some of what I learned.

1. Create a word “hit list”. Using the search function, see how many times you’ve used a word, and then change many of them if the word is overused. Or you can use the Word Frequency Counter http://www.writewords.org.uk/word_count.asp

2. Using the search function, look for was/were and try to eliminate passive voice as much as possible.

3. Search for adverbs (words ending in ly) and find a better verb to describe the action.

4. Read the opening of every chapter, just the first sentence or paragraph or two. Does it pull the reader forward? Or do you start with some bland narrative about the weather? Is there at least a hint of conflict or action? Do a lot of your chapters open the same way?

5. Read the end of every chapter the same way. Does it thrust the reader forward and make them want to turn the page to see what happens next? Is there a better place to end the chapter? Sometimes it’s easy to hit the logical end of the chapter but keep on writing a little more.

6. Repeated actions—how often does a character “clear his throat’ or do something ‘without warning’? Any little action like that which gets repeated too often without a specific purpose.

7. Spell check. No, it’s not perfect, but it will catch things, so use it.

8. Ruthlessly excise all clichés and well-worn phrases.

9. Change the font style or size so that it looks different. You’ll catch different things this way because it won’t look the same as before.

10. Read word-by-word. Don’t read sentences at a time, meaning you need to stop and analyze each word as you’re reading it. Take it slowly so you don’t miss things.

11. Read out loud for one entire pass of the manuscript. You’ll hear the flow and rhythm of the words better, and anything out of place will jump at you when it wouldn’t otherwise.

Do you have any useful tips/tricks to share?

(A big shout-out to the Authonomites who taught me these invaluable tips. You know who you are.)

Honestly, it can be troublesome. Writers are a misunderstood lot. People expect that it’s easy. All you do it type words onto a screen. As long as you understand the basic rules of grammar, you should be set.

Ah, but it is not quite that simple. One may write without being a writer. Written communication is essential to the world in which we live, but how often do you read something that lacks the basic essence of writing: clarity, energy, vitality, and ease of understanding?

Writers understand the essence and passion behind the words. Words are only symbols for the deeper meaning embedded in them. A writer can take letters—numerous, seemingly random strings of them—and craft them into something that hits the core of who we are as human beings.

I don’t profess to be a writer, at least not yet. I’m working toward it. The most poignant example I’ve come across lately is a personal one. In writing my book Surviving Eden, I found a poem by Emily Dickinson that, in eight lines, captures the entire essence of what took me about 300 pages to express.

Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day,
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.
How fair, on looking back, the Day
We sauntered from the door,
Unconscious our returning
Discover it no more.

She is a writer; I am only her apprentice.

So why write? As they say, there are only eight or so plots in the world; everything else is just repetition of the same. Essentially, there is nothing inherently new that we can write. But does that really matter?

I write because my life would be empty without it. I wouldn’t be me. Neither would I understand who I am as a person. When I write, I discover essential qualities about myself and my life. I can put things in the proper context instead of wandering around guessing at what they may mean.

I write to share a part of me with others and to make a piece—even a minuscule one—of humanity better.

Those are just some of the reasons I write. What are yours?

Everywhere I turn, someone is writing a book. Myself included, obviously, but I’m wondering just how many people in the world, or even just the US, think of themselves as budding authors?

I can’t think of another profession (and yes, writing is a real profession) where people profess to have the talent/ability with nothing more than a desire. Art? To some extent. Acting? Well, there are plenty out there, but I don’t know of many closet actors. Closet writers, now. There are millions of them. Anyone with a pen and paper can be a writer.

There’s a rather random statistic that 80% of people in the US say they have a book within them that they want to put to paper some time during their life. There are about 300 million people living in America at the moment. So 80% of that is 240 million (feel free to correct my math if I’m wrong). I know that’s not an entirely accurate number, but honestly, anything even close to that is mind-boggling.

If that many people truly want to write, would there be enough people to purchase all those books? And would most of them be worth buying or even reading?

Lately, every time I tell someone I’ve written a book and am searching for an agent, they tell me about the amazing story that they want to write. I’ll tell you right now that the majority of those stories probably would not sell in the marketplace. Publishing is fickle, and while no one can really predict trends or what will succeed, there are some pretty big indicators that certain ideas wouldn’t do well: lack of talent, lack of commitment, lack of a good plot.

So am I trying to dissuade anyone from writing? Certainly not. If you have a passion for it, then do what you must to accomplish your goals. I just think some caution is needed. If all signs are pointing out that you won’t make it as a professional writer, maybe it’s time to listen.

If this posts disturbs you on some primal level, ignore it. Keep writing. Who am I to stop you? I’m just tired and rambling.

How does one publicize themselves and their books these days? It’s not in the traditional format anymore. That’s one thing I’m learning abundantly both as an editor and as an aspiring author. Getting a story about you in the newspaper or a magazine just doesn’t sell books like it used to.

So what is the answer, then? Well, according to Chris Brogan, who was leading a discussion during the Tools for Change conference this week (as reported by the Publishing Trends blog), it is social networking sites, but more specifically, Twitter. Yes, MySpace and Facebook are still great ways to get the word out about your books and music, etc., but the next big trend is Tweeting.

As the blog notes:

“Twitter is a better marketing tool than MySpace or Facebook because it allows users to develop genuine relationships with each other. Brogan described most MySpace and Facebook marketing as being much too pushy and impersonal: ‘If I’m using my hand to shake your hand, don’t put your tongue in my mouth.’ “

So my suggestion to all you aspiring or published writers it to get out there, publicize yourself through all the new—and free—mediums of social interaction. Don’t just choose one form, either. Combine them. Put links to your blog on Facebook and Twitter. Find out new ways to create a captive audience. It’s up to you.

Publishers don’t have the manpower or funds to do it anymore. More and more it’s falling into the authors’ laps to get the word out, and nothing is more powerful in publishing than word of mouth.

Yes, it may take time away from writing, but why write if no one is ever going to read your words?

P.S. That said, visit me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/michellewitte

She knelt beside the shattered pots, barely noticing the blood trickling down her neck. Broken—all of them—lying on the scuffed linoleum, right there with her decision to let him be. He’d done it. He’d gone and broken his word.

Patience thought of her mother. Beautiful. Only word to describe her. Perfect to anyone but her own child. Slap here. Curse there. Anger everywhere. But what a show she put on for the neighbors. Nobody could compete with Mama for acting abilities. Star performer she’d been all her life, even to the man she’d married and later murdered. Oh, she didn’t hold the gun to his head, but she was certainly present in his thoughts as he pulled the trigger. Like mother like daughter.

They’d named her Patience because it was the virtue neither possessed but both wanted for the other. So why not burden a child with unreal expectations before she even took a breath? They were like that, Mama and Papa. Wanting what they’d never have, what they were never willing to give.

Patience learned early the importance of plotting. A good ploy was not to be outdone. Take time to get it right because there was no second chance with vengeance. The scar shaped like the old iron on Patience’s thigh was testament enough to that.

So Patience would wait and plan.
——
All was clean when he returned next morning. Who knew what hovel he’d slept in and with who. Didn’t matter.

Skin was puffy round the X he’d carved in Patience’s left temple. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to brand her for life. His. His mark. Like them old cowboys used to sign, he’d said. X for a name. X for land. X for property. Patience was property, and she wasn’t to forget it.

Breakfast was cold by the time he’d washed up. Threw it to the dog and demanded another. Of course Patience complied, because she was the epitome of her name. That’s why he wanted her, after all. Patient, submissive. Perfect woman.

He never would realize how perfect she was for him.
——
My, he was dashing the day they met. Leaning against his truck, smoking one of them ever-present cigarettes. She hated the things, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stand it for a pretty face. Him blond, tan, good-looking. Her short, dark, awkward. Mama said she’d never amount to much, but boy, when he looked at her that day, she felt like somethin’.

Why she believed all them lies, she’d never know. Women did stupid things in lust.
——
She’d always wanted a baby, a chance to do right by some small creature. That baby would be raised up proper, loving mother and all.

It wasn’t like Patience would get a chance with another man. At thirty-two, she’d been lucky to get a whistle from the town drunk. So when a luscious stranger walked into town—no past, no future—she took what she could. Patience weren’t no fool. She knew she was ugly, but that didn’t matter to him. He just wanted a warm body to keep him fed and clothed, someone to dominate. She could deal with the rest, so long as he gave her a baby.

Baby came eventually. Three months early after he punched her in the gut during a drunken fight. Couldn’t do nothin’, those doctors said. Dead before they reached the hospital. They let her hold that baby. Soft but cold all over. Tiny fingers and toes, each with its own nail. Beautiful. Turns out ugly mamas can have pretty babies.

Little thing didn’t even mind her crying all over him. Just laid there, still as could be. Perfect child. Poor thing couldn’t even take revenge. Patience would have to do it for him.
——
Patience made money only way she knew how—throwing pots. Not at people, as the fool man did, but with a wheel. Same way her mama taught her. Only good thing she got from mama. Couldn’t even get her looks, but she certainly got the talent with clay.

Sold them pots down off the highway in a little stand for them rich tourists. They always wanted a piece of the land. Let ’em have it, for all she cared. She had more important things to deal with.
——
Clean up this sty, he’d say. You’re a filthy pig. Who knows why I bother with you. Each punctuated with a slap.

He bothered because no one else would have him. Not for long, and certainly not for free. Soon no one would have to bother with him at all.

Days passed. The X became infected, but there was no money for the doctor since he’d destroyed all the pots she’d made to sell that week. No money for food, neither, but that wasn’t new. She’d lived through hunger. Besides, it kept her figure.

There was always enough for beer, though. Beer and cigarettes. Patience didn’t partake, but that only meant her money went to one man’s portion instead of two. A man could live on those things. At least he could.

Patience, now. She lived on hope. What hope did she have? None, really, but the hope of having hope. That had to be enough.
——
Potter’s clay stuck to her hands, coating the undersides of fingernails. She liked to scratch designs out with those nails, think of raking them through his eyes—and other unmentionables. Those rich people liked her style of pottery. Violent. Dark. Carnal. They liked anything that made them feel superior. Buy a scratched-up pot from a poor woman. Tell the story to friends. Changed a woman’s life with a measly twenty bucks.

Patience was worth more than that. But who would buy madness in the form of a pot for more than fifty dollars? Madness comes cheap, it does.

Madness. Genius. Same thing. The starving artist in his loft was genius, but the impoverished potter in her trailer was mad.

Now she was mad, but not how they thought. Patience, though, she could wait like no man. She would bide her time. Then they would all feel the force of her madness.
——
Mixing clay in her trough soothed her nerves. He was gone. Called his mama and told her he was leaving the crazy witch. Packed up his truck.

Never got far. Police came, said they’d found the rusted hunk of metal off the highway, broken down. No phone? No message? Dehydration, maybe, or rattlesnake. Coulda been anything. No body, though, so they’d search.

Days. Weeks. Months. None heard from that man. That was all he’d ever be to her. Him. Didn’t deserve a name. Not for all he’d done.

Patience was a free woman now, but she didn’t want freedom if it meant sympathy from the neighbors. He was cruel. They knew it as well as her, but they were all cruel here. Drunk men. Submissive women. That’s the way things were done.

Not for Patience.

Cards came. They went in the trash. Flowers showed up on the porch. They wilted. Patience had no need for pity when she felt none herself. She could survive on her own without a man. She’d done it before, would do it again.
——
The pots were exquisite. Never had such a fancy word described anything about her, but them folks with money said it ’bout them new pots she’d made. Since he’d disappeared, her work had far outshined everything else along that stretch of old dusty road.

Red, they were. How could she get such a beautiful color on a pot? The marks, so violent. Looked gruesome, almost. But they bought them. Gave them as gifts. Told their friends about the genius potter off the highway. She made her money. Blood money, it was too.

Dead men’s lips tell no tales, but her pots did. Red stories and brown ones. And, mixed with the right clay, very dark and black ones. But that’s what people wanted, so it’s what Patience gave ’em.

Nothing, however, was sweeter than seeing those bits of him leaving the stand each day as they traveled to the homes of the wealthy, tainting their perfect worlds with violence.

I’ve heard people toss around the idea of a “high concept” book before, but I’m not sure I really understood what they meant. Of course I want my book to sell. Of course I want people to love it and read it. But how do you know if your concept will do all that?

Then I found this blog post from the Waxman Literary Agency.

Here’s what it says:

“High concept is about making it easier for people to pick up what you’re putting down, which benefits you at every stage of the publishing game. Everyone is busy. I’m busy. Editors are busy. Booksellers and publicists—I don’t actually think they ever stop moving. And readers, who are inundated with noise and ads and coop, are busy and overwhelmed. To get and stay published, you have to make all those people stop for 300 pages worth of time. Yes, they will be seduced by your glowing prose. But aren’t the odds of that a whole lot better if that glowing prose comes with a premise that makes them go ‘Ooh?’ ”

In the post, it also mentions that it isn’t just changing your manuscript in a few places to “fix” it. It’s all in the way you think about your manuscript and how you write it. You have to be thinking of it throughout the process. “Often, making the leap to high concept is a matter of redirecting your passions and strengths into an area with more commercial appeal.”

Honestly, I can’t add much more to it than that. Take a look at the article and change the way you think about your manuscript. I certainly will.

My dearest Jane,

I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, yet I am intimately familiar with your work and your life. You are a woman of limitless passion and hope.

As I read your stories, and especially as I see the productions of your work on screen, I wonder where I would fit in. Time and again I see the romantic lives of the women you created and wish I were one of them.

Could you tell me, darling Jane, if I could be Elizabeth? I admire her very much and want to be like her in every particular. She is carefree and lovely, sure of herself and her place in the world. Elizabeth succeeds in wedding a man of uncommon character because she stayed true to her own. But I am not like her, at least not in the essential aspects. I care too much of what others think of me and hope beyond all reasonable belief that a man will come to sweep me off to his rather large estate. No, I am no Elizabeth.

Catherine, then? I am mired in a world of my own creating, living in fantasy and faerie when I should be firmly based in reality. Her fairytale became her life, though, when Henry Tilney stepped into it. My life is still all dreams, so I must not be her.

Sadly, I may be more like Fanny than any of the others. Destined to wait for the man I love to realize that I’ve been there all along. No. I thought I was Fanny once, but my Edmund married his Mary Crawford, much to my devastation. I tried to have Fanny’s patience, but even that didn’t suffice in the end.

I very well could be Eleanor. Solid and immovable, a support to my family, but ultimately unlucky in love. Except Eleanor finally realized her dearest dreams. She put others first, and time moved ever so slowly, but happiness did come for her in the end.

I am decidedly no Emma. I have not her passion for matchmaking, though I am sure I would have as much skill at it as she. She is young, innocent, and endlessly loving, but still I am not like her.

Who am I then, Jane? I read your novels and love the women who inhabit them. I wish I could be one of them, with my own happy ending waiting for the last chapter of the book. I want my Edward, my Mr. Knightly, Mr. Darcy, or Captain Wentworth. I want the man who realizes that I am of inestimable value and can’t live another day without making me his own. Will it ever happen? Will it, Jane?

After all the stories you told—of romance, of intrigue, of love—your story ended in solitude. You died a spinster, much like I am now. Am I to be you then, Jane?

I know not how my story will end. Do you know how it will all end for me?

Even though I have not much hope now, I can remember that Eleanor waited without hope for her Edward and sweet Anne waited eight years for her Captain Wentworth. Fanny spent nearly a lifetime pining for her Edmund. Maybe I can wait a while longer to find my own love.

With warmest regards,

Michelle