Book People

I love the smell of books in the morning.

One of the best things about my day job is the variety of people I come across every day.  I wait on cops (the Dekalb County SWAT team are some of my favorite customers), rednecks, soccer moms and dads, hippies, hipsters, artists, politicians, bus drivers, mechanics, and --my favorites after the SWAT team -- book people.

Most of my book people are regulars, and part of the reason I love them is because they are so easy to wait on.  The food is almost secondary to the book, and as soon as they order, they crack it open (or turn it on, if they are e-reader people) and they are gone.  They don't need a whole lot, just their time alone with something good to read and a glass of wine to wash it down.  I like to watch their faces as they read, as their emotions change with the events in their books, the shock or the sadness or the laughter.

Most of the time, I leave the book people alone, because I know how annoying it is when you're in the middle of a good book and someone keeps interrupting you, even if they are interrupting you to talk about the book you are reading.  "Is it good?" they ask.  "Yes," I always want to say, "I'd like to keep on reading this good book."  Hint, hint.

But sometimes I just can't resist.  A few weeks ago, for instance, one of my customers came into the restaurant with Don DeLillo's Point Omega under his arm, and I just couldn't help myself.  Don DeLillo is one of my absolute favorite writers under the sun, and I hardly ever see people reading him.  Which, if you ask me, is one of the great travesties of our time, but I digress.  The point is, I just had to talk to him about the book, which is one that I hadn't read yet, and what followed was the kind of conversation that only happens between book people, gushing about dialogue and theme and words and stories.  This ten minute conversation put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

A few days later, I was even more excited to find, upon starting my shift, that this lovely gentleman had dropped his copy of Point Omega off at the restaurant for me to read.  And this got me thinking about book people, and the beauty of books, and why book people are so devoted to them.  Books are someone else's thoughts, their questions, their answers, their passions, poured out onto a page and bundled up to share with other people.  We read them, and they become ours, and when we really love a book, we want to share it with our friends, our families, even strangers, because we feel part of ourselves in them.  They can make all of our troubles and neuroses feel valid.  They can make our lives seem better than we thought they were, or inspire us to try harder, to do better.  And when that happens, we want to share it.

Book people are sharers, I think.  We read a book we like and we pass it on to someone else, and we talk about how the book made us feel, how it changed our way of thinking about things, how it made us look at our lives from a new angle.  I love lending books I'm crazy about to my friends, so that we can enjoy the books together, because books are all about sharing ideas with other people.  And that's why I love them.

Back It Up!!

Don't let this happen to you.

Well, readers, I have returned, if ever so temporarily, from my unintentional hiatus to tell why I have disappeared: a few weeks ago, in the middle of a heated spell of writing, my dear computer decided that its services were no longer needed in this world, and that it had better retire to computer heaven (or hell, which is where I would send it).  That is, it died.  It's too bad, too, because I was finally starting to get some good writing done.  But, alas.  It was not to be.  And as I am as yet too broke to buy myself a new computer (in cash or credit), it appears that my updates on this here blog with be sporadic at best.  I am, at this very moment, coming to you from my father's computer, and let me tell you, typing on his ancient keyboard is no Sunday picnic.  We all must suffer and endure for our art!

I also mean to reassure you lovely people that even though I am living without modern technology, I have not given up the craft!  I am forging ahead, like a pioneer, writing (dare I say it?) by HAND!  And I have to say, with the minor exception of aches and pains (okay, full out major, finger-crippling hand cramps), writing by hand is working out alright for me.  And why not?  I have a whole slew of empty notebooks in which to scribble, and a million and a half pens to do it with.  I have to keep reminding myself that until college, this was how I always did it, scratching away furiously, hoping the words in my head would slow down just enough for my hand to keep up.  Hell, for a time after an injury, I even hand-wrote stories with my left hand.  I can do this!  And as I always have a notebook on hand, I have no excuse to wait until I get home to write down what's plaguing my cerebrum.

That said, it is a major pain in the ass trying to query with my various backed-up forms and letters.  Try attaching a Word document to a request from an agent when you don't have Word!  And since they all want something just a little bit different, it's not like I can use the same document for everyone, with a little apology/disclaimer in the body of the email.  Some want the first five pages, some want the first ten.  Some want a one-page synopsis, some want five pages.  But it could be worse.  I could be one of those ridiculous writers who didn't back up their work or send it to anyone, and then I'd be screwed.

Seriously, I have heard too many stories like this, where something happened to the hard copy or the computer that held the only draft.  People, do not be stupid.  Back up your work and back it up often.  We're talking, multiple formats and for every session.  Email it to yourself, use a memory stick, print it out on paper.  Ever watch Californication?  All of David Duchovny's troubles (okay, many of them) could have been stopped in their tracks if he'd just backed up his work.

Ernest Hemingway's first wife lost the suitcase containing the only copy of his first novel in it.  Years of work, gone.  Ernest Hemingway lived in a time without computers or internet or photocopies.  He had an excuse.  You do not.  If you save your manuscript only once, on your hard disk, and then take your computer on a plane and check it with your luggage and your manuscript then disappears with your luggage (a true story I read in the paper a few years ago), then you have no one to blame for the loss but yourself.  Do not be like this person.  Do not be a fool.

Say it with me: ALWAYS back it up!

On Writing: Truman Capote V. Jack Kerouac

Ah, November:  when fall changes to winter and families gather to glut themselves on buttery deliciousness.  November also happens to be National Novel Writing Month.  As I have in years past, I started a NaNoWriMo project and then couldn't figure out what the hizzle to write.  Okay, so I wanted to do a collection of short stories rather than a novel, because I figured I would have to have a less grand plan for them, but of course, a plan is still necessary for a short story.  And for twelve short stories, well, one must have twelve plans.

Which begs the question, how good are these NaNoWriMo novels, anyway?  This is not sour grapes, I still have hopes that I will finish my project on time.  The question comes from my knowledge that the work I am turning out right now is far from my best.  Then again, it is work.  I know that the point of NaNoWriMo is to get people to (say it with me folks!) apply the ass to the chair, to actually write that novel they keep telling everyone they're going to write that day.  And for my own part, yes, I am actually churning out some work, and getting some great ideas while I'm at it.  But in terms of quality?  It's not quite there.  Basically, what we see on my NaNoWriMo screen is stream-of-consciousness that may or may not make sense to a reader.

Type faster, pokey!

Which brings to mind Jack Kerouac.  Before you Kerouac fans get all defensive, I am not dissing the fella, nor am I saying that his writing was bad.  What I am saying is, he famously wrote On the Road in, like, ten minutes (actually, it was three weeks -- a shorter period of time than the month of November).  As the story goes, Old Jackie sat at his typewriter, fingers bouncing all over the keys, pounding words onto a 120-ft scroll of paper as his wife wiped the profuse sweat from his face.  On publication, he added paragraph breaks and margins, took out some sections and added others, but the point is after three weeks, homeboy had himself a novel.   And it turned out to be a major novel.

Looking smug, I daresay.

While On the Road was a bestseller that some said revitalized the world of literature in the 1950's, others were considerably less pleased with the work, and wholly unimpressed with the method of writing.  I am thinking of Truman Capote here, that catty scribe, who, upon hearing about Kerouac's three-week writing binge, famously said "That isn't writing.  That's typing."  (A little disclaimer here, folks: everywhere I looked to get the exact quote, it was different.  While nobody disputes that Capote did say this -- it just sounds like the sort of thing he'd say, doesn't it? -- everybody who quotes him seems to be paraphrasing.)

Oh, you spiteful kitty, you.

What Capote seemed to be getting at with that little jibe was this: Anyone with a little time and a decent idea (and a wife who will change your shirt for you as you type) can write a book in three weeks.  That doesn't make it good.  A writer takes time and consideration when putting word to paper, puts thought and care into the words they choose.

It's hard to imagine that the NaNo people are super concerned with the quality of their participants' writing so much as they are concerned with the fact of the writing.  That is, they are trying to encourage people, all people, to think about words, to think about expressing themselves in words, to imagine a world of their own and assign it a reality on paper.  And in that sense, they are saying to the whole world the same thing that Truman Capote said to Jack Kerouac: Anyone can do it if they sit down and try.

How good it is, then, is not the point.  And that's what I tell myself this month.

Beer Money

Yup. That's pretty much the sentiment.

I spent the early afternoon listening to Terri Gross interview Colson Whitehead on "Fresh Air."  Whitehead, in speaking of his early years trying to make a living as a writer, said something to the effect of, "I wasn't able to make a very lofty living, but I had money for beer, and that helped."  At the risk of sounding like a raging alcoholic, the statement struck a chord with me.

My time in graduate school was the pivotal point when I decided to just go for it.  Those were exciting years, and I got to live my dream life during that period.  All I did was write, read, travel, and talk books over coffee or beer.  Who wouldn't want to live that life all the time?  I got published twice and had opportunities to rub elbows with Ireland's literary elite almost every weekend.  Who wouldn't want that life to continue?

But alas, once the money ran out, so did the allure of the starving artist life.  I do not love being poor but happy.  I would much rather be middle class and happy.  I don't think that's too much to ask -- not having a panic attack every time a bill comes in the mail.  Panic attacks are really bad for the creative spirit.

There are a lot of downsides to trying for a life as a writer, or any type of artistic endeavor.  You are choosing to do what makes you happy at the risk of never being financially stable.  And to be honest, I'm not sure that I would have chosen this life for myself if I had known how hard it would be.  But I probably also wouldn't have tried to be a writer if I thought I had any chance of being happy or successful doing anything else.

That said, I think that everybody's life is harder than they imagined, and at least I get to spend as much time as I want to doing what I love.  It also helps that I have a patient, supportive boyfriend.  And the world's most affectionate cat.

I may not have enough money to go on a week's vacation every year.  I may not be able to buy myself new shoes or go out to dinner whenever I feel like it.  But I have money enough to buy a six pack and curl up with my boys and watch a scary movie.  And as Colson Whitehead said, that helps.  It's good enough for now.

The Whole Vampire Thing

Oh, no! Don't bite me! (Please bite me.)

Okay, guys.  It's confession time: I read Twilight.  Not only did I read Twilight, but I also read New Moon and Eclipse and Breaking Dawn.  I'm not proud.  My little sister was about eleven at the time, and she's about the farthest thing in my family from a reader.  So when she was giddy with the excitement of finding out what happened to Bella and Edward, I was just happy to see her reading.  I wanted to support her.  I wanted to give her someone to talk about the books with (which is something I often wish I had), so I borrowed her copies of the books as she finished with them.  And since this is confession time, I have to admit that I really enjoyed the first book.  The second one was less fun for me -- I thought Bella was waaaaaay to distraught -- and by the third book, I was rolling my eyes almost constantly.  Seriously, I was getting headaches.  My sister still bemoans the way I laughed every time the word "Renesme" appeared in the (thankfully) final book of the saga.

The thing is, I could totally understand my sister's fascination with the Twilight books.  After all, I was watching horror movies with her since before she could string together a sentence.  She loves creepy, kooky, dangerous fiction almost as much as I do.  And I had my own version of vampire love when I was a teenager: Anne Rice's Interview With the Vampire.  I read it the summer I turned sixteen, while I was spending the summer at my aunt's house in Florida.  She lent her copy to me and I remember being rapt.  I was up late flipping pages, re-reading passages.  The eerie gorgeousness of the characters, the danger, the immortality -- they call to a young girl.  And while Interview With the Vampire is infinitely  less ridiculous and better-written than the Twilight saga, it spoke to me the same way Twilight spoke to my little sister.

The reason I bring it up is because last night (after watching an episode of South Park making fun of Twi-hards) I had the most fascinating dream about vampires.  I won't go into all the details, because I don't want to confuse myself, but it started out at Fright Fest at Six Flags and ended in a dusty old Victorian mansion, and somewhere in between, I found myself taking notes for a novel WHILE STILL DREAMING.  This is an important point: Most of what I have actually written and finished in my life came from a dream.  My last novel and tons of short stories were all inspired by vivid dreams from which I could not escape upon waking.  So the fact that my dream self was scribbling down notes about the dream for a novel is majorly symbolic to me.  It's like my Muse is shaking my shoulders and screaming, "This is it, you idiot!  Write this down!"

We all know I am shopping for a new novel idea.  I thought I had one worked out, but I just couldn't get into writing it.  I've been really getting into sci-fi lately.  I've found that I enjoy reading it more than almost anything else, that it yanks me into its pages and won't let me go until the story is over.  Plus, it's Halloween, my absolute favorite time of the year in almost every way.  And I'm writing a ghost story.  So it's not really surprising that this is the sort of idea I would come up with right now.  So what's the big hang up?

It's this: Vampires are just so damned trendy.

I have never, never, never been into trends.  Jumping on the bandwagon is just not my thing.  And I can make myself feel better by saying that I've always loved vampires and creepy crawlies and zombies and werewolves and whatnot, but that doesn't change the fact that the vampire thing is sooooo popular right now that it's almost hard to take anything with vampires in it seriously (True Blood aside, folks -- I will take no dissing of True Blood).

That said, I have also never been one to ignore my instincts.  I have tried at times, lord, have I tried, but every time I ignore the whisper in the back of my head the whisper becomes a giant, steel-toed boot and kicks my ass until I do what it said in the first place.  So there's a very good chance that in the next year you fine people will start seeing new excerpts based on this here dream I had last night.
If I can figure out how to make it NOT about vampires.

Have You Tried This Reading Thing?

Reading together is twice the fun.

No, really.  Have you tried this reading thing?  It's great.  Really great.  I spent most of the last week reading the Hunger Games (this includes a lot of the time I was at work...and I assure you, it is very difficult to read a book and wait tables at the same time).  It was something of a revelation for me.  Or maybe more of a reminder.  "Hey, Rachel," it was saying, "You used to be like this all the time.  You used to be like Belle in 'Beauty and the Beast,' tripping over stuff because your nose was stuck in a book."

And it's true.  I used to read at least one book a week, sometimes two (though I seldom reached the threshold of three like I did this week).  I could barely put down one book before I reached for another, ad when I was younger, I didn't even wait that long.  I got halfway through one book and started another, reading up to three simultaneously, which, I admit, is a bit much.  The point is, I used to read a LOT.  And now I don't.  Which begs the question: What happened?

Growing up didn't help.  Having bills to pay, a relationship to nurture, friends not to neglect, and a job (although I guess we know by now that this doesn't necessarily stop me from reading) are all big hindrances.  But I think that the biggest roadblock has actually been my writing.  After grad school ended and I decided to concentrate on writing my novel and I no longer had assigned (albeit excellent) reading to attend to, I guess I just stopped reading.  Not altogether, but certainly with any zest.  If I was at home (or anywhere, really) with any time on my hands, I felt like I ought to be working on the book.  Where I used to keep a novel or two in my purse, I kept a blank book and a heap of pens instead.  I just felt guilty if I was reading.  I kept telling myself that I should be writing, instead.

Which is ridiculous, if you think about it.  We writers write because we love to (or need to), but we only came up with the idea because we love to read (or ought to, anyway -- anyone who doesn't like reading has absolutely NO business being a writer).  To ignore books as a writer is like being an actor who doesn't go to the theater (which is why I gave up acting, btw; I much prefer movies).  It's just counterproductive.

I had a professor while I was in grad school and during my short-lived stint reading for a PhD, James Ryan, who is a brilliant teacher and gave me one of the most useful pieces of advice on writing that I have gotten to date.  Being a writer, he said, is one part reading, one part writing, and one part living.  None of the parts are more important than the others.  Like I said, the man's brilliant.

So I guess the point of all this is to say that this past week has reminded me why I wanted to write in the first place.  I freakin' love books.  LOVE them.  And I swear, here and now, on this blog post, to the vastness that is the internet, and the significantly smaller (but more important) population that makes up actual readers of this blog, that I will never again neglect my books.  I feel like a better person when I read, a better writer, and a hell of a lot happier.

Even kittens understand.

Also, I'm going to use this as an opportunity to plug the books that brought on this epiphany.  If you haven't read The Hunger Games trilogy, you are wasting your time not reading them.  Drop everything and find a copy.  Do it now.  I'm not kidding.  Go.  Now.  Shoo.

The Journey Continues

After a momentary lull, I have jumped back on the horse that is my (supposed) writing career.  I spent yesterday querying and sending short stories to various lit mags, and I am happy to report that it is already paying off.  Hurray for small steps forward!

The First Cut Is the Deepest

This is my rejection letter.

Well, folks, I heard back from that agent who requested pages from me. I would love for this to be one of those first-time-around, kismetic success stories, but alas, it is exactly the story you would expect to hear. That is, said agent said thanks, but no thanks.

What is interesting about this story, and the reason that I decided to post about it here, is that my reaction to this particular rejection surprised me.

I am no stranger to rejection slips. I have a whole bag full of them in my bedroom, and an e-mail folder full of cyber-rejections, too. I have had every short story I have ever submitted to anyone rejected at least once, and only two of them have ever been accepted anywhere. I keep my rejection slips as badges of honor, battle scars, rungs on the ladder to my eventual literary success. Normally, when I receive a rejection note, I shrug my shoulders and toss it on the pile. No biggie.

But this one was a little bit different. It was no surprise, really. Mentally, I knew that I was probably going to get it. But when I opened the e-mail and read the note, I found myself surprised anyway. How could she have rejected my lovely book? How could she possibly have read it and not wanted to read more? If I had read the first three chapters, I would want to read more. Because for all my bellyaching about having to read my own novel over and over, I really do love it. It's like an unruly child. I see its flaws and they annoy the hell out of me, but at the end of the day, I know it's destined for great things. Or at least, I hope it is.

I know that it is damn near impossible to get a manuscript agented these days, and yet, I found myself standing in shock that this one agent didn't want to represent me. And then I realized why: This is my first rejection slip.

Okay, so I've gotten about a thousand rejection slips. But this is the first one I've ever gotten for a novel. A short story takes weeks, maybe months of work for me. My novel took years. It took so much more work than I've ever put into one piece of work before, and this was the first time anyone had ever read part of it, anyone besides friends and family, and she didn't like it. Or not enough to want to represent it, and to me, that was what counted. That hurt a little bit. I didn't cry or feel like I would never be successful or write her a hateful letter (which, almost unbelievably, people actually do to agents). I didn't take it personally, but it did sting. Because this book is personal. It is very personal.

From a different angle, of course, it is all part of the process. It almost had to happen for me to move on. And while I know that there will probably be tons more where that first rejection note came from, I also know that none of them will have the same bite that that first one did. It's like Sheryl Crow said, "The first cut is the deepest."

So now, I say, "Bring on the second cut."

The Ever-Loving Query Letter, Revised

After I posted my original query letter, I had a feeling of embarrassment about it.  I kind of didn't want people to read it, and I thought that was weird, since it's supposed to get people excited about reading my writing.  I brushed it off at the time as another example of me judging myself too harshly and kept it up (it's still here, by the way, if you want to look at an example of a truly atrocious query letter).  But, being me, I couldn't just leave it at that.  I kept reading about query letters, and eventually, I found the Query Shark.  Suddenly, it became clear why I was so embarrassed about my query letter.  It just didn't do its job.  So I scrapped the old one and wrote this new one, of which I am much more proud.

All the terrible drafts.

Dear Agent, 

Thirteen-year-old Virginia has never seen a dead body before.  That is, not until she and her best friend Amelia are the only witnesses to the death of their friend Jeremiah.  Terrified of being blamed for the accident, Amelia convinces Virgina that they should hide Jeremiah's body and return to their lives as though nothing happened.

Lies don't come easy to Virginia, but she learns.  She longs to talk to someone about Jeremiah, but Amelia keeps a close watch on her, threatening to pin Jeremiah's death on Virginia if she tells anyone what she knows.  And there's a persistent voice in the back of Virginia's head, insisting that if she ignores the truth about Jeremiah long enough, her life will go back to normal. 

When Jonah, the dead boy's older brother, calls Virginia to talk about Jeremiah's disappearance, she can't resist.  She needs someone to talk to and Amelia's gone off the deep end.  Virginia doesn't tell Jonah her secret, but through their friendship, she does see the damage her lies inflict.  Jonah's family is collapsing under the strain of Jeremiah's disappearance.  He loses sleep worrying about what happened to the little brother he was supposed to protect. Virginia can't help wondering if the truth would help her new friend or drive him further into depression.

Virginia's lies grow more desperate as suspicions surrounding the girls stack up.  She worries that the end may be near, but she doesn't know how to prepare for it.  Will she find the courage to tell the truth?  Or will Jeremiah's death remain a secret forever?

Wasteland, 91K words, is my first novel. 

Thank you for your time and consideration. 

Sincerely,

Rachel Wright 

Address 

Phone Number

Email         

For sample pages, visit: rachelwritesabook.blogspot.com

"Write Drunk, Edit Sober": Ernest Hemingway's Writing Philosophy

Ernest Hemingway was famous for two things: writing and drinking.  So perhaps it's no surprise that his writing philosophy combines the two great constants in his life.  It's definitely no surprise to anyone who's ever read any of his books, except maybe The Old Man and the Sea.  Maybe.

Typing with one hand, holding a drink with the other.

While I the first book of his that I ever read was that very book, the first time I read and loved him was A Farewell to Arms.  Perhaps I felt a sort of kindredness with the protagonist in the story because we were both expatriates.   I was living in France at the time, in Dijon, and there was a rumor that the great writer had studied French in the same program that I was in.  While I hadn't really enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea (I was barely out of high school the first time I read it, and I think that I was just too inexperienced to really understand the book at that point in my life), I decided to give Old Hem another shot.  He did, after all, love Paris, so he couldn't be all bad.  I bought A Farewell to Arms in the Gare de Lyon while I was waiting for a train (I sort of think I was headed toward Berlin, oddly enough, because I was on my own, but I really could have been going anywhere, I suppose).  After I put the book down, I had changed my mind about Ernie.

In the following years, my love affair with Hemingway deepened.  I've read most of his books while living in various European cities, and I think that a big part of my connection to Hemingway draws from the fact that he was writing about expatriate life at the same time as I was experiencing it.  He so perfectly captured the loneliness and the excitement and the pureness of friendships between expats.  The Sun Also Rises.  A Moveable Feast.  These books were my expat bibles.

People who have read my work are always shocked to hear that I have been influenced by Ernest Hemingway.  His tight, concise style seems in direct conflict with my own style, which tends toward the verbose, often waxing emotional and quasi-poetic.  I think that people just roll their eyes and say, "You're probably influenced by Shakespeare and Stephen King too."  And it's true, when I'm writing, I totally ignore Ernie's spare voice.  But when I'm editing?  He is the heavy bird-of-prey on my shoulder saying, "Cut it.  Throw it to me."

Which leads me nicely to my point.  Hemingway once (supposedly) said, "Write drunk.  Edit sober."  And while I have no doubt that he meant the statement (at least partly) literally, that's not how I read it.  Personally, I'm a horrible writer when I'm tipsy, and if I ever gave it a shot when I was flat out drunk, I'm pretty sure it would be a horrible, rambling mess.

But what I think that Hem was getting at was this: the time to censor yourself is not when you are writing.  When you are writing, you should let yourself go, put on the page (or the screen) whatever comes into your mind, whether it makes logical sense or not.  We're talking stream-of-consciousness, wild and crazy stuff.  As though you are the drunk dude at the bar at the end of the night, hugging everybody and telling them how nobody loves him like his mother and it's been three years since the last time he got laid and he really hates his job because his office smells terrible.  Nobody is really interested in what he has to say, but HE is interested.  It means something to him.  And when he wakes up the next afternoon, he will wonder what the hell he was talking about.  He will wish he hadn't said certain things.  He will edit.

See what I'm saying?  More importantly, see what Ernie's saying?  He's telling you to let yourself go when you put pen to paper.  Follow your imagination wherever it takes you.  Enjoy yourself.  Make stupid jokes.  Bring in characters who don't belong.  Make up indiscriminate love affairs and ill-conceived antics and senseless crimes.   Fall in love with every word you write.  Become drunk with the power of creating your own universe, being the god of that universe.  If you censor yourself from the very beginning, you'll never get anywhere.

And then, when you've written the last word, get yourself a strong cup of coffee.  You're going to need it.  Now you've got to edit this mess.

Writing is fun.

Writing is fun!

I am working on a new short story.  I started writing it (or outlining it, I guess) before I finished editing my novel, but I was distracted.  Editing is sort of the opposite of writing.  It's all about restraint and a critical eye (I am working on another blog post about this very subject, so look for that soon).  Writing is about letting yourself go, openness and appreciation for every idea that flits through your mind.

Which is why I am so excited now.  When I was editing, I was frustrated.  My creative instincts felt stifled, and I had to force myself to keep going.  But now I remember why I love this job.  It's letting my imagination go nuts, creating something totally new, something that came out of my brain, through my hand, onto the page (or the screen).  It didn't exist before, and now it does, solely because of me.  I made it, and only I could have made it.

And that is exciting.

Onward!!

This book is riding into the sunset. It's been a really, really long day.

Ah, dear readers, today I am truly content.  Because today -- only moments ago, in fact, I finished the final draft of my novel.
Yes, I am aware that I have made this claim before.  I am aware, too, that in the event of acquisition by an agent/publisher, more edits will be made to this piece of work.  But those are edits to be made in another time, and more importantly, at least in part, by another person.  As for me, I am finished.
I am sure that the novel is not yet perfect.  I know for a fact that if I were to look at it again tomorrow, I would find a hundred new problems to fix.  I could edit this novel for the rest of my life and never be completely satisfied.  Because as I grow as a writer, and as a person, my goals for my work will also shift, my expectations grow, my red pen (actually, I use a hot pink pen for editing) scribble liberally.  I would be like that director in the movie "Synecdoche, NY," every day saying to myself, "NOW I know what to do!  Now I can make my novel perfect!"
It will never be perfect.  And while I'm trying to make it perfect, I'm losing precious time I could be using to write something new, something that excites me, something that obsesses me, something that I'm not sick to death of the sight of.  So that's what I intend to do.
Expect new stories soon, reader.  Expect rants about how much I hate having writer's block.  Or about how many different choices I have for what to write next.  Or about not knowing what I want to communicate with my new novel.
Yes, friends.  The best part about being done with the old novel is getting to write a new one!

Borders Closes...I Save

It strikes both fear and joy into my heart.

I know it should make me sad that Borders, one of the largest book retailers in the country, is going out of business.  I know that it implies a lot of distressing things about the state of literature in our society.  I know that it suggests even further that the paper book is going the way of the dodo.  I know that it means that the closest bookstore to my house will soon be gone, and my boyfriend and I will have to find someplace else to hang out on Saturday afternoons.

But part of me was thrilled -- THRILLED!!! -- to walk into the bookstore today and see it full of patrons.  It was more full than I have ever seen it outside of the weeks leading up to Christmas.  I saw one lady walk out with a shopping cart full of books.  Full.  We're talking, top and bottom and baby seat full of books.  I nudged my friend Chrissie (who was good enough to accompany me on the outing, despite having just stepped off a plane from India).  "Look at all the books!" I squealed.  "In my greatest dreams, I could buy that many books."

I did, in fact, manage to purchase one book, despite the meager wages I eke out as a waitress while I wait for that big three-book deal.  And you know why I could buy said book?  20% off all fiction.  Because Borders is closing.

So yes, I know that in the very near future, I will lament (and lament deeply) the loss of what was a truly wonderful place to hang out.  But for now, I'm just looking forward to cracking open Swamplandia!

Progress At Last!

I read recently that summertime is not the best time for querying agents, as the publishing industry tends to operate on a school-type schedule (i.e., off June through August).  This is because many of the smaller presses are run through universities, which more or less shut down for the summer months.  I should have guessed this from my years of short story-writing.  I would finish a new story only to find that none of the lit mags I wanted to send it to were accepting submissions during summer break, as their staff of students had all gone home.

Also recently, I discovered the amazing Query Shark, who critiques query letters with much gnashing of teeth (as her name suggests).  The discovery inspired me to take a shotgun to my old query letter and begin anew.  If you are wondering how to write a query, by the way, ignore all other sites and go directly to the Query Shark.  She is amazing.

So imagine my surprise when, having decided that both my query and my timing sucked, I received an email from one of the agents I queried (with my old letter), asking for sample pages.  Yay!  A foot (maybe more of a toe...or a toenail) in the door!

It looks like a mountain, but really it's the pebble in front of the molehill.

I am well aware that this doesn't necessarily mean that said agent will want to read more of my novel (although I am of the opinion that she will, seeing as how I have written possibly the greatest work of literature since The Sun Also Rises).  I am even better aware of the fact that she won't necessarily want to represent me.  And even if she does, she won't necessarily be able to sell it, and it won't necessarily garner me a three-book deal with Random House and a permanent spot on the Times' Bestseller List and so on and so forth, etc.

But it did make me feel like I've got a shot at all of the above, however miniscule.  And because of that, I thought I'd share my joy with you lovely strangers.

Applying the Ass to the Chair: Dorothy Parker's Philosophy of Writing

Thinking up clever quips, no doubt.

I was initially drawn to Dorothy Parker because of a T-shirt.  I bought it in Charleston, SC on either my 18th or 19th birthday, and it was dark orange and said, in circus-poster font: "I'll try anything once; twice if I like it."  My friend Brooke, who almost always accompanied me on the road trip from Atlanta to Charleston, told me she thought that it was from a Dorothy Parker poem, and I immediately resolved to find out more about this woman.  It probably stands as a testament to my lack of motivation that I, to this day, can neither confirm nor deny that Parker ever did write that pithy T-shirt-destined line, but I have, indeed, read more by and about ole Dot, and I find her work a delight to read.

I think that my attraction to Parker stems from her tendency toward both melancholy and sarcasm -- sometimes at the same time!! I don't think that I can ever stress enough how much I love a smartass; someone who is funny and irreverent and observant, and I say in the most respectful way possible that Dorothy Parker was one of the greatest smartasses of all time.  I give you some small examples, so that you can understand my love:

"Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne."

"She was a great, hulking, stupidly dressed woman, with flapping cheeks and bee-stung eyes."

"But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!"

Like I said, I love her.  I could go on like this for pages and pages, but then y'all wouldn't go out and read her for yourselves and find your own little gems of acridness to fall in love with, and what's the fun in that?  There are a million things I could say about her -- she was a founder of the Algonquin Round Table (a bunch of writers who sat around in the Algonquin Hotel and got drunk and talked about politics and books and gossiped about writers and politicians they didn't like); wrote several collections of shorts stories and poetry and was a very early contributor to the New Yorker; lived in France for a time (like all great American writers did); was blacklisted in Hollywood during the McCarthy era; was famously a champion of progressive causes, not the least of which was the Civil Rights movement (she even bequeathed her estate to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. -- the estate was transferred to the NAACP upon his assassination and, in a long, twisted, and ironic chain of events, her ashes also ended up at the NAACP's headquarters).  Again, Dorothy Parker was a fascinating human being.  I can say, in all honesty, that I really, really, really wish I could have known her.

But what is most pertinent to me now (and to this blog, I suppose) is her philosophy on writing, which was all about hard work and perseverance (grim determination of the soul!).  I picture Parker at a desk, furiously scribbling, sweat pouring down her face, mental muscles rippling as though her brain was John Henry driving steel for the railroads.  Parker had no patience for the whimsical artist, the one who worked only when "inspired," the one who claimed that one cannot push art.  She once said, "The art of writing is the art of applying the ass to the chair," and I cannot agree with her more.
"...You writers don't know what struggle is," Parker once wrote in a short story.  The character that says it is an actress, old, alcoholic, washed up.  "To write.  To set one  word beautifully beside another word.  The privilege of it.  The blessed, blessed peace of it."  And those of us out there who are writers can see the joke she's making, though personally, I can't quite bring myself to laugh, knowing how the toil that goes into writing sometimes results in very little.  It's a common misconception that writers are just mediums, channeling ghostly voices of inspiration, words that come pouring like magic out of our  fingers to settle comfortably on paper.  But anyone who's ever tried to write something, and write it well, knows that this is the worst kind of fairy tale.  And trust me, Dot knew.

Good writing, like good dancing, looks easy.  Words flow from one to the next, each one in its place, creating a cohesive, meaningful, and aesthetically pleasing work of communication and (dare I say it?) art.  And writers, as a species, don't help with the perception that they are a rollicking, whimsical bunch; at least not the (in)famous ones.  A writer that I went to school with once called our class Alcoholics Synonymous.  But for every night we spent drinking and dancing and cavorting, we spent three alone in our various rooms, toiling over which word to put where.  I have personally spent hours fiddling with the same paragraph, rearranging it, flipping through dictionaries and thesauri (is that a word? am I crazy?) and literally tearing my hair out to get it just right.  And to be honest, if  I look at that same paragraph now, I could probably spend another hour or so tweaking it some more.   Parker said once said in an interview, "It takes me six months to do a story. I think it out and then write it sentence by sentence—no first draft. I can’t write five words but that I change seven."

That's pretty much the gist of it.  It's not that inspiration doesn't count, or that it isn't real.  It does count!  It is real!  My own novel was inspired by a dream, which haunted me for days until I finally threw my hands up, shouted "Enough!" and scribbled down what turned out to be my first chapter.  But never again did I experience that kind of clarity, that kind of passion and certainty -- at least not with that project.  Everything that has happened with the novel since then, every blessed word of it, has come from hard (and sometimes forced) labor, and that's how it should be.  I worked my ass off.  I did it because that's what I had to do to get it right.  A good writer, as Parker once put it, works "damn hard and all the time."

Despair

I feel like I will never stop editing this damn book.  Every time I think I'm finished, I see another typo.  Or find another plot hole.  Or read another sentence whose parts are wrinkled.

I think I've read this novel about twelve times in the last three years, which puts it at the top of my list of most-often read books (right after "The Handmaid's Tale," which I prefer, because unfortunately I didn't write that one).

I go cross-eyed when I look at a page of this damn book, and that's before I start reading.  Is it possible to do a good editing job when you know everything that's coming?  I don't know.

All I know is, I really, really, really hope somebody pays me for all this.

As my old pal Dorothy Parker once said, "I hate writing; I love having written."

The Ever-Loving Query Letter

Since I have spent so much time working on the damned thing, I feel like it's only appropriate to post my query letter here.  I spent as much time and thought on it as I did on many of my short stories, and I figure that any other fiction writers that might stumble upon this blog may find it useful.  Hell, one of you might even be an agent who can give me some pointers.
At the very least, I feel better knowing that it might get read by somebody who can't reject it.

So many drafts, so little success.

Dear Agent,

I have recently completed, edited, re-edited, and re-re-edited Wasteland, my first novel (97,000 words).  It has taken years of toil and procrastination, but I am finally ready to share it with the world, i.e., you.  I think you will appreciate it because (this part is personalized, where I tell the agent what it was that made me think they would be interested in selling my novel).

Wasteland opens with three children playing in a landfill.  Virginia and Amelia are best friends and their friend Jeremiah has promised to show them something he’s found in the landfill.  But when Jeremiah is accidentally killed, Amelia convinces Virginia that they should hide his body and return to their lives as though nothing happened.  The events in the Wasteland are not so easily forgotten, however, and both girls are haunted by what they know, and the lies they have told.  While everyone else they know is searching for the missing Jeremiah, Virginia is falling in love with his older brother.  Will she ever be able to tell him the truth about what happened to Jeremiah?  Will Amelia's conniving get the better of them both?  How will either of them ever find redemption for what they’ve done?

I was raised in Atlanta, Georgia and have a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which I earned from the University College Dublin in Dublin, Ireland.  While in Ireland, I had two short stories published.  The first, “A Curl in the Lip,” was printed in The Stinging Fly’s Winter 2008-09 issue and the second, “Baby Bird” was in an anthology entitled “Anthology, Baby,” which was released by the University College Dublin Press in 2008.  Another story of mine, “Last Year’s Man,” was a semi-finalist in the 2009 Katherine Ann Porter Contest for Fiction.  I also write a fiction blog called Rachel Writes A Book, in which I chronicle my adventures in writing and give my many unpublished short stories some air.

I would be happy to send you the full or partial manuscript of Wasteland as requested.  I am querying other agents at this time, but will give you exclusivity of the manuscript for 6 weeks, should you choose to read it.  Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Rachel Wright