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 

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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.