How and When to Respond to Negative Reviews

Every author - traditional or independent - wants and needs reviews. A healthy dose of good reviews generates interest and excitement and, hopefully, leads to further book sales. As we all know, Amazon monitors a book's review statistics as well as its sales numbers and the more reviews a book receives the closer it gets to entering the coveted Amazon algorithm that can send it to the top of the charts, which is what we all want.

Now, we can tell ourselves that reviews really don't matter to us but we'd be lying to ourselves and it's not nice to tell lies. We tell ourselves we write because we have to - it's who I am, I can't help but write! - which may or may not be true. And we tell ourselves that the money doesn't matter - I just want to get my work out there. If only 1 person reads it and likes it then... - which, again, may or may not be true.  But secretly, or not so secretly, we crave acceptance of our art and of ourselves, our work, an affirmation that the toil we've endured has been worth it, the days and weeks and months and years corralling tens of thousands of words into just the right order, the sleepless nights, the writer's block the writer's uncertainty, the numerous rewrites and edits and rewrites and edits. And the best way to get our oh-so tender egos stroked is with reviews - unsolicited and glowing, preferably.

When those 4 and 5 star reviews start to trickle in, you can't help but feel vindicated and triumphant. You have the urge to scream I TOLD YOU SO! to all the naysayers from your past (but you don't because you're an adult so you just post the glowing reviews to your Facebook page and hope they realize the "I told you so" is implied). You monitor your book's Amazon page at least a dozen times a day waiting for the next heap of praise. You do the same over at Goodreads and Barnes & Noble and iTunes and Smashwords and anywhere else someone might drop a little love your way. It's obsessive and maniacal and painful and, all too soon, habitual, just another part of your day.

And then that first 1 star review hits. It's confusing at first. You double check to ensure you're on your book's page. Once you confirm you are you scroll back down to the review section, knowing you must have miss-seen something but there it is, that one little star sitting there all alone, waiting on his star friends that will never come to join him. Then you reach for the salt that you will rub into your fresh wound by scrolling down to read the actual review, gutting you anew. Of course, the reviewer got it all wrong, you say. They didn't understand what you were doing, what you were saying. They didn't get it at all. And now they've written the world to tell them they won't get it either, shouldn't even attempt to get it! This can't be happening, you tell yourself. This can't happen! I can't let it happen! I have to do something!

So, how do you respond? How do you correct the reviewer and stave the possible onslaught of other negative reviews and the death of your novel?

Here's the trick: you don't. You just let it sit there, that lonely little star. Let it twinkle its dull flat twinkle.

All too often artist speak of their works as their "babies": I have created and birthed and nursed this idea and project into fruition. It is a part of me and it is out there in the world toddling about recklessly in the path of all manner of dangers. I must protect it! But this isn't true. If you have sent your work out into the world, we assume you have done so because it is ready to be out there on its own. And if it's ready to be out there on its own then you think it is grown up enough to be so. So, just like any parent, you have to let it stand out there by itself, have to let it defend itself by its mere existence, speak for itself. If you feel you still need to hold its hand and explain it to people so that they "get" it then wasn't ready after all and you better bring that baby back home and under your care until it is ready. Once it's out there, just like anything else in the world, some people will like it and some will not. Some will get it and others won't - or at least they'll get something else you didn't intend. But as painful and frustrating as that may be, you must let their interpretation stand unchallenged or risk exposing your work for the incomplete baby it might be.

Less Talk, More Action

I, like so many struggling writers, can be a lot of talk an little action. We tend to like nothing more than the sounds of our own voices talking about our writing (or, in regards to this blog, writing about our writing) versus actually writing or getting our writing out there in the world. We're notorious procrastinators and dawdlers. And I am no different.

Well, I finally decided to shut the hell up and get to work on my writing career this year.

While I always write, I am negligent about getting my writing out in the world where it can be read. Sure, I acquired an agent for my first novel. Sure, when she failed to sell the book, I worked up the nerve to attempt self-publishing. But when the Kickstarter campaign to fund the book failed, discouragement and self-doubt took over and I reverted back to my old scared ways of writing in secret. But something changed this year. Maybe it was turning 50 that jolted me into action. The thought that at least 2/3s of my life had been pissed away on nothing but talk and talk and more talk. Whatever the impetus, I somehow got my act together and decided to pursue that long dreamt of career.

I turned to play writing. I'm also not sure where that thought came from but for some reason I decided to adapt a long forgotten short story into a play. The first draft was shit, of course. I had never written a play so key elements to make a successful dramatic event were lacking but there was a kernel of something in it that kept me moving forward. I farmed it out to some actor friends who gave me their thoughts and I went back to the drawing board. One of those friends helped me get a reading together with actual actors so I could hear the play outside of my head (talk about a surreal moment!) which prompted another rewrite. And, eventually, through a bit more rewriting, I produced a pretty darned good piece of theater which got accepted into a couple of New York festivals and will make it's debut in January 2016. Action!

On the novel front, the desire to publish my first novel, now titled The Summer of Jenny Wade, never diminished. So, I decided to go the eBook route via Amazon (and B&N, iBooks, Kobo, Smashwords, etc.). I raked through it one more time to ensure it was up to snuff. I researched how to format for the various platforms (and eventually farmed this out to a professional when it proved a beyond my capabilities). I created a pretty nifty book cover in PowerPoint by watching tutorials online. I set a publication date for September 5th and put the word out to family and friends and Facebook and Twitter. I am researching the self-promotion methods and working to continue to get the word out and will continue to do so to ensure that the novel finally gets read. Action!

I created a Facebook author page. I created an author website (via Wix). I created an author page on Goodreads. I am creating an author life for myself. Action!

Ultimately, all lives are DIY and I finally realized that this year and, while my stress levels have never been higher, I've never been happier.

Come to find out action does speak louder than words.

Teasers

In my ongoing campaign to fund my independent publishing project (which can be found on Kickstarter, by the way), I thought a little taste of the novel would whet appetites and give you all a glimpse, not just of the novel but also my writing. Following is Chapter 1 (a sort of prologue) of the book:

Chapter One

By the time May Thompson locked the door it was too late. What happened to Jenny Wade had already happened. Brian, her youngest, was in way over his head with Mr. Barnes. And there was a lot more coming that no locked door was ever going to keep out. But you couldn’t blame her for trying.

That evening, early in the summer of 1974, the heat of the day had settled in the house like another member of the Thompson family, hanging out in the den with Brian as he stared at the television, too boiled to even notice what was on. Was the heat, dry and stagnant, that kept most folks indoors that day, which lead to the the rapid fire spread of the news of what happened to Jenny, once word got out. Not as palpable as wet heat which drapes on you like an extra layer of skin that won’t sink in or molt off, dry heat harbors a sharpness in its touch, pin needles that scratch at your prickled flesh but never seem to release the blood roiling beneath.

At the slam of the door, Brian called out “Leave the door open, Mama. Let the air circulate.”

Brian shifted in his father’s leather chair in search of any spot cooled by the box fan set up in front of him. He watched his mother pass by, heading into the kitchen. “Mama!” He called, but she didn’t respond.

Lazily, Brian trudged into the living room and opened the door again. May Thompson’s children did that on occasion, defied her, tested the boundaries she held on them. Her two oldest children had already learned this and it seemed Brian was catching on as well. But that night, May would not be defied. She returned to the living room, to where her youngest son stood in the doorway, enjoying the insignificant breeze that had shimmied its way through the neighborhood, across the yard, up the porch and through the screen door. May stepped around Brian, moving him backward a pace or two. She peered out into the hazy twilight as if expecting to find something or someone lurking out there then slammed the door shut again. A brief moment passed as she fumbled with the lock. Her fingers, tangled with emotions Brian didn’t understand, worried the deadbolt once then twice until it found its long forgotten home. She then turned to him with challenge in her eyes and her stance. Brian, wholly intent on reopening the door, intent on meeting her challenge with his own, stopped when he felt, rather than saw the tremble of her body. This was not her usual scared-mouse tremble, the kind a lot of beat women get that flutters just under the skin, keeping them alert to any physical shifts that might be occurring around them; no, this emanated from a permanent point inside her, a bone-deep tremble. Even though Brian had been doing things with Mr. Barnes for the past week or so that had him thinking he was a grown-up, just like his mother, at that moment, he felt like a little boy again.

His mother didn’t tell Brian anything that night. Of course she wouldn’t; she still saw him as a child, her child, the baby of the family to be protected and shielded by her and any door she could find to lock. So in silence, she went to bed, not a word, leaving him there at the door, wondering if she’d locked them in or locked something out.  

And We’re Back…with a Vengeance!

Yes, I’ve been woefully remiss in keeping up the blog so let’s do a bit of a recap to catch us all up:

1. The book did not sell (not that this should come as a surprise because if it had sold to a publisher, you would have HEARD about it by now). 
2. A great bit of wallowing was had by all (well, mainly just me). 
3. Post wallowing, a large amount of doubt settled in for a nice long harboring (every word I wrote, maybe still write, is second-guessed, thrice-guessed, etc. to the point that progress has been non-existent). 
4. New works-in-progress (see previous entry) were cast out into the streets in their various states of undress to fend for themselves. 
5. A bout of depression ensued. 
6. Meds were adjusted.
7. I said “Fuck it!” to the traditional publishing world!

Which brings us to this post. I am back, full of the piss and vinegar of yore, ready to take the literary world by storm.

How, you ask?

There was a time when I felt that self-publishing was admitting defeat. Of course, I, like so many others, equated it with “vanity” publishing. To some extent it still is, though the world of self-publishing, which I prefer to call independent publishing, has changed drastically in the past few years. The digital age has altered the publishing landscape, some for the bad, some for the good but altered it none the less.

• Bad: Traditional publishing has faltered. They are no longer the arbiters of what is happening in the literary world. Sure they still have cachet and signing with one of the big houses is still a coop and a sought-after prize but they are also dwindling in scope. They are running a bit scared. They don’t take risks like they used to. Before they take on a book (or an author) they want to know that it comes in such pristine condition that it’s practically ready to print as well as coming to them with a built-in audience. They just don’t have the budgets for editors and marketing, not like they used to, so they need to know that they will recoup their monies and more. While they may have always sought that next great blockbuster that will be on every bookshelf in the world (think The Da Vinci Code), they also took chances on smaller books, those works of Literary Fiction that defy classification, that have no “true” home in the bookstores because they don’t focus on a genre formula (and therefore don’t have a built-in audience) but on characters and writing. The works like To Kill a Mockingbird or The Virgin Suicides take a lot more convincing to be snapped up by traditional publishers.

• Good: As traditional publishing falters, the digital publishing industry has allowed writers to skip the middleman all together and produce their works to sell directly to the public. Companies like Smashwords and BookBaby make it even easier (for a price, of course). A writer can simple convert their book into an e-book format and upload directly to the Amazon Kindle site or to Barnes & Noble Nook site or any other number of e-book selling sites. They can design their own covers and set their own prices. They become the author and publisher in one. They also need to become the marketer too, which is difficult and time consuming, but it might actually be more than you would get if you signed to a traditional publisher these days. 

Unfortunately, another component of the ‘bad’ is the fact that a lot of these authors cum independent publishers don’t take the time or expend the money to put their works through the stringent editing process that the traditional publishing companies do (or at least used to when they had the money) to elevate their works to the next, professional level. Consequently, a good portion of the novels being produced is sub par and perpetuates the “vanity” stereotype of self-publishing: that anyone can publish anything. There are no guards on duty in this lawless world; no editorial Nazis with their blood-red pens slashing at your manuscript, like a mad plastic surgeon creating a masterpiece, until it is perfected.

Of course, there are writers who know their limitations, their weaknesses and seek out those who can help. I am one of those writers. I think I’m a good writer (my daily affirmation calendar would tell me to say: I AM a good writer). I can create good, well-developed characters. I can even create a good plot line and tell a decent story. What I can’t do is edit my own work. I get so mired in it that I can’t truly see the good and the bad. I know I need someone unbiased who will show no mercy and tell me like it is. I’m a big boy, I can take it if I know it’s for the good of the whole.

It’s been every exciting investigating the world and possibilities of independent publishing. There’s a great sense of control, a sense of casting off the chains of the rules of traditional publishing and just focusing on the work, the words on the page, the way that I feel they were meant to be read. No worrying if the ending is too dower. No worrying if the subject matter is too dark and therefore unsellable. No worrying about word count to bulk it up to constitute “a novel” rather than a novella. The book can be a long (or short) as it needs to be to tell the story properly and succinctly and fully.

Needless to say, my enthusiasm is renewed, my energy refilled. I am once again excited about writing, not just this novel but once again engaging my other works in progress. I’m once again feeling the dream beat inside me, pulsing through my veins as surely as my blood does. I once again call myself a writer and I am glad to be back.

Back at the Drawing Board

First, let me apologize for the lack of blogging. It's amazing how life can get in the way of actually living. After a few bobbles in my personal job market, I have landed at a good company that, while excellent for making mortgage, hasn't been conducive to keeping up with my writing projects. Almost seven months into this new job, I've finally started finding ways to carve out some much needed "free" time to work on what truly matters to me: the writing.

And speaking of my writing, as the title of this entry states, I have gone back to my first novel. It's been a year and a half since my agent started selling the book, sending it out to publishing houses and while there have been some hits, though not on target, there have been mostly misses. The majority of publishers have stated that the story is good but the writing isn't quite strong enough. Well, that hurt. Funnily enough, I always thought I was a lousy storyteller and the strength of my writing would pull me through that detriment. Always interesting when you learn the opposite of what you thought you know, especially when it pertains to yourself or your perception of yourself.

After careful consideration (and too many reference to the weak writing), I decided to rework the novel, to strengthen the writing and make the book more viable to future publishers. I worked on fleshing out the characters and their back stories. I worked on the multiple grammar issues (though that might be a loosing battle! What can I say, I like a run-on sentence.). I worked on clarification and exposition. And the novel grew from 70k words to almost 87k. Quite the growth spurt. All this time I thought the characters were done but apparently they weren't.

Eagerly I sent the refinished manuscript to my agent. And waited 3 excruciating weeks until she returned from vacation before she responded. Of course, I thought there would be nothing but praise. Of course, I had deluded myself. She had sent it to one of her readers and together they sent me back to the drawing board. Oh, there was praise. My agent loves the book. Loves my voice. Loves the story and the characters. But...it's just not there yet.

With the addition of 17k words, some portions of the book started to lag. The reader, to whom she had sent the book, thought there were too many characters. Sure she understood that they added to the authenticity of the small town world I had created but she felt that they troubled the waters too much. There were too many names to remember and, since some only appeared once in the book, they just cluttered her brain and detracted from the main story lines and characters.

And then there was the narrator's POV. It becomes clear at the end of the book why the narrator tells the story as he does but until then it might not make sense. As the writer, who knows what's happening at all times and why it is happening, you can "forget" to see your book, your story, your techniques from the outside view. After both the reader remarked that the narrator knew things he shouldn't have known, I could see how the POV was unrealistic (at least until the reader got to the ending). It wasn't the first time I had heard that observation. But to clarify in the beginning feels like it will lessen the ending which makes me apprehensive to do so, but,I suppose clarification (and less frustration) is more important than revelation, especially if there is the possibility that the reader will abandon the book before reaching the end.

So, I have begun the editing process yet again. I am approaching this editing process like a reader. I must be judicious with my cuts. It's not easy but it must be done. The reader stated that this "project should definitely be pursued." She loved the book. She loved the writing. She loved the story and the way I told it. Because of the small town feel of the book and the mysteries involved, she likened it to In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, one of my favorite books of all time. When my agent and I spoke the other day, she said she could see that but stated that the book has always reminded her more of To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, another of my favorite books. She believes this could be another book in that vein, with the accompanying phenomenon, which sounds fantastic but, truly, I just want to get published.

So I am back at the drawing board and will return as often as needed to get my novel the bookshelf. It's just what a writer does. And I am a writer.

WIPs

Hot on the heels of the "moving on" post I thought I'd offer an update on my Works in Progress. While I haven't been as diligent in my writing as I would like, I have been working on multiple projects.

WIP 1
Is actually my 2nd novel (The Reclamation of Karel Benekov) which I've written about here before. I'm just over 67,000 words along with the last 1/4 of the book to go. I'm anticipating a final word count in the 90s. I have to admit that I'm not thrilled with the structure of the novel, too linear in progression, which slows down the pace dramatically, but this is still the first draft so there will not be any starting over until I have finished getting the "story" out at least. I'm hoping I can get the structure right more quickly than I did with the 1st novel, which took upwards of 6 or 7 completely different attempts before finding the one that truly told the story properly. I feel that I have a better handle on this book (experience does help) and a better understanding of the main character, so I should be able to hit it right sooner rather than later.

WIP 2
3rd novel (The Last Messiah). This is another book I'm working on, though not as diligently as the other one. The story actually came from my partner, Carlos. He wasn't too interested in my 1st book. Literary Fiction bores him, which is fine. I know it's not for everyone. He's very much into the paranormal writing genre as is the rest of the world, it seems. One night in bed he inform me that in order for me to actually sell books I need to write something more interesting and, yes, trendy. He proceeded to tell me his idea of the coming of the "Last Messiah." While paranormal writing isn't quite the type of book I like the story intrigued me enough for me to start tinkering with it. I have a "thing" about religion, a fascination that borders on obsession and I thought: "what the hell, give it a shot." I'm only about 11,000 words into (it requires quite a bit of research into religion and how to write police procedurals (oh, it starts out as your run of the mill police procedural and then turns paranormal)) but I actually like it very much and it's a nice change of pace from when I get bored with writing the other book.

WIP 3
Stage Play (Pinched). Quite a few years ago, I read a non-fiction book entitled Sex-Crime Panic: A Journey to the Paranoid Heart of the 1950s by Neil Miller, which told of a post-child murder panic that took hold of parts of Iowa back in the 1950s. As the police couldn't find the actual murderer, or murderers, of two children, they sought to appease public fears by rounding up "sexual deviates", which mainly consisted of homosexuals. A group of these men were committed to the mental hospital for an indefinite period of time in hopes that the state could cure them.

I've always thought this would make an interesting (and still timely) stage play, so I'm working on an adaptation.

WIP 4
Screenplay (Immortality, Inc.). Okay, I've had this in the works for years (at least 10) and think I should just freaking write the damned thing! Again, this is for Carlos as it deals with vampires. At first I thought it would be a book but it's just so terribly visual that I decided to switch it to a movie instead. I've actually got most, if not all, of the research done on this, complete with character bios (full histories! I started this back when I still did such things) and a point-by-point plot outline so now it's just a matter of writing it. I just started revisiting this project in the past couple of days so I'm going to try to stoke the embers here and see what happens.

And that's it. That's what I'm working on, here and there, keeping myself entrenched in the world of words and continuing to move forward. I think I'm like a lot of writers who keep a few projects going at the same time in order to keep the mind active and the writing interesting. Often, if I only concentrate on one piece of writing, it starts to bore me and then the writing becomes stale. If I switch back and forth, especially if the projects vary widely in genre and style, the writing stays fresh and lively.

I'll try to get some more in depth posts regarding each project here in the near future.

To Let Go Is to Move On

It appears that there comes a point in this publishing process when one has to turn to that old Alcoholics Anonymous catch-phrase "Let Go and Let God" in order to move forward. I am at that point.

We are fast approaching the 1 year mark of my manuscript being "out there" in search of a home. My agent, Jennifer DeChiara, began sending it out in January of this year. As reported, we came close with one publisher but the book was deemed to adult for the Young Adult market. Since then: nothing. Not a freaking nibble. Oh, they're still tossing around the niceties: "good writer"; "interesting story"; "good character development"; and the like but ultimately they all have passed. I'm not even sure how many rejections I've had now as Jennifer has decided to shield me from them, for which I am thankful as there are just so many knocks my fragile writer's ego can take.

Each month, like broken clock work (I can never hold out a full month), I email Jennifer asking for updates. Each month the same report: "nothing yet, but I'm still trying." God love her tenacity!

And each month another dagger in the ole heart area.

Well, I think it's time to "Let Go and Let God." It's time to leave it in the hands of fate, put my head down and keep working on new projects. No more monthly updates, just let it lie and if by chance someone finally picks it up for publication and I get that call from Jennifer, well great. But if it doesn't happen then it doesn't matter because I've moved on. I've realized that I, and my writing, are entierly too tethered to the outcome of this novel. I have tied my self-worth to its publication and that's not good. I have to realize that even if the book doesn't get published that doesn't mean I'm not a good, or even great, writer. Just means that I have to continue getting my work out there so that someone will realize it. It's like casting a net instead of just one fishing line.

These are the lessons each writer must learn, I suppose.

So it's settled. One last update (what? you thought I would be able to quit cold turkey?) and then it's on its own. Time to move on fully and happily and whole-heartily, with confidence that my writing will be heard one day.

Why I Write

Often, in my travels (or is it travails?) as a writer I have had the opportunity to speak with other writers, unpublished like myself, and the subject of being published almost always comes up. Occasionally, the other writer will make a statement along the lines of: "Well, I don't care if I ever get published because I write for myself."

"Pardon me?" I want to say, "but what's the point in that?"

For me writing is many things: a must because I simply can't stop doing it; fun, especially in the first few drafts; painful as I tend to base most of my writing on my own personal emotional landscape; and hard, damned hard, with each word being a wrestling match of thesaurus versus my vision to make sure I have the most perfect choice. Writing for me is tough and difficult and sometimes not enjoyable and, above all, work. And if I'm going to go through all that, well, to quote the lyrics of "Dance Ten, Looks Three" from A Chorus Line: "...dancing for my own enjoyment? That ain't it, kid! That ain't it kid!"

I want to be published. I want to be read. I want to have my voice heard. I have things that I want to say, commentaries I want to make upon life and the world around me. But if there is no one to hear/read them, then I might as well just sit in my apartment talking the wall, rambling like a madman because that's what "writing for myself" is comparable to, no?

Writing for me is collaborative: like dancing or having sex, it's best done with two people (or more, depending). When I'm writing, I'm writing for an audience, for readers who, in their need to understand the story I am telling and believe the actions of the characters within the story, drive me to be clear and concise in my writing. Because I write for others, I am a better writer.

In my younger days, when I first started writing, I wrote just to write, which was a form of writing for myself, I suppose. The results were less than coherent, mostly ramblings with multiple digressions that were painful to read. Very much like diary entries with no discernible plot or character development...or, ultimately, purpose. I remember reading for a writing group during this period. The piece, "The Daddyslayer," was stunning in its heavy-handedness, its cacophony of ideas and images that were nothing short of verbal vomit, a purging of my "soul" that included an unseen villain (The Daddy), a trapped victim (nameless, of course) who lived in a village of unknown origin, setting and time period, who sets out on a journey to find a mythological being called "The Daddyslayer": "he'll rid you of that Daddy, once and for all, he will," says a stranger in a tavern where our young hero has found himself along his quest. He eventually meets the Daddyslayer, after a dramatic encounter with a pack of wolves (still not sure why they were in the story) where he begins a rigorous training because, of course, HE is the Daddyslayer! All this in only 5 pages! All I remember from the crowd of faces in the writing group was the stunned silence, then the hemming and hawing before someone, mercifully jumped into the fray. "Well, that was intense." And not in a good way, I was to find out. Other words tossed about: obvious, heavy-handed, over-wrought and lacking focus. "Who is your audience?" someone asked. Well, I had never thought of that, which was painfully obvious. At that moment in my writing dream, I had never thought beyond the end of my pen (yes, my pen as this was pre-PC days).

I realized that I didn't have an audience in mind. I simply purged myself onto the paper, a sort of bloodletting that proved uncomfortable and painful to the reader, if they could make themselves even read the huge blocks of type set before them. It was then that I began to study the craft of writing, the art of writing for someone else.

Some may say that writing for "someone else" will harness the raw, organic flow of our thoughts and emotions, but it doesn't have to. My raw emotions, my thoughts and ideas about the world and the people who inhabit it, are the clay from which I sculpt. The first draft of any project is where I dump my raw materials out on the table to see what I have to work with. Usually by the end a shape will form, dull and lifeless, maybe monstrous and unable to communicate properly to anyone other than myself, sort of a Frankenstein creature at best. But it is a shape none-the-less. It is during the revising process that the shape truly takes on life and breath (hopefully) and becomes a full-fledged entity that can interact with others. I like to think of myself as 'enry 'iggins molding 'is Eliza Doolittle.

The point is: I have to write for an audience in order to write well and coherently. And I have to write with the hope of being published, and with the idea that I am going to pursue that hope by sending my work out there into the cold, mean world of agents and editors, otherwise I will need to drive myself to the nearest sanitarium for a lifetime membership and start babbling to the first white, padded wall I can find.

But that's just me.

Adaptation

The adaptability of the mind endlessly fascinates me. Here's the situation:

About a month ago, I am staying up way past my bedtime. I'm having a bit of scotch as I am wont to do on occasion--Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks, if you don't mind. I'm tired. Maybe I'm a bit tipsy. I doze. My glass, lovely Baccarat rocks glass that makes even the most harsh of scotches taste divine, tilts and spills onto and into my laptop. I wake, mutter "oh shit," clean up as best I can and go to bed. Next morning I do a thorough cleaning of the keyboard and assess the damage: the "s" key has perished in the flood. Not too horrible, considering.

I don't have the money to replace my laptop and it's silly to do so for a dead "s": so for the past month or so, I've been typing (emails, Facebook and Twitter status updates, WIPs, this posting) without having an active "s" key.

At first I set about to live an entirely "s"-less life. For the following few days after the death of "s", I did just that and I must say the exercise was a fascinating writing experiment. One has to truly manipulate one's vocabulary to write "s"-free. If you don't believe me, try it. Live "s"-less for one day (or "t"-less, "p"-less, "h"-less) and see how much ingenuity you will have to have to simply post a Twitter update (that's only 140 characters, relatively easy one would think but don't be fooled!). Pick any letter and try to live without it!

Definitely exercises the brain, which is great for a writerly exercise but difficult for an everyday existence.

So now I do a lot of copying and pasting for each and every "s" occurrence. I use the keyboard shortcut of Ctrl+V for the pasting and let me tell you, my mind has adapted to this necessity so deftly that I am amazed at the agility of the brain. Even when I'm at another computer, every time I come to an "s" in a word my left pinkie automatically stretches out for the Ctrl key. I don't even have to think about it anymore, it's that natural, and after such a short period. I'm truly amazed. Granted, occasionally I need a capital "s" and that takes extra steps (usually I simply search one out in a past writing sample or off a website page) and then I forget that I've copied that particular form of "s" and I'll paSte a capital "s" in the middle of a word. A little frustrating but nothing too diabolical. It's all just about adjusting.

For me it's a perfect allegory for life: one must always be adaptable in order to continue moving forward.

That and mind your Ps, Qs, Ss, and above all, your scotch!

Tendered Is the Life

A couple of weeks ago, I tendered my position at my last job. No, I don't have anything else lined up. While that might seem rash, especially given the state of unemployment in the nation, I am of the belief that one has to do what is best for oneself. I'm not going to go into any reasonings for my departure here as they don't truly have any bearing on this post. What this post is about is the door of possiblity has once again opened, prompting the question: "am I going to walk through it this time or high-tail it back to safety?"

What is possible is for me to devise a way to fulfill my goal of being a paid writer. Yes, the novel is still out there seeking representation (Jennifer sent out the third round batch a couple of weeks ago) and it would be marvelous if some fabulously savvy editor would snatch it up for a nice chunk o' change (if only enough to lessen those ever looming student loans!), but that is not a well-constructed basket in which to house my eggs. The true possibilities lie in my ability to stretch myself as a writer and seek alternative ways and venues in which to succeed.

One alternative that fascinates me is the area of Social Media. At the job to which I've just tendered, I've been working on the developement of their Social Media campaign: creating and maintaining their new blog, Twittering, Facebooking, working on the SEO for all these outlets and linking each one to the two websites held by the company. And it's been fascinating, exciting, fun, and knowledgeable, to the point that I am investigating ways to enter this field.

Other alternatives are to freelance. I've often thought about this in the past but...there is that confidence that is required of a freelancer, to put yourself out there and say: "I am the best writer for this project!" No room for doubt and I possess that in spades, especially these days with so many rejections looming about. I search Craigslist daily thinking: "I can do that" but have yet to actually toss my hat in any of the offered rings.

How does one move past oneself? That is the question these days. One just does. That is the answer. You have to step over your fears like passed out drunks on the streets of New York. Over your "tsk, tsk" and don't look back. Easier said than done but entirely doable. You have to pledge to yourself to try. What's a few dozen more rejections? Nothing I can't handle!

Update: 6 Month Mark

So, we have reached the 6 month mark in the process of seeking publication for the novel. While there has been no offer for publication as of yet, I and my agent, Jennifer DeChiara, have not given up. She is bound and determined to sell the novel, which is more than admirable. It's great to have someone like Jennifer on your side, especially when this process takes so long and can be so draining. She has no doubts whatsoever. She KNOWS it will sell.

I, though, have to admit that I've been wavering in my own faith in myself and my book. There are just so many knocks a man can take, right? Luckily, I haven't been KO'ed yet, but I've come close. But the white towel is firmly in my back pocket and I don't plan on tossing it to the floor anytime soon (and that's enough of the boxing analogies for me).

Recently, I reread the book, the first time since I finished the final edits back in late December of last year. Not to toot my own horn, but I actually enjoyed the book. And yes, I was surprised. There was so much in it that I'd forgotten about so I could truly read the book as a book and not something I had written (helps that I sent it to my Nook, so it had that e-book feel to it that I'm fairly used to now). I could be amazed at connections that were being made (I love my subconscious!). I could get involved with these characters that I haven't lived with in so long. I actually got choked up at the end, even though I knew what was coming. And I thought that was a good sign. But I suppose I'm a tad biased, no?

Oh well, we keep plugging away. Jennifer is working up list number 3 of unsuspecting publishers to which to submit and I continue to work on my second novel (50k words as of this morning). Moving forward is the key. So much of the business of writing and publication is perseverance and, for some reason, I have that in spades these days.

So, I can still easily say: See you on the shelves!

What Are You Reading Right Now?

Just a little question to get some interaction going here. What are you reading at this moment? Book, author, thoughts. Just curious and always on the lookout for new and exciting reading material!

To get the ball rolling: I am reading The Story of Night: A Novel by Colm Toibin. Previously, I had read his wonderful novel, The Master, his fictionalized biography of Henry James. The Story of Night is two stories entertwined: Argentina's struggle for democracy in the 1980s and a man's struggle to come out as a homosexual in the climate in which he lives. Toibin is a masterful writer, especially when he is writing about the relationship between the main character and his mother (a subject that always hits home for me).

"Maybe that is what lingers in her bedroom, her disappointment and all the time she had alone to savor it and go over it in detail. Some of that dull energy is left there, and I can feel it when I go into the room and I still call it Mother."

The best writing for me is the kind that I wish I had written first and this book is full of moments like that.

So, now it's your turn.

Where Are We Now?

Been way too long so here's an update on where we stand in the process of finding a publisher for On the Edge of Some Place Else.

Unfortunately, we are at the tail-end of round two in the submission process. First my agent directed the manuscript toward the Young Adult (YA) fiction market and the appropriate editors that she knows. The main reason, which I totally understand, is that the main character is 13-years-old: classic tell-tale sign of a YA novel. Personally, I was dubious about the approach. An editor friend told me, while I was still looking for an agent, to possibly pitch the novel as YA for the same reason, in hopes of broadening my search. But, while the main character is 13, the subject matter is well beyond that age group, in my opinion. Sure YA can deal with all sorts of subjects nowadays (sex, drugs, rape, murder even, vampires for sure) but my novel definitely wasn't written with that age group in mind, so it has an overtly mature sensibility to it. Even the main character's voice comes off much more mature for his age (something the editors marked, as well). And that was the consensus of all the editors to whom we pitched the novel: great writing but the book just isn't YA. (Well, some didn't add the "great writing" part, but that's too painful to write about). One editor, Brian Farrey at FLUX Publishing, absolutely loved the book. After the first read he thought: No, not YA at all. But he read it again just to make sure! Then handed it off to his most mature reader, who also loved it but agreed that it was too mature for YA. He wrote the best rejection I've ever received (and according to him "the hardest he's ever had to write") and I thank him for it.

So, round two has been directed at the adult fiction editors out there. So far, out of 6 editors, 5 have rejected (bringing the grand total to 13!). While most have actually liked the writing (no, seriously, that actually said that!), the book just hasn't grabbed them enough to want to take the risk on a first-time novelist writing Literary Fiction dealing with rape and a sexual relationship between a 13-year-old boy and his male former sixth grade teacher. Imagine that! While we are waiting for the last of the 6 to respond (come on Chuck Adams at Algonquin Books, come on, come through for me, Baby!), my agent is compiling list number three. She is amazing in her unwavering support (I've asked her if it's wavering and she said no). She encourages me with each rejection to not give up, that IT will happen, that she will not give up until the books sells! I love her for that.

And I am not giving up, either. As gut-wrenching each and every rejection has been, I can't give up on this. The book is good. I like the book. I want to read it when it comes out, I like it that much. I believe in my agent. I believe in myself. I believe in my talent. It WILL happen! We just have to find that one editor who recognizes that there is an audience for this book and not despite its subject matter but because of it and what it says about humanity. We've found one so far and there will be another.

So, that's where we are right now. In the meantime, I continue to work on novel number two and check my emails for that one that says: you will be a published author! It is coming.

A Time for Bravery

No matter where you are in your life: Now is the time for bravery! It is time to live your life for you!

Looped: A Mini-Review

Valerie Harper at Tallulah Bankhead was simply amazing and mesmerizing.

Essentially a two-character play between Bankhead and an editor for whom she's come into the sound studio to loop some dialogue for her second to last movie, the play, a comedy, explores Bankhead's notorious reputation as a foul-mouthed, pill-popping, drunk who tells it like it is (at least the way she sees it, which is surprisingly clear given her constant cloud of drugs and drink).

The play itself is extremely well written. The jokes, pithy and bawdy one-liners are tossed out liberally and with perfect aim by Harper. But there's also drama that brings the characters together, keeping them interested in each other and interesting to the audience. Matthew Lombardo has constructed a very fascinating piece of work who's drama sneaks up on the audience, but isn't out of place even in the rapid-fire of one-liners. The drama is organic born out of the comedy.

As for Harper, her performance, or more aptly, her inhabitation of Tallulah Bankhead is absolutely mesmerizing. Most often you even forget there is anyone else on stage with her. That's not a slight toward her co-star, Brian Hutchinson, but a testament to how completely she shines as Bankhead. She is the driving force of the play and never lets the audience forget it. Given the larger-than-life presentation that was Bankhead, this performance could have been straight parody or characiture but Harper keeps her Bankhead grounded in nuance and self-awareness of Bankhead playing Bankhead. It's a fascinating performance and one that I am thrilled to have seen live.

WIP: Chapter One

Thought I'd post Chapter One of my work in progress. Every once in a while I like to see my work outside of its normal habitat of MS word, see it in a different setting, a different light. One of the things I love about the Amazon Kindle is the ability to send documents to it to read. I've sent my first book there before and was amazed at how different the book looked and felt as I read it. While the Kindle isn't a "book," per se, there is a concreteness about it that merely reading the work on my laptop doesn't have. This is the first step outside of the comfort zone: letting others read the work.

The Reclamation of Karel Benakov: Chapter One

“This is who you are now,” he hands me the papers. We stand outside the car, his family, inside, not watching us. The wife stares out the passenger-side window in the opposite direction. I can’t see but can picture her face: tight and pinking with anger. The son, head bowed, reads a book as if it were any other outing to the country that they used to take before, long before. The daughter feigns sleep. He has stopped at a large stone building outside the town we had just passed through. I do not know the name of the town. He faces the building. I face him.

I stare at the papers. At the name scribbled in his impatient handwriting.

“That is who you are.”

Before I can speak he is returning to the car, its engine rumbling, rattling, anxious to continue, to get back on the road. I take a step forward but he drives away. I watch, waiting for him to stop, to change his mind, take me with him but he doesn’t. In the side mirror I see his face, eyes wide and set on the narrow dirt road as if it were extremely treacherous and he were in danger of plunging off the side of a cliff instead of driving on an unpaved country road. He doesn’t look back. Only the son does, one quick glance up from his book followed by his tongue sticking out at me. Victorious at last.

I wait until the car has finished its path down the dirt driveway, onto the road and out of sight. I look at the papers again, crunch them in my fist and stuff them in my coat pocket. With a deep breath, I kneel, scoop up a handful of dirt and dust and smear it on my face, then dust my coat and muddy my pant legs. With my satchel in hand, I turn to the building.

As I enter, not bothering to knock because it doesn’t strike me as a place, a door on which one knocks, the smell strikes me first and foremost, moldy, moist air, stale, as if the outside has not been allowed to enter the premises for months or maybe even years. After the crispness of the country air, my lungs seize and choke from this thickness. I stand breathing in the entryway, small and sparse, with only a wooden chair pushed against the right wall. The door closes behind me with an understanding thud and a click, leaving the light outside. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. In the absence of clear sight, I hear noises, far off, muffled by distance and walls, laughter and childish squeals, people at play, sounds that belied the ominous dark in which I stand, the silent foyer closing in on me. But still I don’t move, don’t seek the voices. I stay in that darkness. Setting my satchel down, I sit in the lone chair, its wooden parts creak, even under my slim weight, and echo in the hollowed-out room. The white walls ghost in the paltry light sneaking in around the cracks of the door frame and from the other rooms to which the entryway leads. The walls are dingy, ugly, and bare, not a picture or mirror interrupting their whiteness, save for one wooden crucifix stationed above the doorway. The other rooms, which I can not see except for their entrances, wait for me on either side of the end of the entryway. Further beyond them, a staircase climbs upward to more unknown areas.

I grip the handle of my satchel and bring it up to my lap. I look at the door from which I had entered, at the light glowing at its edges. My stomach tight to the point of pained. My jaw the same. Leave and go where? I didn’t know where I was, where he had brought me. Germany, but other than that, not a clue.

I stand, the chair scraping at the wood floor as if it too wanted to get away. I walk toward the other rooms.

The first, on the left, is as empty of people as the foyer, which I had suspected, the noises, the laughter and occasional squeals that still came were too far off, but there is light and furniture, old and beaten but comfortable looking. Couches, three of them, positioned in a U-shape in the center of the room, and numerous chairs of all kinds: wooden ones like the one in the entryway, upholstered ones with a mix-match of fabrics, stools and ottomans, scattered, somewhat haphazardly, but all facing the large fireplace on the wall to my right as I stand in the doorway. There is burnt wood in the gaping mouth of the fireplace and, walking over, I place my hand inside, letting it hover, feeling the slight heat still emanating from within.

In the second room, much larger and longer than the first, I find rows of tables and chairs, a dining area. Also empty. I wander in. The light here is brighter, shining through the curtain-less windows. I look outside from where I had come. The road beyond the grounds of the house are empty too. I knew they would be but, of course, I hoped they wouldn’t. Hoped he had come back and was waiting for me, despite the wife.

Turning, I walk to a door at the back corner of the room. Even before I encase the knob with my thin hand, I realize the voices are closer, though still just incoherent bursts. Opening the door, I step into a kitchen, also empty save for the lingering odor of prepared foods: breads, gruel, maybe eggs. I take a deep breath, yes, eggs, and sausages. My stomach aches for sausages. How many mornings had I stood outside his house, chopping their wood or washing their clothes, while the wife prepared breakfast for her family. How many times did the aroma of sausages breathe out of the cracked window in heated clouds that hovered over my work. She opened the windows on purpose, knowing. How many mornings did I sit outside in the freezing cold gnashing on molded bread and equally molded cheese while they sat at the table feasting on sausages. He had tried to sneak some out to me in the beginning but the wife found out and beat me. I told him it was worth it but he couldn’t see me like that, he said, so he wouldn’t try again because she would know. She took meticulous inventory of their food.

I stand, weary and wavering within the aromas that inhabit the kitchen. I am alone. I could easily find some food and take it away with me. They would never know I had even been there. They wouldn’t look for me or report me. I didn’t exist to them. Fill my satchel with breads and eggs and meats to last for days. A peal of laughter reminds me I am not entirely alone. Outside the windows of the kitchen, I can finally see the children, the ones who’d been laughing and squealing. They are running around the yard, playing, oblivious to me in their kitchen. A woman stands watch, on the perimeter of their play. A tall woman, large but not fat. Very German, I think to myself, in her stance, her strength and poise, the set of her jaw and the fold of her arms. She looks stern but the children don’t seem to be afraid of her, running about her in circles, flouncing the hem of her gray dress as they whirl past in their games.

In an instant, she pivots her head toward the windows, toward the kitchen, to me standing there. I think I should run but don’t. I am not scared. I don’t care that she’s caught me.

She says something to the children, who barely acknowledge her words, and then she walks across the yard to the door leading to the kitchen. Once she inside, she stops in the entryway. The voices from where she had come were louder, clearer, more excited. We looked at each other for a moment before she spoke, “Was ist das?” Her voice wasn’t angry or as stern as she looked. It was merely a question.

I pulled the papers out of my pocket, holding them out to her.

Moving to me, she received the papers, eyes slightly narrowed as she regarded me. She read the papers quickly then looked at me again. “You are Charles Werden?”

It took me a moment to decipher the name. I blinked once, twice, then spoke, “Yes, I am Charles Werden.”

Update...

Well there's actually not much to update on but I needed a motive to start blogging again. Blogging is like exercising: once you stop it's hard to get back into the swing of it. Also, it only works if you do it! Speaking of which, I need to get back in the gym too, but I'll save that for another Sunday.

Well, my agent (a phrase I never get tired of typing), Jennifer DeChiara, is shopping the book around to editors/publishers. She began last week, so of course there is no news as of yet. It's all a waiting game and I'm ever splashing about in the waiting pool in this publishing process.

I'm both excited and scared to think about the manuscript in some publisher's inbox (or better yet: printed and in his/hers hands) for obvious reasons. I have faith in the book's merits, as a piece of literature that could be received positively, as well as its quality, if I may be so bold and/or confident. I'm not delusional in believing that when it gets picked up by a publishing house that it won't go through the editing machine a time or seven, but I believe that it is well written and not too far off the print mark. Of course, I'm scared of the inevitable rejections that will come too. I know it's not a book that everyone will want to read or even enjoy when they do. It deals with some hard realities and a lot of readers don't like to deal with reality at all when they read (that's what they're trying to escape), so I know it's got it's uphill battles. I keep telling myself: if The Lovely Bones can be a hit, then so can On the Edge of Some Place Else!

As for moving forward, that's also quite the battle. I'm working on a couple of scenarios for a second book. The one I want to write is being a bit obstinate and not revealing itself as easily as I thought it would. Oh, I know the story I want to tell. I know the characters for the most part. I know the scope and arc and themes but just can't seem to find the proper way to tell it (gee, this doesn't sound familiar at all, does it? well, actually it does. it took me at least 3 years to find the proper voice for On the Edge of Some Place Else). It will come, I know, but I would like it to arrive sooner than 3 years, thank you very much. So, I've started investigating another story idea, something I've toyed with previously but didn't get too deep into. It's a 180 from the other story, maybe a bit more of a natural progression from the first novel, as well. I might be that my brain just needs a break from the other story, let it germinate without actually dwelling on it.

Who knows. Writing for me is something I can't force, it's organic, especially in the developmental stage. Time will tell, I suppose. Just have to wait, as usual.

Grief

I'm not usually a re-reader of books. Oh, if I truly love a book, I'll keep it, place it on the shelf and say: one day I'll re-read this one. But rarely do I ever get around to it. There have been a few exceptions: Of Human Bondage, Emma Who Saved My Life, and As Meat Loves Salt. All books that I love and could read many times without hesitation, but for some reason have only giving one more read over the years.

And then there is Grief by Andrew Holleran, a book I have read once every year for the past three years. It's a slim book at 150 pages but packed with so much emotion that it haunts me for weeks and months afterward.

A gay man in his mid-fifties moves to Washington DC to take a teaching position in order to assuage the grief that has descended upon him after the passing of his mother, whom he has cared for after an accident has left her unable to care for herself. While renting a room in the house of another gay man in his mid-fifties, he begins reading the letters of Mary Todd Lincoln written after the assassination of her husband and her aimless drifting within her own grief for the loss of him and her life.

What Holleran does is intertwined these two lives, the narrator and Mrs. Lincoln, and bounds them by their grief of the loss of their mother and husband, respectively, but he also bounds them by their eras: post-Civil War and post-AIDS. Landscapes have been changed for these characters and neither one is sure how to navigate the new terrain.

Indeed, all the characters in the book are trying to navigate unknown terrain, together and separately. Frank, the narrators friend who also teaches at the university and had secured him the position which has brought him to DC, is navigating a relationship with the Lug, a handsome and thoughtful partner who Frank believes is too good for him. The narrator's landlord, a man trapped by his own ageism: he's too old for the young men he desires and too young to be as housebound and resigned to a state of loneliness as he is. They are all grieving for youth, security, loss, and love. Universal themes that resound in the quiet of this novella (Holleran sets his narrator adrift on numerous night-time walks through the most-times deserted historic streets and buildings of DC lending such a sense of silence that you can almost hear his footsteps on the cobbled stones outside the Ford Theatre or the Capitol or the National Gallery).

I am drawn to this book time and again because it teaches me how to deal with grief, an ever present ennui for my life, the choices I have made, the repercussions of all those choices. I grieve my childhood. I grieve my descent into a world of sex and drugs. I grieve the HIV that was the result of that descent. I grieve that it's taken me so long to pursue my true desire of being a writer.

But this book, as filled with grief as it is, pulls me out of my own grieving by telling me that grief is natural but it can't be all their is: one can't survive on grief alone. Mary Todd Lincoln learns that the hard way. She couldn't release her grief and eventually it killed her, brought her back to her husband and her children who passed before her. She ate her grief until it filled her, until it was all she was. And we learn this from the narrator who ultimately returns to his grief after the brief reprieve of DC. He needs the grief awhile longer: "...grief is what you have after someone you love dies. It's the only thing left of that person. Your love for, your missing, them. And as long as you have that, you're not alone--you have them."

It's a beautifully wrought book of emotion and understanding and searching and survival. And even though I'm in the middle of my third reading, I can't wait to read it again next year.

A Lament from the Cubicle

Of course I don't want to whine about my life. I try desperately not to be that guy anymore. So this is not a posting in which I whine, it is a posting in which I lament the fact that I don't have the time to write as often as I used to.

I am a lucky man. This I know. I have a great life, one I never thought I could deserve or acquire: great partner, wonderful dogs, a condo that we are buying (not renting), many little red boxes (from Cartier if you're unaware of what a little red box is), and many other wonderful possessions, I was laid-off but found another job within 7 months (only truly looked for a job for the last 3), good health (for the most part), a completed novel and an agent who believes in it and my talent. All the things one could hope for. But, of course, we always want more. And the "more" that I want is time. Time to write.

My new job is a good one. Great boss who I get along with and like a lot. Fun and helpful co-workers. Decent money. All good, except the fact that it is one freaking busy office. So busy that for the first month I would, more often than not, forget to eat lunch (and breakfast sometimes). Non-stop from the moment I walk in the door. It's a bit crazed, I must say. Granted I started right as they entered into their busiest time of the year. Holiday Image is the name of the company. We create, design and install holiday decorations for many high-end businesses (www.holidayimageinc.com). It's amazing what goes into the final products of these decorations. It's fun and interesting, but a heck of a lot of work.

Consequently, I have no time to write. By the end of the day, I am exhausted, mentally. Seriously brain-dead. I get home, cook for Carlos and I, watch some mindless television or play mindless games on the computer, then fall into bed less that 2 hours after I've gotten home. It's not a pretty sight. I try to write on the bus on the way into the city and that's worked a bit, but it's a pale comparison to the writing I was producing when I was laid-off. Remember when it was good to be the king? Yeah, well, it sucks to be a peon back in the cubicle.

And then there's school. One of the reasons I took last spring off from classes at NYU, where I've been pursuing my BA in Liberal Arts with a concentration in Creative Writing, was the fact that writing for classes was getting in the way of finishing my novel. While I have been wanting this BA for years (and have worked hard to get it since 2004), I have to admit that it's become more of a burden now than an achievement sought. Because of the new job, I'm only taking 1 class this semester. 1 class! And I am so far behind in it that its not even remotely funny. The thought of having to read these assigned works, rather than the books I have on my shelf that I need and want to read as research for my new novel, really sets my anger on edge. And then spending what little extra time I do have to write assignments rather than work on my personal writing makes me wonder why I'm still in school. I only have 24 more credits (6 classes) to go to graduate, to get that piece of paper, but I truly wonder if it's worth it if it keeps me from my true goal of writing.

But enough of the whining I wasn't supposed to be doing and back to the lamenting. I lament the loss of time, personal time. It will come again, I know. I have faith in myself, in my talent, in my work, so I know I will succeed and with that success with come the time I walk out of that cubicle (not just the one I currently sit in but the "cubicle" as metaphor for a day job rather than a true career as a writer) and not look back. I will not die in a cubicle, this I avowed myself years ago. Everything I do, all the writing, is in pursuit of that goal. I am not in search of fame and fortune (sorry Carlos), I am in search of freedom and time. And I've always known that it was my writing that would lead me to that goal.

So, enough lamenting as well. Time to continue the pursuit. Research when I can. Write when I can. And it will come. The King will return to his kingdom. It's just gonna take time.

I Have an Agent!

Well, the headline says it all. It's been a long road, though not nearly as long as it's been for others, but it's all been worth it.

As previously posted, in May I attended the wonderful Backspace Writer's Conference (they are having another one this November, which I highly recommend attending). While there I had the opportunity to have my query and 1st two pages read by attending agents in a workshop-style seminar called the Agent/Author day. Of the 18 agents that heard my work, 6 requested more materials, a high percentage if you ask me. Of course, the moment I got home I jetted the requested materials out to them.

Within a couple of weeks, the wonderful April Eberhardt of the Reece Halsey Literary Agency got back to me with feedback. While she loved the story, she felt the 'writing wasn't quite there yet.' She felt the book moved too slowly, which I had to agree. Hard to hear but completely accepted. I went back to the drawing board and decided to take some chances with the book. I decided to approach with a new boldness, stop being coy and "subtle" and just tell the story. The rewrite turned out to the be strongest version I had ever written and finally felt the book was finished.

I sent the reworked version out again. In addition, I requested of a couple of choice agents that already had the older version, to substitute the new version, and thankfully each agreed. That was back in July.

More waiting. A couple of nudging emails and then I started following each of the agents on Twitter. I began interacting with one of them, sending subtle and not so subtle reminders that she had the manuscript, which she assured me she was getting to, but was swamped (all agents are swamped right now). Weeks and months passed and slowing my manuscript rose to the top of her stack.

The week of September 20th, she read the manuscript. We set up a time to talk Wednesday, September 23rd to discuss and, while I figured she'd say the usuals (love the story, love the characters, but...the writing's not quite there yet), she surprised me. "Love the story, love the characters, but above all I love the writing." I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. She offered representation then and there.

So, the contracts have been reviewed and signed. And now I have an agent! Jennifer DeChiara has her own agency http://www.jdlit.com/ and has been in the biz for quite awhile amassing a well-respected reputation for being very nice but very tenacious when it comes to her clients (ME). I am beyond excited to have her in my corner fighting for my book. She is passionate about books and publishing and about my work. While I know selling any fiction is tough these days, let alone Literary Fiction, I have complete faith in her and my book.

Between the two of us, On the Edge of Someplace Else will find its proper place on the bookshelves.