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.”