Friday, April 29
Feelings and motivation
More reactions to last weekend's writers conference:
How did I feel during and after, someone asked? I felt desperate to be among these hack low-level talents. I felt desperate that I was just like these so-called genre writers. I felt snobbish to consider these other humans as low-level genre hacks. I felt embarrassed that I was snobbish towards these nice people. I'm not better than them...
I felt ambitious. Despite the overwhelming odds, based on the questions people asked (where is the common sense, people? The basic understanding of American business?) I think I have a better shot than they ever will of writing that stand-out pitch and hook-filled query letter that sparks the attention of the agent who then asks for 30 pages which is good enough for them to want to see the whole manuscript which is unique and brilliant enough that they want to represent me which causes them to put in six months or a year and are able to sell said novel of mine to an editor on my side because of the writing I've done that they make an effort to rally support at the publisher's editor's round-table so the publisher decides yes this is worth pursuing and the editor then is able to convince that publisher's sales force that my novel is sellable and then finding the sales force who pitch it to the book buyers for the seven big chains that yes, the book is published and sold and so on. I'm a dreamer, yes. I big one, too.
I felt depressed because of the sheer odds of that process, all of it based (apparently) on the pitch/hook ("a fast-paced comic romp through doomsday cults, garage bands.... Tom Robbins meets Buckaroo Bonsai"). And then of course I felt that general writerly self-loathing ('my novel's not good enough') I tend to skew towards in times of uncertainty (I need a steroid for ego).
I said in the first post the conference also made me do some soul-searching. Why? Because all those seemingly desperate people writing their paranormal chick-lit and suspense/thrillers and knitting group mysteries and kung-fu/gun nut stories are just like me: seemingly desperate for recognition, but they all seem to have an added or more advanced burning desire to be published with a six-figure advance. Which, if I'm honest, is also just like me.
We all want to win the publishing John Grisham lottery. So the soul-searching comes after learning and seeing first hand the odds, hearing what I already know (very few people make a living [30-70k per annum] writing fiction). Which leaves me with this question: When the "art" is done, do I really want to get into this business? Do I really want to "sacrifice" "my art" for a buck? Why am I even writing? What's the point? Do I really want to be published? Do I really want to try to sell books? Or am I writing just to provide myself a cheap source of psychotherapy and self-analysis, an outlet for all that "stuff" hidden and buried by the sometimes mind-numbingly routine of working in a cubicle going on 18 years now.
And now, a few days later, I feel motivated because seeing those other writers all up close and talking to them and hearing their questions and pitches, I decided I'm not like those people. I don't have just one book in me. I've got a career. I've got six already on paper. I've got something to work with even as I move forward and start on another. I've gotten the crappy first and second and even third novel out of the way. I'm ready for this. I've been patient and focused on the writing (off and on) for twenty years (literally), and now I'm ready for this next step.
Because despite the overwhelming odds, most of those people are writing YA fantasy and romance and mysteries and genre stuff, yes, 50 percent of books sold are romances and another 24 percent are mysteries and so on down the line. Those people are not my competition. Maybe literary/general/mainstream fiction accounts for only 8 percent of book sales and no I won't get rich and no I won't earn royalties but dang it, I want this, and I know what I think I need to do to get it:
1 nail the hook/pitch of my five or six novels;
2 draft generic/solid query letters for each;
3 ID 50 agents who I think can sell my stuff;
4 personalize the query letter to each agent as needed and start working through the *hard* work of purposefully pitching each novel (in turn) to those selected agents;
5 collect the rejections and move through the list and send the queries methodically;
6 finish and polish a solid 30-50 page draft of the first section of each of those novels;
7 piece of cake!
I have tasks to do. And right now, today, four days later, I want to do them.
These are the things I can do, this business stuff, and still/so far things I want to do, because if nothing else I want to earn my way in, I don't want short cuts, I don't want a six figure advance, I want a long career building towards something concrete and real, a dozen novels in print, healthy sales, nominations and finalists for awards, and so on.
How did I feel during and after, someone asked? I felt desperate to be among these hack low-level talents. I felt desperate that I was just like these so-called genre writers. I felt snobbish to consider these other humans as low-level genre hacks. I felt embarrassed that I was snobbish towards these nice people. I'm not better than them...
I felt ambitious. Despite the overwhelming odds, based on the questions people asked (where is the common sense, people? The basic understanding of American business?) I think I have a better shot than they ever will of writing that stand-out pitch and hook-filled query letter that sparks the attention of the agent who then asks for 30 pages which is good enough for them to want to see the whole manuscript which is unique and brilliant enough that they want to represent me which causes them to put in six months or a year and are able to sell said novel of mine to an editor on my side because of the writing I've done that they make an effort to rally support at the publisher's editor's round-table so the publisher decides yes this is worth pursuing and the editor then is able to convince that publisher's sales force that my novel is sellable and then finding the sales force who pitch it to the book buyers for the seven big chains that yes, the book is published and sold and so on. I'm a dreamer, yes. I big one, too.
I felt depressed because of the sheer odds of that process, all of it based (apparently) on the pitch/hook ("a fast-paced comic romp through doomsday cults, garage bands.... Tom Robbins meets Buckaroo Bonsai"). And then of course I felt that general writerly self-loathing ('my novel's not good enough') I tend to skew towards in times of uncertainty (I need a steroid for ego).
I said in the first post the conference also made me do some soul-searching. Why? Because all those seemingly desperate people writing their paranormal chick-lit and suspense/thrillers and knitting group mysteries and kung-fu/gun nut stories are just like me: seemingly desperate for recognition, but they all seem to have an added or more advanced burning desire to be published with a six-figure advance. Which, if I'm honest, is also just like me.
We all want to win the publishing John Grisham lottery. So the soul-searching comes after learning and seeing first hand the odds, hearing what I already know (very few people make a living [30-70k per annum] writing fiction). Which leaves me with this question: When the "art" is done, do I really want to get into this business? Do I really want to "sacrifice" "my art" for a buck? Why am I even writing? What's the point? Do I really want to be published? Do I really want to try to sell books? Or am I writing just to provide myself a cheap source of psychotherapy and self-analysis, an outlet for all that "stuff" hidden and buried by the sometimes mind-numbingly routine of working in a cubicle going on 18 years now.
And now, a few days later, I feel motivated because seeing those other writers all up close and talking to them and hearing their questions and pitches, I decided I'm not like those people. I don't have just one book in me. I've got a career. I've got six already on paper. I've got something to work with even as I move forward and start on another. I've gotten the crappy first and second and even third novel out of the way. I'm ready for this. I've been patient and focused on the writing (off and on) for twenty years (literally), and now I'm ready for this next step.
Because despite the overwhelming odds, most of those people are writing YA fantasy and romance and mysteries and genre stuff, yes, 50 percent of books sold are romances and another 24 percent are mysteries and so on down the line. Those people are not my competition. Maybe literary/general/mainstream fiction accounts for only 8 percent of book sales and no I won't get rich and no I won't earn royalties but dang it, I want this, and I know what I think I need to do to get it:
1 nail the hook/pitch of my five or six novels;
2 draft generic/solid query letters for each;
3 ID 50 agents who I think can sell my stuff;
4 personalize the query letter to each agent as needed and start working through the *hard* work of purposefully pitching each novel (in turn) to those selected agents;
5 collect the rejections and move through the list and send the queries methodically;
6 finish and polish a solid 30-50 page draft of the first section of each of those novels;
7 piece of cake!
I have tasks to do. And right now, today, four days later, I want to do them.
These are the things I can do, this business stuff, and still/so far things I want to do, because if nothing else I want to earn my way in, I don't want short cuts, I don't want a six figure advance, I want a long career building towards something concrete and real, a dozen novels in print, healthy sales, nominations and finalists for awards, and so on.
