Friday, April 29
Too harsh?
I didn't mean to sound so harsh and demeaning towards those other writers I observed last weekend. My last post may have gave you that impression, making fun of their genres and what not. I know I'm a snob and can certainly come off as holier-than-thou. So... there you go.
It's also true I was somewhat also jealous of them. I was impressed by the dedication and devotion these people had, perhaps masked or observed as a desperation to sell, and the extreme self-confidence so many had in their books, their projects, their work. I'd like to steal some of that energy and dedication, for sure try to.
Did I feel like a fish out water? Maybe a bit at first, feeling I was better than them, mocking them for their genres, but by the end I can see I'm just like "them" -- those other writers -- in many ways both good and bad and while that should leave me feeling sad and depressed, it's motivating. I was just like them just like I'm also those people at dog shows and bird-watchers and model train conventions who are all so easy to make fun of. But you know what? I'm happy to be those people so I may as well be happy to be a writer like them. I wish I was. And so I write, and in the near future I'll work to sell, or at least to find an agent to sell for me. The time has come. And some day in 2-5 years I'll have that agent, maybe even sooner. And someday that agent will make money off me. Which will be good for both of us.
(Do I sound like a jerk? I do, don't I. Sigh.)
(Well, no one said this was pretty.)
It's also true I was somewhat also jealous of them. I was impressed by the dedication and devotion these people had, perhaps masked or observed as a desperation to sell, and the extreme self-confidence so many had in their books, their projects, their work. I'd like to steal some of that energy and dedication, for sure try to.
Did I feel like a fish out water? Maybe a bit at first, feeling I was better than them, mocking them for their genres, but by the end I can see I'm just like "them" -- those other writers -- in many ways both good and bad and while that should leave me feeling sad and depressed, it's motivating. I was just like them just like I'm also those people at dog shows and bird-watchers and model train conventions who are all so easy to make fun of. But you know what? I'm happy to be those people so I may as well be happy to be a writer like them. I wish I was. And so I write, and in the near future I'll work to sell, or at least to find an agent to sell for me. The time has come. And some day in 2-5 years I'll have that agent, maybe even sooner. And someday that agent will make money off me. Which will be good for both of us.
(Do I sound like a jerk? I do, don't I. Sigh.)
(Well, no one said this was pretty.)
The patient improves, the snow falls
So the young man is hanging in there, eating his popsicles and cream of wheat and watching television and more television waiting for today or tomorrow when he can add ice cream to the mix. He had a rough time Wednesday evening, but yesterday seemed to be better and he looks good today.
Outside, it's still snowing, of all things. It snowed most of yesterday, although very little of it stuck to the ground but now, overnight, it got cold enough that this morning there's a good three or four inches of wet spring snow covering everything. So much that I best get outside and start scraping off the car so I get the young daughter to orchestra practice here in a few minutes.
Outside, it's still snowing, of all things. It snowed most of yesterday, although very little of it stuck to the ground but now, overnight, it got cold enough that this morning there's a good three or four inches of wet spring snow covering everything. So much that I best get outside and start scraping off the car so I get the young daughter to orchestra practice here in a few minutes.
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.
Thursday, April 28
The Pitch Session
More thoughts from last weekend's Pike's Peak writer's conference:
I'd listed three agents on my registration form as agents I wanted to meet with during a pitch session. I'd based my choices on a listing of the types of fiction they represented: all three included "literary" fiction, so I picked them. I registered so late I figured all available slots would be gone, so I was not surprised when I got an e-mail a few days before the conference saying my first choice was unavailable. No problem, I wrote, back, I'll just add my name to a list in case anyone cancels.
Now, I didn't really know what a pitch was, when I wrote back. I didn't even know what I was getting into. I knew many of the sessions led by editors or agents had strict rules: "no pitches allowed in this session" so clearly there was some value to a pitch appointment. And I'd read in the brochure that I'd have eight minutes to talk with an agent at an assigned time if I got one. But since I didn't really have a book to sell -- my five or six novels (depending on how you count them) are all in various forms of second and third drafts -- I was OK without a pitch appointment. I was going to the conference because I had some questions I wanted to ask, some things to learn about agent-writer relationships and I figured that if somehow I ended up with a pitch appointment I'd ask questions and see if agents in general were interested in me as long-term career-building writer or more interested in my current project. So when the e-mail came back saying I had a 10:10 a.m. Saturday morning pitch appointment with my second choice, that was my plan: to talk about me, list a few of my unpublished novels and talk about which writers I liked and whose footsteps I saw myself following in. And keep my fingers crossed.
My plan changed when I arrived. As I sat and listened Friday during my friend's read-and-critique, and as I sat in on other read-and-critique sessions that afternoon, and the main speakers Friday night and mostly as I listened to other writers describe their book/pitch to me informally, it was clear the point was to get a foot in the door with my current project. Selling Me as Novelist was pointless. I needed to pitch one of my books, and the best possible outcome was for the agent to ask me to send the first 30 or 50 pages. Clearly, the point was to pitch one book, one novel. And the point of the pitch was to have a hook, a stand-apart one-sentence 25 words or less summary of your book. It's that summary you read in TV Guide, or, if you read about Hollywood movies, the pitch screenwriters make to producers that crystallizes their story: "It's Jurassic Park meets Titanic." "It's Monty Python meets Star Wars." "It's Rambo times Kindergarten Cop divided by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Or whatever. These are all things everyone else seemed to know, and I suppose I would have known it too if I'd been serious about trying to get my work published.
Clearly, I didn't have a pitch, a hook, a query or even a book to sell. The novel I've been working on (and off) since last fall currently defies that sort of tag simply because I've yet to reread it and attempt to summarize it into a short blurb. Ditto the last two novels I've done. I did have a book jacket blurb I'd written for Messiah's Sneaker, a novel I wrote first drafts for in '97-'98 and spent some time querying agents about in early 2001. It goes a little something something like this: "Messiah's Sneaker is a fast-paced, fun-filled romp through doomsday cults, suburbia, garage bands, American corporate life and the Norwegian Mafia in a search for truth and family values."
And so as Friday became Friday night, and as Jared's vision of his own pitch moved from getting feedback on his query letter to actually pitching his novel, I will admit I had dreamy visions of wild success dancing in my head. So I tried to recall and rewrite my Messiah's Sneaker pitch and I jotted notes and got carried away and became just a bit nervous. My heart skipped a beat or two at dinner when the agent I had an appointment with the next day sat down at our table in the corner, and again when I rode the elevator up with her (and five others) after the speaker, and I tried to crack wise and be funny. I wanted her to remember me. To like me. To sign me up. (Nevermind the reason I want an agent in the first place: so I can avoid all that awkward selling of myself and my work, the hard work of publishing. I just want to write and turn the work over to agent to try and sell…. and then call me back when it's time for edits and self-funded book promotion tours.)
Saturday morning I sat in on a session led by the agent I was assigned to expressly to see what she was like, to listen to her talk about the industry and her role in it, to try and gain an idea or two about who she was. Turns out she's been successful mainly repping chick lit authors to date (although her catalog listing and web site mentions high-caliber literary fiction as something she seeks). So maybe I was pitching the wrong books and should've gone with one of my "guy lit" books. Since I couldn't recall enough of the plots and details of those, I stuck with Messiah's Sneaker.
I rode the elevator up to the pitch room about 15 minutes early, after pacing the lobby for 20 minutes silently reciting my pitch to myself and then feeling stupid for doing so and then worrying about the pitch and then not worrying about the pitch and reminding myself my attendance here was to learn the business, not sell a book. But what if...right? Those 'what-if' thoughts are hard to kill.
The pitch appointments are held in a crowded, stuffy suite on the seventh floor. Every eight minutes, seven new writers go into the small room and make their pitch. Eight minutes later, they stagger out a side door into the hallway and a new batch of seven eager writers go in from the smaller waiting room. While I waited for those 15 minutes to pass, I sat in the hallway on my haunches or paced very tiny three-step loops, trying to remember the key words of my pitch: doomsday cults, garage bands, corporate America, surburbia, Norwegian mafia. Jared and I had decided my pitch was funnier if I said "and of course" before listing Norwegian Mafia as last on the list. At three minutes to our time, they lined up my group of seven in order of the chairs we'd be sitting in, and at one minute to our time we heard the "one minute to go" warning from inside the door and our cheery small talk ended and we got serious. Game face time. When it was our time, 10:10 a.m., we walked in.
I scanned the room to find my assigned agent: she was sitting at the sixth of seven tables and the conference worker pointed me to her when my card came up after the first five were seated. The small round tables, covered in white clothes, were maybe two feet across. Two chairs sat on opposite sides, agents or editors sitting on their halves, our side's chairs empty and open. It looked and felt like the speed dating scene in Hitch or other movies: I had eight minutes to convince this person she wanted to read my stuff, which could lead to …. (dreams of glory and riches unimaginable go here…).
We shook hands, she remembered me from dinner, I thanked her in advance for her time and attempted small talk about how she must feel at a conference like this (in my own reverse subconscious way trying to stand out by being different by *not* pitching in my pitch session), how everyone was wanting a minute of her time. I was not using my time wisely; the other six writers were already deep into their pitches and the noise level rose as they talked excitedly.
She asked what I had, and I started talking. I did OK for the first minute or two, and when there was no reaction after my initial flurry, her eyes blank, I moved into how the story starts to unfold. I stumbled into a corner and her eyes started to go blank -- can you imagine sitting on her side for two hours, listening to wanna-bes and nearly-ares and almost-theres desperate for approval and success trying to sell their stories this way -- she said she'd stop me there.
She asked me a couple of questions -- who's the main character, what's his main conflict and so on, easy questions I more or less botched. Or I did OK. I don't know. Then she said something like, "Well, it's not really what I represent, but this sounds kind of interesting or unusual so why don't you send me the first 30 pages." She gave me a card and asked that I snail mail them to her at that address on recyclable paper.
Everyone around me was still going strong. It appeared I finished early. By a couple of minutes. So I asked if I could ask her a few questions with the rest of my time, and she said sure, so I asked about how she selects writers, what's important to her, what she looks for, someone with one big book, or someone with potential for more (she definitely, in her case, prefers building a career with a writer -- she herself is more or less just starting out, been in business for two-and-a-half years and sold something like 20 books she said), and then I asked her something else and she answered and then there was one minute to go and then time was up and I thanked her and we were herded out and the next group was ushered in. I liked her. I'd like her to be my agent. But then, there are probably 50 others who'd make me feel the same way if I'd met them first. So who knows. And I certainly don't think my pitch wowed her any sense of the word. I'm just another writer to her, nothing to get excited about.
Still, I will admit to being thrilled at the moment she asked for more pages -- I'd had an opportunity to grab her card in the earlier session when I heard her speak, but I purposefully refused to pick one up, telling myself that I wanted to be given one, I wanted to earn it. And I did, sort of, maybe, although later as I talked to more people I got the distinct feeling -- unconfirmed and merely my opinion -- that the agents probably had to agree to ask for pages from us ink-stained (carpal-tunneled?) writers (to keep the writers conference culture alive and well).
So my natural cynicism quickly took hold and then took over. But still: I was invited to send her the first 30 pages of Messiah's Sneaker. And I plan to do it. No sense wasting an opportunity like this.
I'd listed three agents on my registration form as agents I wanted to meet with during a pitch session. I'd based my choices on a listing of the types of fiction they represented: all three included "literary" fiction, so I picked them. I registered so late I figured all available slots would be gone, so I was not surprised when I got an e-mail a few days before the conference saying my first choice was unavailable. No problem, I wrote, back, I'll just add my name to a list in case anyone cancels.
Now, I didn't really know what a pitch was, when I wrote back. I didn't even know what I was getting into. I knew many of the sessions led by editors or agents had strict rules: "no pitches allowed in this session" so clearly there was some value to a pitch appointment. And I'd read in the brochure that I'd have eight minutes to talk with an agent at an assigned time if I got one. But since I didn't really have a book to sell -- my five or six novels (depending on how you count them) are all in various forms of second and third drafts -- I was OK without a pitch appointment. I was going to the conference because I had some questions I wanted to ask, some things to learn about agent-writer relationships and I figured that if somehow I ended up with a pitch appointment I'd ask questions and see if agents in general were interested in me as long-term career-building writer or more interested in my current project. So when the e-mail came back saying I had a 10:10 a.m. Saturday morning pitch appointment with my second choice, that was my plan: to talk about me, list a few of my unpublished novels and talk about which writers I liked and whose footsteps I saw myself following in. And keep my fingers crossed.
My plan changed when I arrived. As I sat and listened Friday during my friend's read-and-critique, and as I sat in on other read-and-critique sessions that afternoon, and the main speakers Friday night and mostly as I listened to other writers describe their book/pitch to me informally, it was clear the point was to get a foot in the door with my current project. Selling Me as Novelist was pointless. I needed to pitch one of my books, and the best possible outcome was for the agent to ask me to send the first 30 or 50 pages. Clearly, the point was to pitch one book, one novel. And the point of the pitch was to have a hook, a stand-apart one-sentence 25 words or less summary of your book. It's that summary you read in TV Guide, or, if you read about Hollywood movies, the pitch screenwriters make to producers that crystallizes their story: "It's Jurassic Park meets Titanic." "It's Monty Python meets Star Wars." "It's Rambo times Kindergarten Cop divided by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Or whatever. These are all things everyone else seemed to know, and I suppose I would have known it too if I'd been serious about trying to get my work published.
Clearly, I didn't have a pitch, a hook, a query or even a book to sell. The novel I've been working on (and off) since last fall currently defies that sort of tag simply because I've yet to reread it and attempt to summarize it into a short blurb. Ditto the last two novels I've done. I did have a book jacket blurb I'd written for Messiah's Sneaker, a novel I wrote first drafts for in '97-'98 and spent some time querying agents about in early 2001. It goes a little something something like this: "Messiah's Sneaker is a fast-paced, fun-filled romp through doomsday cults, suburbia, garage bands, American corporate life and the Norwegian Mafia in a search for truth and family values."
And so as Friday became Friday night, and as Jared's vision of his own pitch moved from getting feedback on his query letter to actually pitching his novel, I will admit I had dreamy visions of wild success dancing in my head. So I tried to recall and rewrite my Messiah's Sneaker pitch and I jotted notes and got carried away and became just a bit nervous. My heart skipped a beat or two at dinner when the agent I had an appointment with the next day sat down at our table in the corner, and again when I rode the elevator up with her (and five others) after the speaker, and I tried to crack wise and be funny. I wanted her to remember me. To like me. To sign me up. (Nevermind the reason I want an agent in the first place: so I can avoid all that awkward selling of myself and my work, the hard work of publishing. I just want to write and turn the work over to agent to try and sell…. and then call me back when it's time for edits and self-funded book promotion tours.)
Saturday morning I sat in on a session led by the agent I was assigned to expressly to see what she was like, to listen to her talk about the industry and her role in it, to try and gain an idea or two about who she was. Turns out she's been successful mainly repping chick lit authors to date (although her catalog listing and web site mentions high-caliber literary fiction as something she seeks). So maybe I was pitching the wrong books and should've gone with one of my "guy lit" books. Since I couldn't recall enough of the plots and details of those, I stuck with Messiah's Sneaker.
I rode the elevator up to the pitch room about 15 minutes early, after pacing the lobby for 20 minutes silently reciting my pitch to myself and then feeling stupid for doing so and then worrying about the pitch and then not worrying about the pitch and reminding myself my attendance here was to learn the business, not sell a book. But what if...right? Those 'what-if' thoughts are hard to kill.
The pitch appointments are held in a crowded, stuffy suite on the seventh floor. Every eight minutes, seven new writers go into the small room and make their pitch. Eight minutes later, they stagger out a side door into the hallway and a new batch of seven eager writers go in from the smaller waiting room. While I waited for those 15 minutes to pass, I sat in the hallway on my haunches or paced very tiny three-step loops, trying to remember the key words of my pitch: doomsday cults, garage bands, corporate America, surburbia, Norwegian mafia. Jared and I had decided my pitch was funnier if I said "and of course" before listing Norwegian Mafia as last on the list. At three minutes to our time, they lined up my group of seven in order of the chairs we'd be sitting in, and at one minute to our time we heard the "one minute to go" warning from inside the door and our cheery small talk ended and we got serious. Game face time. When it was our time, 10:10 a.m., we walked in.
I scanned the room to find my assigned agent: she was sitting at the sixth of seven tables and the conference worker pointed me to her when my card came up after the first five were seated. The small round tables, covered in white clothes, were maybe two feet across. Two chairs sat on opposite sides, agents or editors sitting on their halves, our side's chairs empty and open. It looked and felt like the speed dating scene in Hitch or other movies: I had eight minutes to convince this person she wanted to read my stuff, which could lead to …. (dreams of glory and riches unimaginable go here…).
We shook hands, she remembered me from dinner, I thanked her in advance for her time and attempted small talk about how she must feel at a conference like this (in my own reverse subconscious way trying to stand out by being different by *not* pitching in my pitch session), how everyone was wanting a minute of her time. I was not using my time wisely; the other six writers were already deep into their pitches and the noise level rose as they talked excitedly.
She asked what I had, and I started talking. I did OK for the first minute or two, and when there was no reaction after my initial flurry, her eyes blank, I moved into how the story starts to unfold. I stumbled into a corner and her eyes started to go blank -- can you imagine sitting on her side for two hours, listening to wanna-bes and nearly-ares and almost-theres desperate for approval and success trying to sell their stories this way -- she said she'd stop me there.
She asked me a couple of questions -- who's the main character, what's his main conflict and so on, easy questions I more or less botched. Or I did OK. I don't know. Then she said something like, "Well, it's not really what I represent, but this sounds kind of interesting or unusual so why don't you send me the first 30 pages." She gave me a card and asked that I snail mail them to her at that address on recyclable paper.
Everyone around me was still going strong. It appeared I finished early. By a couple of minutes. So I asked if I could ask her a few questions with the rest of my time, and she said sure, so I asked about how she selects writers, what's important to her, what she looks for, someone with one big book, or someone with potential for more (she definitely, in her case, prefers building a career with a writer -- she herself is more or less just starting out, been in business for two-and-a-half years and sold something like 20 books she said), and then I asked her something else and she answered and then there was one minute to go and then time was up and I thanked her and we were herded out and the next group was ushered in. I liked her. I'd like her to be my agent. But then, there are probably 50 others who'd make me feel the same way if I'd met them first. So who knows. And I certainly don't think my pitch wowed her any sense of the word. I'm just another writer to her, nothing to get excited about.
Still, I will admit to being thrilled at the moment she asked for more pages -- I'd had an opportunity to grab her card in the earlier session when I heard her speak, but I purposefully refused to pick one up, telling myself that I wanted to be given one, I wanted to earn it. And I did, sort of, maybe, although later as I talked to more people I got the distinct feeling -- unconfirmed and merely my opinion -- that the agents probably had to agree to ask for pages from us ink-stained (carpal-tunneled?) writers (to keep the writers conference culture alive and well).
So my natural cynicism quickly took hold and then took over. But still: I was invited to send her the first 30 pages of Messiah's Sneaker. And I plan to do it. No sense wasting an opportunity like this.
Wednesday, April 27
More to report -- but not now
I have more to say about the writer's conference, a report to make on the The Pitch, for example, and as this blog is supposedly about my writing career (a way for me to make public my plans to create self-pressure to complete those things I say I'll do), I also suppose I should share the things I now think I should be doing now/next after listening carefully to agents and other writers over the weekend. But now is not that time, not with work ahead, and a patient sleeping on the couch in the living room, and for myself a mere five hours of fitfull dog-destroyed sleep under my belt. So off to breakfast and school and work (and naps?!?), and more on this here subject later.
The patient is well
Our son had his tonsils and adenoids out yesterday morning, and is well on his way to a fine recovery. The doc sent him home early, we arrivng here in early afternoon after expecting to be there all night. The doc said the surgery went easier than he expected and Connor's being a great patient. We watched mucho television yesterday, and shaved many gatorade ice cubes, and I suspect there will be more of the same today after I take our daughter to school and head to work myself. He's supposed to spend the better part of a week on his back, slowly working his way to soft foods like ice cream, smashed potatoes, mac and cheese. I won't say he's having a good time, but he's happy to be missing school.
Tuesday, April 26
Happy birthday
Monday, April 25
There and back again
So I went to the Pikes Peak Writer's Conference in Colorado Springs over the weekend. It was my first writers conference. It was, as you might imagine if you know anything about writers conferences, very interesting and enlightening in a weird, strange sub-culture sort of way. Perhaps emphasize the cult. Turns out conferences are one of the two primary ways writers find agents; the other being the much-rejected query letter. But to find an agent at a conference you either have to be a tremendous person of sales (the conference was probably 75 percent female), or have a wonderfully pitch-perfect story hook.
Overall: it was a pretty good experience. I think it met my expectations in some ways. I got what I wanted out of it. I have a lot of good, concrete things to do to move forward in my attempts to find and agent and sell a novel.
There are a lot of genre writers, I learned. A lot. More than I expected, I guess. There are a lot of people who have published 20 or 30 or 40 books who I've never heard of. Chick-lit wanna-bes were in abundance (it's a hot market, I guess), although by sheer numbers they didn't outcount the traditional romance or suspense/thriller or mystery-series writers. There were also of course plenty of D&D type sci-fi/fantasy writers too. The chick-lit writers learned that 'paranormal chick-lit' is really hot right now. As is paranormal romance. "Imagine Bridget Jones meets Harry Potter."
Oh, and there's "no market" for horror or westerns right now. Or literary novels. They're hard to sell. "Do you know what a literary writer is?" asked one panelist, a genre writer. "They get awards instead of royalties." (Big laugh).
Every single casual conversation started with one of three lines: "So what are you pitching?" "Did you pitch yet?" "What's your book about?" The answer? Some version of: "It's an 80,000 word coming-of-age fantasy/chick-lit/romance/thriller where the arc of the protagonist…. think Jaws meets Titanic meets Desperate Housewives."
There were some very nervous/desperate people in the hallways, people who probably thought this was there one shot to corner (literally in many cases) an agent and pitch their manuscript. I sat in sessions with agents, mostly, to learn how/what/when query/pitch/hook/log line they want/need.
The second most common hallway scene featured one of the seven identifiable agents at the place who made the mistake of slowing down or stopping: seven or eight people quickly standing in a circle trying desperately to pitch. (Three of the meals featured tables with the agent/editor/author's name on a stanchion (and, later, if they saved a chair, the agent/editor/author as well) and a mad rush from the door to nab one of the seven remaining chairs at that table).
I learned to say I've written a commercial novel, rather than a literary one, and I learned that if you can bend your literary novel into a genre many thought (but I disagree) that was even smarter.
I learned a lot about the business of landing an agent, which was my primary goal when I went. I learned about how (some) agents work, what they look for and the complete and total reliance of the industry (agents, editors, publishers, sales force, marketing force, book buyers, stores, chain) on the hook/pitch.
Here's my pitch, for one of my older novels: "Messiah's Sneaker is an offbeat, fast-paced comic romp through doomsday cults, garage bands, suburban America and the Norwegian mafia".
And I got to pitch that novel during my carefully timed/orchestrated by conference planners eight-minute scheduled pitch with an agent. There were seven small round white-table clothed cocktail tables crammed into a smallish seventh floor hotel suite. Agents sat on one side of the table and nervous 'this is my one big chance' writers sat facing them. Seven more desperate writers sat or paced in the waiting area, another dozen in the hallway pacing, practicing, murmuring their pitch.
So my pitch was either successful (despite my fumbling descriptions, the agent said my novel sounded different, interesting, kind of quirky or weird, and "while it's not really for me or what I tend to sell go ahead and send me 30 pages anyway") or not successful (I get the sinking feeling every writer with a scheduled eight-minute pitch was offered the chance to send pages to the agent, so perhaps it wasn't my pitch but just a standing offer, which makes sense from the "let's boost the writer's confidence/feeling of success/happiness with the conference so they come back again and ensure future conference ($$) attendance) depending on whether I'm feeling optimistic/happy or my normal cynical/glass half-empty.
There was also plenty of writing advice ("craft workshops," in the lingo) for the beginning writers. I skipped most of those. I'm not one to take advice. I think I know it all. Apparently I'm a snob, too.
Still, I'm glad I went. But I'm not sure when I'll go to another.
Overall: it was a pretty good experience. I think it met my expectations in some ways. I got what I wanted out of it. I have a lot of good, concrete things to do to move forward in my attempts to find and agent and sell a novel.
There are a lot of genre writers, I learned. A lot. More than I expected, I guess. There are a lot of people who have published 20 or 30 or 40 books who I've never heard of. Chick-lit wanna-bes were in abundance (it's a hot market, I guess), although by sheer numbers they didn't outcount the traditional romance or suspense/thriller or mystery-series writers. There were also of course plenty of D&D type sci-fi/fantasy writers too. The chick-lit writers learned that 'paranormal chick-lit' is really hot right now. As is paranormal romance. "Imagine Bridget Jones meets Harry Potter."
Oh, and there's "no market" for horror or westerns right now. Or literary novels. They're hard to sell. "Do you know what a literary writer is?" asked one panelist, a genre writer. "They get awards instead of royalties." (Big laugh).
Every single casual conversation started with one of three lines: "So what are you pitching?" "Did you pitch yet?" "What's your book about?" The answer? Some version of: "It's an 80,000 word coming-of-age fantasy/chick-lit/romance/thriller where the arc of the protagonist…. think Jaws meets Titanic meets Desperate Housewives."
There were some very nervous/desperate people in the hallways, people who probably thought this was there one shot to corner (literally in many cases) an agent and pitch their manuscript. I sat in sessions with agents, mostly, to learn how/what/when query/pitch/hook/log line they want/need.
The second most common hallway scene featured one of the seven identifiable agents at the place who made the mistake of slowing down or stopping: seven or eight people quickly standing in a circle trying desperately to pitch. (Three of the meals featured tables with the agent/editor/author's name on a stanchion (and, later, if they saved a chair, the agent/editor/author as well) and a mad rush from the door to nab one of the seven remaining chairs at that table).
I learned to say I've written a commercial novel, rather than a literary one, and I learned that if you can bend your literary novel into a genre many thought (but I disagree) that was even smarter.
I learned a lot about the business of landing an agent, which was my primary goal when I went. I learned about how (some) agents work, what they look for and the complete and total reliance of the industry (agents, editors, publishers, sales force, marketing force, book buyers, stores, chain) on the hook/pitch.
Here's my pitch, for one of my older novels: "Messiah's Sneaker is an offbeat, fast-paced comic romp through doomsday cults, garage bands, suburban America and the Norwegian mafia".
And I got to pitch that novel during my carefully timed/orchestrated by conference planners eight-minute scheduled pitch with an agent. There were seven small round white-table clothed cocktail tables crammed into a smallish seventh floor hotel suite. Agents sat on one side of the table and nervous 'this is my one big chance' writers sat facing them. Seven more desperate writers sat or paced in the waiting area, another dozen in the hallway pacing, practicing, murmuring their pitch.
So my pitch was either successful (despite my fumbling descriptions, the agent said my novel sounded different, interesting, kind of quirky or weird, and "while it's not really for me or what I tend to sell go ahead and send me 30 pages anyway") or not successful (I get the sinking feeling every writer with a scheduled eight-minute pitch was offered the chance to send pages to the agent, so perhaps it wasn't my pitch but just a standing offer, which makes sense from the "let's boost the writer's confidence/feeling of success/happiness with the conference so they come back again and ensure future conference ($$) attendance) depending on whether I'm feeling optimistic/happy or my normal cynical/glass half-empty.
There was also plenty of writing advice ("craft workshops," in the lingo) for the beginning writers. I skipped most of those. I'm not one to take advice. I think I know it all. Apparently I'm a snob, too.
Still, I'm glad I went. But I'm not sure when I'll go to another.
Friday, April 22
Writer's Conference
So Jared and I are heading down to a writer's conference in Colorado Springs. I'll be mingling with other writers, book editors and some literary agents, and I have a "pitch" session scheduled tomorrow at 10:10 a.m. with an agent, my own eight minute window to sell myself and and or one of my six previous (always work-in-progress) novels.
You know, I haven't written much the past two months, but I've been more public than ever about my plans to write and publish. I still think about it every day, and I've been meeting with the Greeley NaNo writers a couple of times, and now this. So I can see the future, and with any (I was going to say luck here, but I'm going to rely on talent and skill and the time being right) things will work out in the end and I'll find an agent or a publisher in the very near future. Or within three to five years.
It always does (work out in the end) for me.
You know, I haven't written much the past two months, but I've been more public than ever about my plans to write and publish. I still think about it every day, and I've been meeting with the Greeley NaNo writers a couple of times, and now this. So I can see the future, and with any (I was going to say luck here, but I'm going to rely on talent and skill and the time being right) things will work out in the end and I'll find an agent or a publisher in the very near future. Or within three to five years.
It always does (work out in the end) for me.
Saturday, April 16
Unitarian Jihad
Today's the day -- for nothing
We took Westley down to a dog show today. Did some yard work. Did some shopping. GOt our passport photos taken. Cleaned part of the garage. And later tonight, we're going over to some friends for dinner and perhaps some games. Or a movie. No writing, except for this post. Maybe tomorrow?
Friday, April 15
Fox!
Edge of nowhere indeed. I'm sitting up here in the blue room, the second floor office (spare bedroom) overlooking our backyard, a corner of the school yard, a fairly busy thoroughfare, several hundred acres of suburban rooftops and, beyond, the Poudre River valley and, way beyond, the Medicine Bow mountains and a large chunk of Wyoming. I'm doing e-mail, thinking about combining two of my recent novels (to make one stronger one) and strumming my guitar, watching the sunshine drop upon the land.
There! Running across the baseball field in the school yard, slipping through the chain link fence gate, running up the little dirt hill behind our fence: a fox! Pointy ear, redish fur and those dark sock legs, he's moving at a good clip, and then he pauses, snifs the air, and runs down behind our fence and along the bike path out of sight along the busy street. Go fox go!
There! Running across the baseball field in the school yard, slipping through the chain link fence gate, running up the little dirt hill behind our fence: a fox! Pointy ear, redish fur and those dark sock legs, he's moving at a good clip, and then he pauses, snifs the air, and runs down behind our fence and along the bike path out of sight along the busy street. Go fox go!
Thursday, April 14
It's not writer's block
It's not writer's block. It's just busy-ness. And business. Been on the road, and been working up towards a couple of meetings I was more or less in charge of, which happened yesterday and seemed to come off without any major problems. But now those are over, and the foreseeable future seems not quite so busy so perhaps I can fall back into the writer's routine.
We'll see.
I've also been having some Blogger software problems on my user interface, but today it seems to be not all the way back, but back close enough that I can control the look/feel of my posts again. So that's good and will be helpful.
I have a lot to catch up on -- but as it's nearly seven and time to rush down and get some breakfast and take the kids to school, so perhaps now's not the time. But I've been reading, and seeing movies, and listening to Connor perform and playing ball with Reade and we had something of a blizzard over the weekend and yardwork looms and so on. Just normal busy suburban life, leaving me feeling like there isn't much time for chasing the novelist's life. We'll get by.
We'll see.
I've also been having some Blogger software problems on my user interface, but today it seems to be not all the way back, but back close enough that I can control the look/feel of my posts again. So that's good and will be helpful.
I have a lot to catch up on -- but as it's nearly seven and time to rush down and get some breakfast and take the kids to school, so perhaps now's not the time. But I've been reading, and seeing movies, and listening to Connor perform and playing ball with Reade and we had something of a blizzard over the weekend and yardwork looms and so on. Just normal busy suburban life, leaving me feeling like there isn't much time for chasing the novelist's life. We'll get by.
Saturday, April 2
Back on the edge
It's nice to be back on the edge of nowhere, however briefly. Flew back home Friday morning and I'm flying back down to Tempe on Tuesday morning for three more days, this time a department meeting. But I do plan to see the Rockies home opener on Monday and a Diamondback-Cubs game in Arizona on Wednesday. Nothing to report on my writing. Nothing, nothing at all. I've been doing nothing. Sigh. But it's good to be home.
