Publishing coaches

Because I don’t know when to quit, I’ve pooled some money into working with publishing coaches. I have the query materials for two different books (Voyagers and Prodigies) out to two different publishing coaches.

To give you the idea of how publishing coaches work, I have to explain what query materials are. Think of them as a promotional/sales packet for the book. This packet — a cover letter, a professional bio of one paragraph, a two-page (usually) synopsis, and the first so many pages of the novel, provides the agent enough information to ask for the whole novel to read or reject it. (I am not convinced that it really provides the agent enough information, but I’m not an agent).

So the agents are going to start by helping me revise the query materials. I don’t know if it’s the query materials, to be honest. I’m a pretty good writer. On the other hand, I am really bad at self-promotion. Ok, I’ll qualify this — I have done well promoting my work in my career as a professor. When it comes to creative writing, I’m more like “oh hai, could you read my stuff and tell me I’m a writer?”

I don’t know what happens afterward. If it’s self-publishing, I’m missing some of the things that make for self-made success: A published author who will vouch for me, previous published books, a lot of friends who will read my book and like it … I hope there are alternatives for me because realistically, I don’t have these. Maybe I should just put my book on Amazon and let it languish, because at least I’ll have closure. (That sounded bitter. I didn’t mean to sound bitter, whoever’s reading this.)

Of course, I don’t know what the publishing agents have to tell me. I need to stay optimistic.

I’ll let you know.

The Problem with Illusions — my confessional

This is a companion piece to the blog post I wrote on disillusionment. I believe we weave illusions to try to fulfill needs that our hungry inner children need to believe in.

I suppose I could start with Santa Claus. Children need to be loved and cherished and to have their hungry tummies fed. Santa Claus reads children’s lists and metes out justice and fairness to the deserving and undeserving, answering for all the childish fears of abandonment, hunger, inadequacy. And adults have created a narrative about Santa and, deep down, believe the illusion is precious enough that they lament when their children are too old to believe. If their children are too old to believe, so are they themselves.

The illusions I have clung to have a lot to do with having meaning to someone, especially a male, for symbolic reasons I will explain. I was let down by the men around me growing up. I was sexually abused by a few people, not believed, not protected. My illusion grew — that if I were important to someone, the abuse would never have happened. I would have been protected. Someone would have believed me. If I was important to someone now, it would be a magic spell that would make the damage in my past heal into inconsequentiality.

The problem with illusions is that they don’t feed the hungry parts of our souls. They carry the seeds for their own destruction by our doubts and feelings of unworthiness. They wither when held up against the light of reality.

I have a friend out there that I owe an apology to — friend, I wanted to be important to you because in the belief that it would heal something in me.

Disillusionment

Disillusionment, in a way, is a positive thing.

Yes, it’s rough to believe in a thing or a person only to find out that what you believed to be real was mere illusion. We build all sorts of fantasies in our everyday life around things, and when we’re disillusioned, those fantasies fall like building blocks.

Disillusionment feels like a chill wind to our face. We can perceive that wind as bitterly cold, or we can perceive it as bracing. Disillusionment brings clarity, the sharpness of a winter day with the greys of tree trunks and the white of the snow.

With the death of illusion comes the birth of possibility. The future hinted at by the illusion crumbles, leaving everything, every path, every direction. It can be overwhelming, because we like the predictability of our illusory future, but it’s possible that there’s a direction even better than the one freshly closed to us.

Seeking clearness

I want to hear your thoughts. I’m thinking about where to go with my writing.

I have come to the point where I need to think seriously about whether to continue writing and whether to continue my quest to be published, which are related but seperate things. 

Thoughts:

1) One doesn’t write novels “for oneself”. The rough draft of a novel is about 80,000 to 100,000 words. I write about 1000 words in an hour when I’m in the groove; much fewer when I’m not. This doesn’t count the number of hours editing and re-editing, which I would estimate at least another 60 hours. 

2) If I could share with people for free, I might be inclined to keep writing. I have trouble getting my friends (that’s you!) to beta-read or read for the heck of it. The time I tried serializing on WattPad or that other platform way back when, nobody read. People don’t read much anymore, I’m told. 

3) It’s easy to say “If I get an agent/get published/get readers then that’s a sign from God that I’m supposed to keep writing.” What if I don’t get these? Is it a sign that I’m not supposed to work toward getting published anymore?

4) I will be working with a publishing coach, probably to pursue the self-publishing route. But the recommendations are likely to be “find some friends to read it, and have them write reviews”. This bothers me because a) it seems like gaming the system and b) #2 above.

5) Without people to share my stories with, I’m losing the thrill. I want you to know my characters. They’re like family to me — the immortal lawyer Luke and his Denisovan consort Su, the dark Grzegorz, the droll Weissrogue, edgy Kat, and others. 

I need your thoughts and your help.

The Romance of the Storm

It’s a grey day outside == the temperature is dropping into the high thirties, and the leaves blow off the trees to make sodden yellow piles in my backyard. Any beauty autumn normally has seems lost in the grey sky, in the mist, in the cold.

It is because of this that autumn is the most romantic time in the world. Not so much because it’s tempting to go inside and cuddle with someone over jazz and hot chocolate, but because fall is tempestuous, and asks us to meet it wearing nothing but our starkest selves.

In spring, we hide behind our bright faces, wearing our delight like lambskin, meeting cute and gamboling through light conversations. In summer we discover the needs of our bodies and souls, and we don’t know how to articulate them.

In fall, we are scraped raw by the freshly sharp, cold wind. We are stripped from artifice like the denuded trees outdoors. We have nothing but ourselves to offer. We are cold and hungry, shivering and in need.

There is nothing more romantic than the meeting of self to self without the trappings of status, prejudice, and superficial rules.

Homecoming Day

These lyrics tell about the ritual that happens across the US this time of year in high schools and colleges to commemorate football and community. They also hint at the dark side of community. I wrote this years ago, but in this #MeToo climate, others might find themselves in this song:

1. Chicken wire and crepe paper
wrapped around a hayrack
towed behind a pickup
in the Homecoming parade
In a town as small as this one
maybe smaller but that was
too long ago
my distant past
my childhood a charade

Chorus (2x):
I had a dream last night
you turned around and asked me why
I wasn’t coming home again
I couldn’t tell you

2. Traps set in the corners
of the hallways of the high school
memories like serpents
poised and ready there to spring
tried to do my best to be invisible
but that was impossible
a waste of time
a waste of everything

Chorus (2x)

3. Tried to tell the people
with their eyes glued to the TV sets
to look at something else
outside the color of their hate
I was just a child then but I wasn’t
but that was ’cause
I couldn’t be
it wasn’t fair
you can’t go back and change my fate

Chorus 2x

I couldn’t tell you

Dear Universe (warning: frustrated writer)

Dear Universe:

I don’t know how I feel about my writing right now. When I started writing, I felt I had things to say, things about true heroes meeting the world with kindness, peacefulness, and acceptance of others. I wrote about these things, edited my stories, and eventually submitted them to agents. And I got hundreds of rejections for them.

I realized I needed help making my works better, and I submitted my work to beta readers and a developmental editor to polish the stories, Then I submitted a few of them again to agents. And got many, many more rejections.

There is a Quaker concept (yes, I’m a Quaker) called “praying for a way to open.” I have been doing that for a long time, even though I wonder if I have a right for the way to open given how much more privileged I am than too many people out there. I have not seen a way opening; in fact, every time I feel a glimmer of hope, another door closes. I pursue ideas for publication — the Kindle Scout program, which shut down just as my book was submitted; asking a successful author to put in a word for me; submitting directly to presses that take direct submissions. None of these have succeeded for me.

It is not that I am not trying, Universe; I have tried harder than (I believe) most. I do not say this because I want to guilt you into opening a door to me. I say this merely to point out that I need some guidance so I know whether to keep trying or not. I need to know whether I really have something important to say or if this is just a matter of my own self-importance. It seems to me that kindness and peacefulness, not to mention acceptance of others is even more needed now than it was when I started writing.

So here I am, asking for a way to open — or for a clear indication that I shouldn’t seek out publication anymore.

Love, Lauren

Becoming Kringle

I need to start planning my NaNoWriMo book — well, as much as I plan these things. This is what I know so far:

Name: Becoming Kringle

Genre: Romance/cozy suspense

Main Characters: Brent Oberhauser, History grad student/barista. Tall, pale with black-framed glasses; shaved bald because of premature balding; tall and thin. Looks like a young Moby.
Sunshine Walker, accountant for the philanthropic organization which hides the Secret Society of Santas. Tall, medium dark skin and braids pulled back into a neat knot at the back of her neck. Dresses neatly — professional dress on the job; slacks and shirts off duty. Seldom wears jeans.

Basic plot: There’s the A plot, which is Brent and Sunshine try to uncover blackmail against the SSS which the philanthropic organization covers. There’s a developing romance between Sunshine and Brent. The B plot is that Brent gets drawn into the SSS through having to take over some of Kris Kriegel’s (protagonist of The Kringle Conspiracy) duties.

Outline — I have three chapters but there’s no A plot there, just the romance. Big mistake.

So I have a lot of work to do here.

Plantsing

It’s less than two weeks till NaNoWriMo, and I’m working on motivating myself for another year. I don’t have any new ideas for books, but I’m writing a book I tried to write for NaNo in 2016. It’s light and fluffy — it’s a romantic mystery that involves Santas, and I’m going to have to find time to outline it before I start.

There are, according to NaNos, pantsers and planners. Pantsers are those who write freestyle, by the seat of their pants. Planners are those who come in with a complete outline and follow it carefully.

I’m a plantser. Plantsers have a bare sketch of topics and fill them in freeform, and later edit for sense. We have not so much an outline as a list of chapter headings and a bare idea of what those prompts mean.

It’s a fun way to write for someone who trusts their imagination and trusts they can pick up all the plot holes in the edit.

***************
For all my Maryville MO readers, NaNoWriMo starts November 1st. You can sign up — you know you want to write a novel! — at nanowrimo.org And if you decide to write a novel, please come drop in to the Board Game Cafe Thursday nights in November (November 1st, 8th, 15th, 29th) from 6-10 PM for a writing space with other writers!

Interrogating Daniel

I finally got an hour of writing yesterday. Not a good hour — I really need to get a feel for my characters again, because it’s been so long since I visited Whose Hearts are Mountains, given my editing forays …

I sit in the cafe with its bright light, tables and chairs from some old diner, and shelves of board games against the wall. Inspiration fails me; I stare at the letters I typed into my story. I’m bored with the story, bored with the process of writing.

A tall, lightly muscled man with black braided hair and dark skin strolls into the cafe. He is not like anyone else in the cafe; his presence washes the atmosphere with a certain surreality. I watch him order coffee, trade banter with the owner, and amble toward me.

“I’m Daniel,” he says in a resonant baritone. “You must be Lauren.” He reaches his hand out to shake mine. His grip is firm, his hand dwarfs mine.

“I am,” I respond, “but how did you know that?”

His speech is easy, slow like honey. “Because you’re my writer. You wanted to get to know me.” He leans back in his chair as if settling back to tell a story.

“Tell me a little about yourself.”

He chuckles. “You sound like my mother, the anthropologist. She can always get a story out of someone that way.” He pauses, large hand wrapped around the coffee cup. Black coffee, of course. “I’m an Archetype, an immortal, but unauthorized. Earthbound, we call it.” He takes a long sip of coffee. “My mother is the Kiowa Archetype, my father Valor Burris, the Archetype engendered to hold the cultural DNA of the African diaspora. I was born as an experiment, I guess, to create an Archetype Earthside, as it were. We didn’t know about Lilith at the time. She’s been around far longer than I have.”

“An experiment?” I ask. “I thought Archetypes weren’t good at creating new things.”

“Those of us who are Earthbound, whether unauthorized or drawn Earthside like my mother, have spent a lot of time around humans. We’ve picked up a lot of things from them including, I have to admit, coffee and cozy spaces.” He studied the coffee mug, then raised his eyes to mine. “We are babes in the wood compared to humans, who have shorter lives but more extensive folklore, more skills handed down from generation to generation, more identity as part of a whole. Except for the Earthbound, our generations do not interact, and each of us have to earn our limited experience anew. Thus we do not create — but we among the Earthbound are developing abilities to synthesize information, to create. This is frightening to other Archetypes, which is why we’re prohibited from entering InterSpace, the Archetypes’ dwelling place.”

“You’re not allowed in InterSpace?”

“No,” Daniel sighed. “We are Prometheus. We carry fire to our people, and we are punished for it.”