reconsidering

Yesterday, the theme seemed to be “find a different path to publishing”.

A colleague of mine who is working on a career as a motivational speaker stopped by my office to chat. She’s been following my laments on Facebook as some of you have, and she said to me, “You really need to find a different way to publish.”

“No kidding?” I responded. “I hear some of these agents are getting upward of 500 queries a day. How does one even stand out with that kind of load?”

So I am trying to mastermind how to go for indie/self-publishing and have people actually find my stuff to read.

The idea seems to be something like this:

1) Find a platform to publish on
2) Publish
3) Find friends willing to read and put reviews on the page
4) Publicize?

I’m still thinking about it. It’s certainly tempting after all the troubles I’ve had being noticed by agents. My writing seems to fit a niche that isn’t being regarded by mainstream agents. It’s not the only thing I’m contemplating — I am going to try traditional publishing until I run out of options there.

I’ll keep you posted. You let me know if you want to review a book, ok?

Writing and the Balance

Yesterday I felt unbalanced.

It’s been a busy work week, just as it promises to be a busy semester. I have three research projects I’ll be working on, plus recreating a new class or two, plus the usual teaching and student work. I spent all of yesterday creating a new syllabus for a class, something that should have taken me a week or so.

(I promise you I’m not hypomanic, just busy.)

In addition, I got three rejections yesterday. That brings me up to 1/4 of my queries coming back as rejections in four days. At least they rejected me quickly.

After it all, I felt unbalanced, like I always do when there’s too much work and not enough pleasurable things in my life. I used to think what I needed was recognition — to get noticed, to get published, to get an award or something. In other words, to get what I would call a “cookie”.

Yesterday I realized that I don’t need cookies. I need, instead, to get rid of feeling bad.

In other words, I need to get back into balance. And I’m coming to realize that writing, in and of itself, helps me feel balanced. (So do good smells, reading, tub soaks, and surprising new discoveries).

So I will persevere and keep writing.

I’m sorry I’ve been writing really short things lately — I’ve been really busy at work and my brain is full.

I’ll leave this with you — it’s an old one:

… and in the end, I found my way back home
Through forest fog, through sodden leaves that night,
Until I saw the street lights of the town
And felt new as I stepped into their light.
Can one be with a friend while sleeping sound?
If so, I felt a presence in my dream
For just a moment, chuckling with me;
Perhaps we’re less abandoned than we seem.

Rethinking why I write

Once upon a time, I wrote because I desperately needed to be heard.

I don’t feel that pressure so much anymore. I think that it took working with a developmental editor to let that go, because I realized that I could act like a professional and take writing seriously without someone bestowing a first-place ribbon on my work. In other words, I don’t need to be published to prove anything.

But now that the immediate, inner child’s need to be heard is no longer applicable, I’m wondering if it’s truly worth it to get published.

I have heard from agents that they’re getting 500 queries a day. This means all they can do is skim them and pick what “jumps out” at them. I could be an excellent writer, but because I’m not prone to sensationalism, what I write may not “jump out”. I think I need to accept that.

I may never get published. I say this dispassionately — the odds are very poor, no matter how good a writer I am, no matter how much I publish. If I get a foot in the door, I may get more published because I will be a recognizable commodity. But right now, Prodigies (my most polished/edited piece) has gotten four rejections and I just sent it out.

I don’t know where that leaves me relative to writing or publishing. I currently have almost no free time because when I’m not working, I’m writing. I’m feeling uninspired.

I may need to rethink whether this is my calling.

Today is my 55th birthday.

Today is my 55th birthday.

I don’t know what to think about that.

Turning 40 didn’t faze me — it felt no different than the year before. I had just gotten tenure, and I felt like I was at the top of my game.

Turning 50 didn’t faze me — it felt little different than being 40. I didn’t know what all the fuss people made about turning 50 was about.

At age 55, though, I suddenly feel like I have entered into the world of Advancing Age. That’s why 55 bothers me — it’s the age at which “matronly” replaces “sexy”. The age at which I could retire early if I worked at something more lucrative than professoring. The age at which I could join the Red Hat — oh, wait, that was five years ago, something I conveniently forgot. I am officially a ma’am, no longer a MILF (Ok, fine, I never was).

But the thing that really drove my advancing age home to me was that I am finally eligible for Senior Discounts. At no age previously has someone tried to attach the word “senior” to my existence. As long as I felt 35 at age 40, or 40 at age 50, my actual age didn’t matter. But now I can say “I’d like the senior breakfast” and not get carded.

That’s what really makes me feel old. Not that I mind the discount, but …

Murder your darlings thoroughly dead

I am murdering my darlings quite thoroughly in this edit/rewrite.

It hasn’t been fun. I’m losing a lot of storytelling and world building I’m going to have to build back in.

But there’s a storyteller’s adage, rendered sometimes as “Murder your darlings” and others as “Kill your darlings”, which simply means to get rid of all the self-indulgent stuff.

And when I look over my first novels, I find a lot of self-indulgent stuff.

I hope I’ve discovered the line between world-building and self-indulgent stuff now. I have to admit part of what I put in the original story embarrasses me and I cut it quite readily. I’m a bit scared of whether I’m cutting too much.

Oh, well, I can always add some back…

Thirty-six queries and a handful of change

I sent 36 queries out last night for Prodigies. It was time.

I am, as always, hoping some agent takes a nibble or a bite on my query. (Remember that I have one nibble on Voyageurs from a romance publisher and no other pending excitement.)

I have hope. Hope is not the belief that my desired outcome will happen, it is a belief that something advantageous will happen, maybe something I couldn’t even predict.

I was about to say one can’t have hope without taking a risk, but that’s not true. People who don’t like change can hope things stay the same, as those who try to make change can hope that they can make a change. But the person who hopes things stay the same has no influence on the change, while those who try to make change has an influence. Not complete influence, but still.

In addition, the person who tries to make change might find a result even better than they had expected, and being someone comfortable with change, they can take advantage of what they’ve been given.

Waiting to wait, please wait

So, I’ve got Voyageurs out to review, and I’ve got Prodigies out to a handpicked agent to review, and I’ve got Gaia’s Hands out to my dev editor, and now what?

Now I wait.
I should get Prodigies in the hands of more agents, so I can wait again with better odds.
But my life right now is all about waiting. 
I wish I could say that age and wisdom has made me more patient, but I don’t do patient gracefully. I check my email often. I fuss, wondering what I can do to pass the time from waiting. 
Time to wait.

On Tuesday I turn 55.

On Tuesday, I turn 55.

I don’t feel 55. To be honest, I feel like I’m in my early 40’s and someone time-transported me a good dozen years into the future and now everyone thinks I am older and wiser.

Perhaps I’m older, but I don’t feel a bit wiser.

Wiser people are dignified. I make funny faces and make snarky comments in class. I make my husband laugh by singing ditties with all the words replaced with swear words. I fashion my hands into talking spiders, slam-dancing snails, and nose-eating monsters.

Wiser people are often cynical. Although I’m cynical about politics, I maintain a lot of faith that mankind will grow out of its need to denigrate and debase those who are different.

Wiser people don’t dare. I take leaps of faith, submitting queries to agents and getting rejected, because I know I’ll survive another rejection.  Maybe that in and of itself is wisdom; I don’t know.

I don’t feel a bit different than I did at 40.