There's been a buzz created amongst writers by the Atlantic's recently article about woman dominating YA. What people are noticing is the disparity in female to male writers of almost every other genre. It's a well documented fact that the differences between men and women go beyond our physical bodies. Here are some states: Women still 30% less than men. Women still are responsible fore 97% of child care with men contributing approximately 3%. (This is up from the longstanding 1%) Men are more likely to have a good job (52%) than woman (37%). There are many ways more to compare, but I want to keep this short. There's a plethora of information on the internet to satiate those who want more, because this is a long way to say I use my initials instead of my first name because of the genres I write most in. You don't have to watch a lot of reality TV before you see competitors trying desperately become what they think the judges want. From a psychological standpoint the need to fit in is hardwired into our DNA. Back in the day, I mean really back in the day, if you didn't fit in you were tossed out of the village and probably got mauled by a bear. Of course its 2012 so fitting in still maters. I bet you thought I was going to say the opposite. Nope. We are social creatures and fitting in matters. From American Idol to the Glee Project to Project Runway contestants are striving to find where they fit, not only in the competition, but in a larger world. Writers are different only in that the bulk of our time spent hone our skills is spent alone. It's good for nurturing creative abandon. Sooner or later, the need to have our efforts reinforced by others sets us to sharing our week, either with a writing group or with friends and family. We like it when our friends say "your hair looks good" and we like it when people say, "I liked that story." There is nothing wrong with wanting approval. There is nothing wrong with being part of the crowd. Just watch a little reality TV and you'll see that talent isn't only a piece of the equation. The IT factor is somehow being you-- all the things that make you different from the talented person next to you -- and somehow fitting in. How do you do that? Own who you are. Don't try to be somebody else. Don't try to be the person other people think you should be. I'm perturbed today. I'm perturbed because in the process of catching up on Janet Reid's blog I followed a link to the Solon article "My book was a bad idea." This is a well writing article but the conclusions the author draws... hit a nerve, so much so, that I'm about to refute several points of the article. To be fair the author simply wrote about her personal truth. Summary (For those smarmy individuals who are too busy using pirate words to read the article.) In the article the author talks about how she secured an agent based on her experience as a journalist and her pitch to said agent. While I'm sure that there are lots of details left out, for writers such as myself ... ones who have received so much rejection it's practically a national past time-- a story such as this seems mythical. The author quit her job and moved abroad to write her book. The book took four years to finish, wasn't fun to write, and her agent dumped her. Subsequent agents rejected the manuscript. In the meantime she had a baby and the baby led to an epiphany of sorts. The author concluded that her love for writing wasn't as pure as her love for her child. Based on this conclusion she wrote a second book about raising her baby. This book was rejected resulting in her final conclusion that both books were a mistake. I think that there are a lot better lessons that can be learned from this story. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. You know I'm a reality TV fan and so I can't resist using So You Think You Can Dance. On this show dancers of every style try out. The really good ones go to Las Vegas where most discover they have no talent for irritating little things like choreography, hip hop and ballroom. Just like ballroom and contemporary dancers hone sills specific to their style, novelist hone skill specific to writing a novel and journalist hone skills specific to writing for magazines an newspapers. Moreover there are a thousand reasons why books don't get published just as their are a thousand reasons why the dancers don't get on So You Think You Can Dance. A lot of good dancers don't make it and its not for a lack of talent. The author assumes that she didn't sell the book because it is a bad book. A lot of first books are. But I really don't like saying that. First books are first books. They're a first attempt at something very hard. Remember the first time you rode a bike? Tried roller blades or tried to long division on your own. Was it pretty now. Remember the first time you had sex. Ugh, you groan. But it got better. So do second books and third books. A first book generally doesn't hatch into a chicken with a fledgling rooster fertilizing the the prose. Let's look at So You Think You Can Dance again. There are always a handful of people who quit their job to be on the show. This brings me to lesson two. Don't put all your eggs in one basket. The dancers who quite their job to be on the show not only have to deal with the let down of rejection but also the void of nothing to go back to. And there are all the people to whom they announced "I quit my job because I'm going to be on the show." Argh, that's painful. You know how I know. Because I've done this a time or sixty. It's never fun to admit failure. But it's only failure if you look at it that way. This brings me to lesson three. Look on the bright side. At the end the selections on So You Think You Can Dance, the judges remind the 15 to 20 contestants that don't make it on the show, that this isn't a failure. It's a triumph. Out of nearly a million dancers who try out every year, they made it to the top 30 or 40. Or in this case, you finished a friggin book. Yikes that's awesome. Time for BEER! But you still made the mistake of putting all your eggs in one basket and you counted your chickens before they hatched. And you broadcast your folly to the world so that now when they ask you if your book is published yet you get really embarrassed and a little defensive. Lesson four. Don't feel embarrassed. Take ownership of your mistakes, learn from them and move on. If your a writer it should be to your next book or short story or whatever floats your boat. If your a dancer and you really want to be on TV you try out for every casting call between here and Timbuktu. This brings me to my last lesson. If you do you always did you you'll always get what you always got. While there might not be a dancing connection, there is a great example of this in the character of Rick in The Walking Dead. He continues to make the same tragic mistake again and again. Even on the last episode where he finally steps up, he's doing it for the same reason he risked lives to save the boy impaled on the fence. He continues to repeat the behavior while expecting a different result. There's a lot I don't know about what the author didn't put into her article. But it seemed to me, barring the motives for the book, she approached it the exact same way, expecting it to be successful. When it wasn't she drew the same conclusions that she drew when her first book was rejected. Writing the book was a mistake. I spent 11 years writing my first book. Well, if I'm to be candid, I spent the bulk of those years grandly dreaming and boasting. I made a lot of mistakes during those years, not all of them related to the book, though it influenced a surprising number of choices. I suppose this is why I have so much to say on this subject. I can't imagine looking upon that book as something I wish I'd never done. I learned a lot, not only from writing the book, but from all the screw-ups. In many ways I'm a reformed royal screw-up. Okay, so not really all that reform. I 'm a glutton for punishment, what can I say. To summarize: Writing a book is never a bad idea. The things you do based on what you think will said book's success are another matter. Now go drink a beer. Make that two. One for you and one for me. We met for the first time on a weekend in early December 2011. LG Ultrabook was showcased on a laptop pedestal under glimmering lights that accentuated it's stamped titanium chassis. I moved closer. It spoke me in low, husky whisper. "i5 core, 4 gigs of ram, DDR2, 13.3 inches, ultra-portable." The geek in me swooned. The writer in me moaned. The accountant in me clutched tightly at my purse strings. The LG Ultrabook continued. "You can afford it. Treat yourself. You've been a good little writer, tap-tapping on that tiny Idea Pad keyboard. You deserve me." I went home but LG Ultrabook's voice was in my head. It whispered sweet nothings. "9 second start up time. That's 0nly 9 seconds between start-up and your idea on my screen. It's 13.3 inches. I have a spacious key board." I began stalking LG Ultrabook where ever it was sold. "I want you, " I whispered stroking it's stamped titanium one afternoon in Home Plus. "You're drooling all over the keyboard." A salesman grabbed me by the arm. " Please stop fondling that computer. You're making the other customers uncomfortable." "I'll buy you." I called over my shoulder as I was escorted of the store. "As soon as your on sale!" This is a rather funny explanation how I broke my cardinal rule for purchasing electronics. (Always buy the cheapest thing that offers your must have features. Compromise on the rest. Upgrade guilt free in two or three years. ) And it also explains why I was so sad yesterday. Despite a 1000 good reasons to insist on a refund or replacement computer, I was, still am reticent about saying goodbye. I even made a mind map to clarify my thoughts. In the end it came down to stability. It was too prone to shock. It was like a pocket CD player that skipped songs at the slightest jolt. Goodbye LG Ultrabook. I'm sorry that it ended this way. Jane Doe was a writer. She sat in her office chair, the one with the extra cushion so her butt won't get so sore. The left arm of that chair is extra because she likes to lean lazy on it while she clicks the mouse when play solitaire or doing any of the multitudes the internet has to offer. Liken an writer Jane Doe is great at wasting time. But she's not today. Today she is plugged in to her story. The keyboard makes a gentle and furious tap, tap, tap as her fingers flash across the keys and words, glorious words, seemed to jump on screen. She was so plugged she didn't notice that sometimes her sentences came ou t un fromed. Outside, the weather was warm. A great day to spend at the beach. Jane's skin was the white pasty color of an author determined to breakthrough and of late her social life was suffering. When her friends called, she said to them , "I'm sorry, I can't. I have to write." At first her friends had been understanding but of late, they didn't always invite her to do things. By noon Jain had 1500 new words. She took a lunch break and stat down again, reveling in this moment, cherishing. She felt that life often got in the way of her writing. She was also a little high at the moment. Not on pot. No, no. Writers do not need pot. They can get high off the act of putting words on the screen. In this state of euphoria, Jane was certain that the thoughts she poured to her fingers and consequently into the file labeled "My Freekin' Awesome Novel"were best-seller material. People would flock to the stores to read them. During her break, Jane went online and read some tips about writing and landed on the blog of M.R. Jordan. Written there was her story.Written there was also this: Print out your story. Print out ten pages, print out twenty pages, print that section that's nagging you. Hell print the whole dame thing out. Put some pages in your bag, purse, pack pack, tote, whatever. Now go to the beach. Go to the mountains. Go somewhere with someone. Get distracted. After you've been properly distracted and then come upon a quiet moment-- you might be in a taxi unexpectedly drunk thanks to lunch that somehow turned into coffee and tea, then dinner and finally bar hopping. Whatever happened, you are now alone and you pull out those ten pages or so and take a red pen to it. Even drunk you notice things you didn't before. But when you're not drunk, looking at the pages this way, you have sudden insights, the kind that used to take hours staring at the blank wall of your apartment. Despite being exhausted, you rush home to put those insights into your file. Then you fell into bed knowing it was a good day, a day that included friends and writing. After reading this words, Jane went back wasting time on the internet. She was planning to write some more but time kind of got away from her. When her friend called to see if Jane wanted to have dinner together, Jane thought about all the writing she had planned to do but had yet to finish. She almost said "No, I'm writing." Instead she printed out ten pages of a section she was having trouble with and joined her friend for dinner. After she and her friend parted and she was on her way home, she remembered the pages. That was pointless, she thought as she came to the bus stop. I didn't have any time to look at them. She sat down to wait for the bus, thinking of those papers. Shrugging, she pulled them out and began reading. She saw things, dozens of typos that just jumped out at her. She got up, forgoing the bus for the park around the corner and sat under a tree with her pages. All around her was the murmur of people enjoying a warm evening in the park. Kids laughed and shouted. Bugs buzzed. Leaves rustled. Lovers walked hand in hand, talking close and intimately. Removed from herself, Jane saw her words as others might seem them. She had perspective and because of that, she solved a major plot plot and discovered a logical "inconvenience" large enough to drive a Fifth-wheeler through. Thanks for submitting "The Slave" for our consideration, and for your interest in LORE. While I enjoyed aspects of this tale, we are going to pass on this particular effort -- narrowly. This was good, to be sure. I hope we shall see something more from you in the future. Good luck in your ongoing endeavors.
First, I want to point out I've never posted a rejection online before. I can't say it won't every happen again, but I don't do it for a thousand reason, the biggest one being that this was a private conversation. I have the utmost respect for Rod Heather over at Lore and not just because he sent me this very nice rejection. Lore Magazine is chock full of fantastic fiction that I'd be proud to be part of. There's a reason why I put this here and posted my reviews from Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award. (Vine 1, Vine 2, Reader's Weekly.) Nor is it easy for me to put up my reviews for you to see my warts -- you'll notice I allowed my pride (footnotes in Meathead) to shoot myself in the foot. I'd been told before to delete them. But I ignored that advice and annoyed the reviewer. I'm also embarrsed by the comments about editing as well. Moving on. I've been wanting to write about the nature of selling fiction for a while. I had hopped to have made another sale by now for one thing. I was feeling pretty high on the hog after my sale to One Buck Horror. A pro sale meant... means a lot less than you'd expect. When you haven't sold anything, when you're querying and getting nothing but rejections, your first personalized rejection is a milestone and a Pro sale the holy grail. This could be my 5oth personal rejection. I stopped counting. That doesn't mean it isn't meaningful. I really appreciate it when an editor takes the time to give me a few kind words. When I feel low, I pull them up and read through them. I let them wash over me and remind myself that it takes years and years for an overnight success-- not every writer is an overnight success. But I think you know what I mean. So I have two pieces of advice: Enjoy your milestones. I mean really, really enjoy them. Exalt yourself, your skill, your creativity, the genius that makes up all of you. Daydream about the big sale. Let your ego off it's leash. (Don't worry, there's a rejection around the corner that will put it back in check.) But most of all, celebrate your perseverance. Without it there would be no milestones, which all too soon they become part of the landscape. Don't fret. Just write. I haven't sold anything in a long time and I'd be lying to say that isn't eating at me, but fretting over it isn't productive. I have to keep circulation the stories I've finished and keep writing new things. And maybe you haven't sold anything. Maybe you don't get personalized rejections yet. Don't fret. Keep writing new things and you will. Today was a good day. I've come to believe that we probably spend at least half our lives battling our bad habits. But I up early, had a good breakfast, wrote for about two hours and went for a long walk. I even had a healthy lunch and dinner. This may not seem much of a challenge, in and of itself, but I used to know this girl. We weren't close friends but more than just co-workers. Anyway, she loved vegetables. Loved them to death. For her a salad was ambrosia. For me, ambrosia comes in the form of a Quarter Pounder, well any hamburger... make that anything fried. Consequently, I'm always at war with myself when it comes to eating.
Because I'd done lots of healthy things today and it had not been war to do them, I went to work happy. Because I love my job, I left work even happier. I work in what Koreans call a villa. Villa's can get quite tall, up to six or seven stories. It really seems to mean anything that is not a house and not an apartment building, though most have apartments in them. The build I work in is old which means the exterior is coated with red, clay shingles and we must use space heaters in the winter. But summer is on it's way. We had to turn on the air con-- this is what air conditioning is called all over Asia. However, by the time I stepped out into the kind of night that always recalls to me those muggy summer nights spent fishing, or at the fair grounds, or just sitting around a camp fire. There was a bite in the air though, enough to need a jacket, but it was humid enough at the same time to make a jacket uncomfortable. I've only experience this kind of night in Korea and I suppose it's like will one day recall my days here. Earphones in , MP3 set to my "work out" play list, I strode toward my apartment, entertaining catching the bus and going for a second walk down by the river or hopping on the subway and going to Hauendae or Gwanali for a night walk on the beach. The air smelled clean and slightly electric like ozone. And then I saw the man. From a distance-- I have no depth perception so distance is very difficult for me-- he looked to be in the road. He also looked like he could be a rock. There is construction going on in the area and the way people walked passed him gave me hope that it was just that. But as I drew closer my eyes were better able to define the spaces and then I was there, MP3 blaring in my ears, looking at the man lying in the road. He had fives and tens spread around him from passerby who had felt bad enough to pay for the guilt and kept on going. My happiness dissipated. My good day was not stolen by this event. It's just I don't keep going when I see someone who is hurt or might need help. In America I would ask him what was wrong and if there was any I could call. I would call 911 if he was too disorientated to answer. Here I don't speak much Korean. I couldn't really help him if he really needed help. I've seen some extreme begging and this form of it, lying with part of their body out into the road seems to be a thing. Not common, exactly, but I've seen it before. . But even with that possibility, I was reluctant to leave him lying there. He might truly be hurt. Some students were nearby, saw my concern. I was the only adult who had shown any. But just my concern prompted all three of them to try to help him. Korean children wear uniforms and high school students get off at 9pm. It was a bit after 9 so these boys were probably walking home after a grueling day of school . When the crosswalk turned, I realized I wasn't as helpless as I'd thought. There's a bakery on the corner that I sometimes shop at. I went in. After some gesturing I got him to get up and look. He was able to communicated to me that the police would come in five minutes I lingered, watching the man and watching the boys. I've always had this inclination to protect people. I wanted the boys and the man to be safe. Finally, the boys wandered off. A few seconds later the police arrived. The man jumped to his feet, gathered his money quickly, and bolted. The police officer dashed off in pursuit leaving an empty cruiser sitting on the side of the road, caution lights flashing. I put my earphones in and headed home. But I still felt bad. I found myself wondering what had made him so desperate to beg this way? Not only is it dangerous but in Korea you are assumed guilty first and must prove your innocence. I've been on vacation for the past three weeks. I'm an American but I haven't been back to the states for four years. Hence the lack of posts.
I got back just shy of midnight on Wednesday. State side this would be around 11 P.M. Tuesday. Due to a combination of sleep deprivation (insomnia respects time zones not) jet lag and time differences, all of Thursday involved sleep. I tried to get up, I swear. Friday involved unpacking. Today involved lunch with Lana and her friend Daniel. This turned into debauchery at some bars. I wore a pretty black dress with pink flowers, plenty of cleavage as this is one of my assets. Both Lana and Daniel are skinnier than me but as long as the guys are comparing the ladies and not at our waistlines, the I have a leg up on the playing field. The first bar was warm up drinks and meeting up lots of people I didn't know. Any good debauchery starts with plenty of alcohol. I 'm not a drinker-- my friends laugh at me because, as writer, my drinking habits are pitiful. I like to write with a glass of cold diet coke. Anyway, after two tequila sunrises and Jager Bomb, I ordered a round of Bacardi Rum shots. Not what you expected right? In all fairness I didn't know that Bacardi was rum. The night was off to a good start and as we wobbled over to the Blue Monkey for more drinks and dancing. The music kind of sucked but I fixed that with a request for Pit Bull and the three of us took to the empty dance floor. I wouldn't call my friends and I trend setters but soon the floor began to fill up and this seemed to put the DJ in the mood for better song choices. Also, I soon had a handsome dance partner. By this time I was also drinking water. I don't drink often but I've discovered significant tolerance. I could have had a few more safely. Probably my family's German genetics. Even so, I've never been much more than buzzed-- why would anyone want to go home puking? Exactly. So there we were dancing, having a good time. "Can I come home?" Mr. Handsome asked. "What?" "I want to stay with you tonight." "No." Look, I'm not coming from some place of moral conduct or religious virtue. But here's the thing about one stands. They suck. This applies to men as well as women. They almost always involved too much alcohol. Drunken sex? Oh, Baby, gotta get me some of that. (Insert eye roll.) But it's more than the guarantee of bad sex. Are you throw away? Disposable? What about the person you're with? I'm knot talking about the act of sex, but the act of choosing how will are willing to be treated or to treat others. I have friends who have ended up dating their one-nighters, but the relationships never work. Is it no wonder when their very first social contract involved at least one person thinking the other person was disposable. Believe it or not first impression set the tone for how you're willing to be treated. Skinny, fat, short, tall. It doesn't matter. People treat you how you let them treat you. Maybe you're thinking "you don't know what I'm talking about." The line in Apocalypse, (Midday Musings) about being punched by students in front of the teacher is not entirely fictional. I was picked on relentlessly and it took me the longest time to realize how much of it was actually a result of accepting the way I as being treated. At the time it didn't seem that way. In case it isn't clear, I'm not really talking about one night stands-- that too, but use it as a metaphor for whatever you like and remember you are not disposable. You are valuable. You're contribution to the world, whether it be telling story, or rescuing dogs, or raising your kids. This is true of parents, spouses. friends, and strangers as well. I eat, sleep and breathe writing, so it really feels like overkill to talk about it on my blog. Crazy right? A writer who doesn't write about writing? But there's really only three things you need to do to be a good writer. (Thought I was going to tell you, didn't ya? Ha.)
Anyway, one of the writers in my critique group has a story with a cat in it. This got me to thinking that I could tell a few pet stories. I've had pets my entire life, except now. I live in a small apartment and I just don't think it's fair to have a cat or do. I'm a gold fish murder as well as a plant killer. So no fish. But, let me tell you about Princess. She came to live with my family when I was about five and not because she wanted a home. She was a stray who would have been happily stayed a stray if my mother wasn't late for everything. Consequently, it was a rare day that I didn't waddle into school late. On this particular morning, I left our house and walked the two blocks to school among few stranglers. We happened to be living in a Norman Rockwell kind of town. Parents rarely drove their kids, even us kindergarteners. By the time I had arrived, the bell had run and the playground was deserted except for two kids and a black and white cat. I can't remember if the kids were girls or boys. I do remember they had cornered the cat on this strange sloping architectural element. I really don't know what it was for, but on recess the big kids would kill a soccer ball up and down the slop. The cat was dirty and miserable because it was also raining. After a second bell rang, the big kids dashed into the school. I immediately re-cornered the cat, scooping her into my arms. And she promptly set about scratching and biting for the entire two blocks back to my house. I entered the house with "Mommy!" And I think this was promptly followed by some shouting as to why I wasn't in school. This was followed by several exclamations as she come out of the dinning kitchen and saw me standing there with a cat, covered in scratches, and wearing copious amounts of blood. I quickly explained how I had bravely saved the cat from the big kids, embellishing of course. I had rushed in under the spray of stones to save the cat's life from bully's who then chased after me. I'd had no choice but to bring her home. I don't really remember how I persuaded my mother to let me keep the cat or her transition from feral stray to a member of the family. Maybe, she believed the story I'd told. At any rate, she was named Princess. I do vaguely remember arguing with my sisters on what her name would be. I don't really know who chose it. Princes was a unique cat. I don't think we tamed her, but rather she adopted us. She and my mother both shared a fondness for cheese corn and TV. The cat and my mother would sit on the couch watching late night shows. If Princesses dinner wasn't timely enough, she'd get into the pantry, pull out an individual packet of cat food morsels and open it. She never had a litter box. She came house broken and would yowl at the top of her lungs until she figured out how to open the back door and let herself out. I don't believe she could open the front door. She came and went, living with us when it suited her and living in the wild when it suited her. At some point, she started bringing us gifts of dead squirrels, skunks and opossums. She loving deposited them on the front porch for us to find on our way to school in the morning. Despite being wild, she let my sisters and I dress her up in baby clothes. We even put blush on her checks and rolled her around in a baby carriage. Next to our house with a random duplex. Crotchety, Mrs. Blake lived next door. She had a fat gray cat and was probably a cat lady. She'd watch my sisters and I rolling Princess around in a stroller dressed up in baby clothes. "Stop abusing that cat!" She'd shout. I don't know if we were or not, but I do know for certain Princess didn't mind. She was a character and by that I mean, she hated everybody but us. One of her favorite pastimes was to lay on the side walk ( and later Mrs. Blake's walkway.) She'd roll over like she wanted her belly rubbed. A strange cat, she actually enjoyed being scratched there and all the neighbors had seen us petting her like that. So, at one time or another about all of them walked up to her lying on the sidewalk and reached down to give her a pet. At which point, Princess would lock on to their hand, all four claws and teeth, and not let go until it suited her. Usually, after the neighbor had started shouting for help. Our mother would come out of the house and say, "Princess," in a stern voice. Princess always released the neighbor in a way that could only have been her idea. She'd then go bounding to our porch and sit upon the railing like a queen to her thrown, tail curled around her paws. When she did this she always wore that hard, disapproving look only cats have. Over time, the neighbors would gaze up at her as though asking for permission before passing our house. If Princess came off the porch, many would cross the street. And that brings us back to Mrs. Blake, the cat lady. She thought that she had a way with cats and was determined to rescue Princess from being dressed up in baby clothes. And was promptly attacked by Princess. After that day Mrs. Blake held a deep hatred for the black and white cate. Princess apparently felt the same way because she took to find creative ways to surprise Mrs. Black. This included spring from a tree branch onto the old woman's shoulder when she went to get her news paper. She'd also just lay on Mrs. Blake's walkway staring at the door and flicking her tail the way cat's do when they think. After that, her favorite spot became Mrs. Blake's front step. The old woman took to leaving the house by the back door. After several years of being haunted by Princess, Mrs. Black moved. And that's when the whole neighborhood knew without a doubt that Princess ruled us all. Everybody is talking about potential lawsuit by the DOJ against six of the ten top publishing houses. Everybody is talking about self-publishing versus traditional route. I'm not really too concerned with what happens-- it's a gonna happen with our without me. So I don't really have a dog in this fight other than to say, I'm glad I have the option of self-publishing. Still, I can't help but speculate a little. I think it comes with the nature of writing. Today, I sat down and made ppt. about my speculations for the future of publishing. ( It took about 45 minutes. ) See the file below. So, what do you speculate the future publishing industry will look like? Do you have a dog in this fight?
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