Mission Accomplished

As I noted in one of my earlier post, this novel represented a number of new directions for me as a writer. And so these new directions continue. I was contacted recently by an agent who liked the book but thought it could be even better with a few changes. I agreed, and set to rereading it to find just where those changes could be made.

Now, first of all THIS was different, because although I have had three agents for other books, none of them had ever asked me to rewrite something. I considered this, then, an improvement. What's more, this agent talked to me for over an hour on the phone about the book. This was different too. And gratifying. Because if someone is going to represent this book, I want them to like it and be interested in it, not JUST want to make a buck off it, and that hour-long conversation suggested that she was exactly that.

But what is most gratifying is that once I did reread the piece I discovered that I liked it. And what I mean by that is that it was exactly the kind of book I would have been happy to have read. This may sound like bragging, but it's not. That I have written a book that I would have been glad to have discovered does not mean that it is necessarily a great book. It does not mean it will be published. It does not mean, in fact, that anyone else will like it. But it is gratifying nonetheless that I would have liked it if I had found it on the shelves instead of my desk drawer. You are your first and last audience, after all, and if you don't like, how can you expect anyone else to?

So mission accomplished. Now, to rewriting.

Success Stories

I love success stories because they are all so different.

A friend of a friend recently had her novel publish by major New York publisher. She wrote the book and then spent nine years trying to find an agent. Nine years of mailing out and no, no, no. Nine years of query letters and rejections. But she stayed with it. And then one day she found an agent in California who "was not taking new clients." The agent read this woman's novel anyway, decided to represent it, and turned around and sold the thing in 24 hours. Nine years of agents thought it wasn't worth representing. And then that.

On the other hand, another woman - whom I had taken a class with - is writing her first novel. It's not done, but she decided, for whatever reason, to approach an agent about it. The agent was so intrigued he wanted her to fly out and see him, which she did. I have never heard of this. I have never heard of this with finished novels, let alone unfinished novels. What's more, when I read parts of the novel in the class, I didn't think it was working. Perhaps I was wrong.

In the case of my wife, I was not wrong. She wrote a children’s chapter book (Violet Bing and The Grand House, Viking), and eventually got the attention of two publishers (with children’s books, you don't necessarily need agents). She then spent two years turning the book from a picture book to a chapter book and then saw it published in April. When I read the final draft, I said, "If this isn't good, then I don't know what good is." And so far, I have been right. Every review (Washington Post, Seattle P. I, B.C.C.B., among others), has been overwhelmingly positive. This is a great relief. A) It’s nice to have my wife's work being well received, and B) I'm glad to see my opinion isn't totally out of tune with the World at Large.

My brother, a creative partner of mine in my twenties, is on the verge of having the first- ever scripted sit-com produced for PBS. My little brother. And this without a college education. Without, in fact, ever receiving a grade higher than a "C" in anything other than Theater in high school. Now he has written, directed, produced, and starred in the pilot. When he first told me the idea for the show, I said, "Well, that's sounds like a great skit, but not a series." I was totally wrong. Never felt so good to be wrong.

And I will be starting a magazine called Author, featuring many cool author interviews, book reviews and writing type news. Also a nice letter from the editor, which will sound not unlike the sort of thing you are reading now.

Good news abounds! Rejection letters be hanged. The world is bountiful if you let it.

Your Loyal Servant

It's easy, for me at least, to become overly enamored with The Brain. Don't get me wrong, I don't consider mine particularly extraordinary, but the brain is such a slavish devotee of facts and evidence and proof, all of which are so attractive for their statuesque certainty. What if The Truth is an argument you could someday win if you just piled on enough facts and evidence? What if The Truth was a single destination to which meticulous research and dispassionate calculation would same day lead you? That's a siren song if ever there was one, though a most appealing one.

Of all the arts, writing would seem the most brain-driven. Your brain is filled with all these word. The bigger the brain, the more words, right? Perception itself would seem to be the brain diluting reality down to its clearest and most digestible parts. Oh, the poets have their soul, but in the end, the novelist's brain, where his research is housed, where his plots are built, where his words are ordered like soldiers to be brought forward and marched across the needed sentences - the brain it where the work happens.

And yet the writer - the poet, novelist, essayist, or blogger - is no different than the painter, the dancer, or composer. All art, all creation, is choice, which is preference. The brain is merely a tool, a loyal servant at the beck and call of the soul, which is the source of all choice and all creation. The soul feels a preference, a direction, which the brain then turns into some kind of mental picture, and then, finally, attaches words to the picture to make sentences and paragrpahs so other people might see and feel the same thing.

I always run into trouble when I try to work from the brain. If you're feeling nervous, the brain is a tempting place to start becuase the brain is all about results and measurements and proof. The soul's only proof is itself. It's always tenuous, in a way, turning to the soul first, because it merely is. It doesn't care what anyone else has written, or what's being bought. or what is clever. It just wants. And yet when you tap into it, when you write from it, when the work travels from the soul to the brain to the page, there is nothing more satisfying. No work can make you feel more alive.

When the work's not coming, it's because you're asking your servant what to say. The servant wants you tell him what to say. He is loyal, hard working, dependable, but utterly uncreative. The brain has never had an original thought in its life.

To Thine Own Self

I'm not one to let moss grow under my feet. So while I wait to hear about The Teacher, I keep writing. Normally, I write grown up, contemporary type novels, but recently I've taken to short stories and - a departure and also a return to my roots - a young adult fantasy novel (though I use the term fantasy most loosely).

Since the YA novel felt so new, I found myself inclined to adopt a different narrative approach. I thought it should be more direct, simpler, less humorous. Normally, if you have not already deduced from previous entries, my style could accurately be described as "chatty." So be it. Still, I thought, I did not ALWAYS have to chat my way through every book. Certainly I could rein it in to tell a nice adventure story. And yet the more I strove to fit myself into this straight and narrow jacket, the more I disliked the story.

The lesson here is simple. I am not going to bother writing anything unless I can write it in exactly the way I like to write it. No, not like, need - must! For such is the bliss of life itself. That which you must do. We have all been put on this planet to speak one voice - our own - and so we must, for if we don't, who will? I try to get around this sometimes myself, hoping to, God help me, "fit in." What a curse. There is nothing into which anyone can fit.

Ah, but to be anyone but me. Me with all my troubles and uncertainty. Me with a brain like a loaded gun at three in the morning. I look around me, and everyone else's life seems so simple, if only they would get out of their own way. Why, if I could just step into their skin, I could straighten their lives out in a blink.

But that's just the trouble, isn't it? You're life, start to finish, is your own, all your troubles and loves and losses and hopes and beauties. It's all yours and it's all you. And all of that that is you is what speaks when you speak. Speak out! Lift the shade and let God shine through, I say. Shine on.

Horses in Mid Stream

I love epiphanies. I am devoted to them and celebrate their arrival the way a good Catholic might the appearance of Mother Mary in a tortilla. But epiphanies usually mean one thing: Change.

Ultimately, I'm in favor of change. Ultimately, of course, I don't have a choice in the matter, as life itself is nothing but change, the words being more or less interchangeable. But this is speaking metaphysically. In the nuts and bolts day to day, you can always dig your heels in and do your best not to be dragged along life's ceaseless current. Good luck with that, by the way. This is the sort of thing that leads to back pain and cancer.

I digress. I had an epiphany the other night. The novel I had been calling The Prince of Despair for more than a year would now be called The Teacher. It was absolutely the right thing to do, for reasons too technical to get into here, and for about an hour I was joyous. I'd seen the light.

But no, it was more than that. A door had been opened, letting in light, and now I had to walk through that door. How much easier to dwell in the darkness you know than to walk alone into some foreign light. Yet walk I must now. Now I must write a new query letter; now I must let go of something I called the Prince of Despair, which, because of my particular biography, had a certain romantic appeal.

When the epiphany came, I knew it was the right thing to do. But then the sunburst of thought dimmed and I was left with myself again. These things may come to you, but the truth remains that it is up to you and you alone to allow the idea in and live from it. The idea, after all, doesn't tell you where you'll go, it just tells you that go you must.

So go I will.

Glimmer Train

I've taken up the short story again recently. I don't consider this news by itself, but in the process of reacquainting myself with the world of periodicals, I've discovered one in particular worth mentioning.

They're called Glimmer Train Press, and anyone who's spent time submitting short stories is probably quite familiar with them. What struck me about Glimmer Train, however, was the enthusiastic and eager tone struck on their website. I am sure they receive thousands of submissions every year, of which they are only able to publish - at most - around a hundred. They are a well respected, literary journal, probably one of the top three or four platforms for new writers to show their work, and could easily assume a stand-offish posture, along the lines of, "Look: Everyone wants to publish here, we're totally inundated with all these wannabes, so send it in, but don't hold your breath. We're in the position where we get to be very, VERY picky, and we are."

And yet they implore writers to send in their work. They do not list rejections rates, they do not tell you how long the odds are of publishing in the journal. They are decidedly encouraging and optimistic, and for this I have nothing but deep admiration. How easy it would be to become depressed and resentful of all the writers pouring their work onto your desk - the clumsy plots, the thin characters, the clichés, the predictable endings. How easy it would be to scream, "Don't waste my time with this until you've honed your craft!" But that is not their way. They say, "Send it. We want to see it."

This seems to me to be just the right position. The world does not need more people telling writers how long the odds are. If you do not know, you will find out soon enough. In fact, the world does not need anyone telling anyone how long the odds are of doing anything. What use is that? If you want to do something, if that is what you are meant to do, what use are odds? If you must do it, then you must do it, the odds be hanged. We should be a world of encouragers. The publishing world in particular can seem a high-walled, unfriendly place, but it needn't be. It's just a place.

So my hat goes off to Glimmer Train. Not just for publishing short fiction, and not just for paying writers for short fiction, but for doing so with love and enthusiasm. I can't think of any other way I'd want to do anything.

While We're Waiting

This would be a good time to talk about criticism. After years of giving and getting, I've come to the conclusion that The Bible was right. We must not judge not lest we be judged.

For instance, last night I did something I have not done in quite some time - I sat down and read a literary journal, The Paris Review, to be exact. I tend to avoid these types of publications because of a weakness over which I have shown little if no control over the years, the second most deadly of sins, Envy. I don't like feeling envious of anything, because until such time as I can admit what I'm feeling is envy and let it go, I'm forced to defend something indefensible, and so I spend days twisting myself into aesthetic contortions to justify my position.

So I did the somewhat less cowardly thing than getting over it, I surrendered, and I stopped reading them altogether. If I couldn't stop drinking I'd stay away from the bars. But yesterday I picked up the Paris Review because I thought perhaps I was over that now. I certainly wanted to be over that, and what's more, I was going to give short stories another try and so I wanted to just hold a journal in my hands again. Not to compare - NO - but just to hold one and see. At least that was the plan.

I did fine with the memoir. I did fine with the poems. But then I came to the short story, and here, sadly, I began to run afoul. It would have been easier, I think, if I had really liked it. But I didn't. It was perfectly well written, of course, only not to my taste. The characters were well drawn, but I didn't really like them. And the ending made fine sense, but it didn't satisfy me.

If I could have left it at that, I would, I guess you could say, have passed the test. But then something else began creeping in. Perhaps there was something "wrong" with the story. I began making a mental list of grievances against it. As the list grew, I was becoming increasingly unsettled. Perhaps it wasn't long enough. Perhaps I should talk to my wife about it. Perhaps I could show exactly why I was right not to enjoy this story and the writer and the editors and anyone else in the world that agreed with them was wrong.

It was then, thankfully, I had an epiphany. I saw myself sitting down to work the next day, and I saw myself, as I do at the start of every work session, rereading my previous day's effort, and that is when it hit me. If I continued to judge this fellow's short story in this way, then tomorrow I would do the same to mine. Instead of reading my work from the inside out - that is, asking only "Is that what I meant to say?" - I would judge it from the outside in, seeing it through the harsh and critical eyes of some unnamed jurist. And I would fail. Because no work can be everything. Nothing can please everyone. Nothing at all. And so I would waste the day's work feeling that what I was doing was deeply and irrevocably flawed, until I'd purged this cruel judge from my psyche and could see my work anew as it was meant to be seen - through my eyes only.

So I stopped. Enough, I said. You must let work you do not care for exist. It must have the right to exist. For if YOU can be such a final judge of other people's work, why then cannot someone else be the final judge of yours?

Perhaps you do not have this same problem. You are lucky. I'd say I envy you but, well, we've been down that road already.

Waiting . . .

If you've never heard of The Law of Attraction, I'll explain it to you now, in brief. The Law goes like this: Anything you want, the universe gives you. Anything. Be it good or bad. If you think it, if you want it, it will come to you - as long as you allow it. You see, it's not immediate. It takes time for the universe to arrange itself to deliver whatever it is you want.

This is how I always feel about the time between sending out the queries and receiving an answer. I send out my request to the publishing universe and then . . . I wait. And this is where the doubt can set in, because you've got nothing else to do with your restless and hungry mind. Sometimes you get many no's and so you have to wait while you mail more. In the quiet of waiting there is only you and your belief.

This is the great gift of the waiting. This is where you get to learn the meaning of faith. Faith is nothing when you've got offers pouring in; it's nothing when you've got peers and teachers praising you. In the quiet solitude of the wait, that is where you find out the meaning of faith. And really, it's only faith you've got to carry you through from the Idea to the Creation, and from the Creation to the release to the world.

Faith is just another word for You. And it is in these quiet moments where you get to meet yourself as you might have never done before.

The Query

My motto for this particular trip has been: Do It Differently. I didn't know what exactly I would do differently, I only knew that however I had been doing it - whatever IT was - wasn't working.

I used to mail out dozens of queries; this time I mailed out six. I used to check the mail eagerly every day; this time I let my wife get the mail. For my last novel, after nine months of trying and not succeeding to get an agent, I gave the book up for dead; for this novel, as of this writing, I have been querying agents eight months, and I feel as though I am just getting started.

As usual there is this: One agent liked the first three chapters and wanted to see more; another agent read the first three chapters and thought I should look for a writing class. I point this out not to show how clueless some agents are, but rather to remind everyone, from agents to editors to writers, that Life itself, not just publishing, is about preference and making choices, and while we would all LIKE to believe that our preferences are somehow unassailable, the plain fact remains that you wouldn't have to search long and hard to find someone who disagreed with you about your most dearly held belief, be it philosophical, political, or aesthetic - and that someone might very well be a good friend.

Pessimisstic? Not at all. Rather, it is critically important, in this sort of endless round of first dates, to remember the vast subjectivity of the process. Ask yourself, for instance, how many books you've read that, if you'd been an agent, you might have rejected.

How It Began

Before I can get to the long story that is the selling of The Teacher, here is a brief outline of how it came into being.

This is not my first novel. In fact, it is my sixth. It is, however, the first novel I have written in the first person, the first novel I have written that is conspicuously autobiographical, and the first novel during whose writing I ever thought, "I am so glad I get to write this novel." It certainly wasn't easy to write, but it was also the first story I have ever penned where I felt I was the only one on the planet qualified to tell it. So I did.

As I said, it wasn't easy. I broke out in hives after writing one particular sentence, I got strep throat twice, my back went out, and my sleep was intermittent. And I had never been happier.

Almost as soon as I started writing it, I thought, "No one will ever want to read this." This was very smart. It was a good trick to let me write it without worrying what anyone else would think about it. Once I was done writing it, however, I decided that since I liked it, there was a chance that someone else might like it too.

It was my goal, after all, to share the story. That's why I write them, that's why I tell them to my friends and family. The beautiful thing about sharing a story is that once it has left your lips or your fingertips, it is no longer yours exclusively, it belongs to the Mind of Man, because everyone consumes it and retells it in just their own way.

Here then, is my story of a story. If you're an old hand, then read and commiserate; if you're newer to the game, perhaps there are some lessons to be learned. Regardless, this is a story of how I learned to rely on perseverance and faith, the only two things you can depend on in this otherwise shifty business.