Reactions and Actions

I had an unprecedented number of replies to last week's blog. All of them advised me to get off my keister and start sending out query letters for my novel -- the one I have been working on on and off for the past 10 years.

Now, I haven't been working on just that story all that time. I did manage to write a couple others, one of which was published in 2010. Another is being read by another publisher. I put it in the back corner of my mind because I was told it would take a year before I got a reply. That year is almost up, so I have been keeping my fingers and toes crossed. Still a third is at my original publisher awaiting a response. So I haven't been idle.

This past week I did a final manuscript check. The biggest hurdle was making sure all the chapter headings were in order after all the cutting and pasting I did while trying to make events flow with some kind of logic. Then I finished my outline. Using this as a guide, I wrote a two-page synopsis. It took a while, but I managed to cut it down to one page.

I sent out five query letters: three were single-page letters only; one query with the two-page synoposis and first chapter; and another query with the one-page synopsis and first 50 pages. (It seems every agent wants something different.) My goal is to send out a new query for each rejection.

Oh, speaking of rejections, I received my first one yesterday. It was short and sweet: "Not for me, but thanks." So now I have to go back to my list of possibles and sent out another query.

Meanwhile, as soon as I get some deadline-sensitive projects completed (both due March 1) I am starting another novel. This one will be a departure for me. I love what-ifs, and this one is "What if, after George Washington rejected the crown offered to him it was offered to Thomas Jefferson -- and he accepted."

Our lives would be a lot different -- or would they?

I'l keep you all posted.

Crawling to the finish line

Right now I am doing what I do best: procrastinating.

The closer I get to finishing the final (I hope) edit of my WIP, the slower my progress. One would suppose I would be hurling to the end, eager to finish and begin sending off queries.

Instead, I go over a few pages, take out a sentence, read the pages again, put the sentence back and change a word. Then I minimize the page and play a few hands of Spider Solitaire and check my e-mail before wandering off to make a cup of tea and engage my husband in a conversation about whether or not we need to make a run to Wal-Mart.

I have been working on this manuscript for almost 10 years now. I thought I had finished it once and sent out queries. One agent kindly told me "It isn't religious enough for the Christian market and not steamy enough for the historical market."

I put it aside. I could no more take out the religious slant than I could ignore the costumes of the period. Back then, the church was the focus of the community and people believed God was looking down on them with an angry and judgmental glare.

And, I couldn't make it "steamier." Some people can write erotic passages; I cannot.

But the story still called to me. I decided to rewrite it in 2009 and took out some of the "preachier" passages. I allowed the heroine to feel all warm and tingly whenever she was around the hero. I even had a secondary character destroy her reputation by running off with her son's tutor.

My critique group encouraged me to keep on and so I managed to complete the revised story. Because I had added passages, I needed to go back over it and make certain that everything flowed smoothly.

Now I am going over it again to see if I had missed any glaring errors. I have less than 100 pages to go. And each day, I go over fewer pages than the day before.

I don't want to get to the end because the next step is submission. I dread the process of sending out a query letter, synopsis and bio. I dread opening an e-mail or letter and seeing that rejection slip.

I guess I am afraid I did all that work and the novel is still unpublishable.

But I won't know until I try. I made one projection that I would finish by Feb. 1. I missed it, for all the reasons listed above. My next goal is to have at least one query sent out by March 1. There is no reason I can't accomplish this.

No reason at all.

Why my computer is my friend

Although my first book (well, I hope it is the first of many) was published just six months ago, I started writing about 25 years ago. My long, rocky road to publishing had many detours and long stretches of not writing at all. What I did write was consigned mostly to the trash. I mean the garbage can outside the house, not that tiny trash can icon on the screen that eats everything up with a little whoosh.

I started writing with a pen on a yellow legal pad. My daughter-in-law, who had just graduated from college, gave me her electric typewriter. I thought this technological advance was the cat's pajamas.

Then I got a word processor. I loved it, but it frequently had to be sent back to the manufacturer for repairs. When it went down the last time and I couldn't retrieve what I thought was a fairly decent romance, it got recycled.

Then we got a computer, more for its word processing program than the Internet. With dial-up, assessing the Internet was time-consuming and frustrating.

Then we got broadband. In two decades we progressed from the kitty's nightwear to groovy to ace, or whatever the current phrase is.

The best thing about the computer is that it connects me with other writers.

Way back when, I did an unprecedented thing. I took a week's vacation from work, spent $500 and signed up for a writing camp at Duke University. Among the presenters were Reynolds Price and Anthony Abbot -- big names then and now. (I was saddened to hear Price had died. He was a sweet, gentle man and a fantastic writer.)

One day, while eating lunch with other attendees, Josephine Humphries came along and sat down at our table. She showed us some souvenir t-shirts she had purchased for her sons. "Gosh," I recall thinking, "She's a famous writer and she acts just like us!"

Then she asked, "Have any of you ever felt like even your own family doesn't understand you?"

Every hand went up. All of us confessed to feeling isolated as we worked, trying to share with people who had no idea what we were talking about when we moped through a difficult scene or had a sudden breakthrough and yelled "Yes!" to an empty room.

That's what I love about the computer (besides the cut-and-paste feature). I am in contact with other writers. I belong to two on-line groups that e-mail daily. I read blogs by on-line friends I will never meet in real life. We support each other during the rough times and celebrate each other's success. We understand.

And that is why I have a computer. I could still write with a ball point pen and a tablet. But they don't help me connect with other writers.

Writing: a lost art?

I read recently that a study has been published that claims that, after four years of college, students are graduating without learning "the critical thinking, complex reasoning and written communication skills that are widely assumed to be at the core of a college education."

Okay, I know that high school students can't write, as in picking up a pen or pencil and connecting it to a piece of paper. Educators claim they don't need to learn to write in cursive because they all use a keyboard. Nowadays, a little, bitty one on their cell phones. And what they write is in code as far as I'm concerned. It took me months to figure out LOL means "laughing out loud." I thought it meant "lots of luck."

But not being able to write, as in "written communication skills?"

There have been many changes since I attended good old Alfred University including coed dorms and tuition hikes that today could pay for a small home. Whatever happened to essays, term papers, reports and all the other assignments? Looking back, it seems I spent my four years researching topics in the campus library, followed by typing reports on what I had read. On a manual typewriter. Without Wite-Out. You had to be pretty sure what you were going to write made sense before you hit the keys because you couldn't correct it by backspacing. You had to start all over.

I get Internet vs. library. Why get dressed and trudge across the quad when you can do research on your laptop? Unfortunately, it is too easy to copy/paste information found there and present it as your own. Some students have never heard of plagarism. Hey, it's on the Internet, it's free for all, right? Right, but it's not writing. It's copying someone else's ideas and not using your own critical thinking. skills.

When did I learn to write? I think my first assignment was, "You can't play with your new toy until you write and thank your grandmother for it." In elementary school, we started class every fall with "What I Did on My Summer Vacation." Then there were the Regents exams in high school: two facts and an illustration for every essay question.

I know some students are writing. Every year our writers club holds a contest for students from third grade to seniors. I've judged essay contests. And I try to withhold judgment on grammar, punctuation and spelling because I realize it isn't the student's fault he never learned it.

But college? That scares me. Writing is an essential, reasoned and thoughtful form of communication. If our emerging leaders don't learn this skill during their four years on campus, I really fear for the future.

A farewell

Life is filled with losses: at my age, I know that. I have attended far too many funerals in the past few years. And I know that it is not the dead, but ourselves we weep for.

The funeral I attend yesterday was held at a small country church -- way out in the country. Even though we arrived early, the parking lot was full; more cars were lined up on each side of the road and along the adjoining pastureland.

The sanctuary was full, as well as available space on the small porch and vestibule. The number of mourners was visible testament to the many people who had been touched by this special life.

Phoebe had a varied career but her talent showed most clearly in her role as director of the county library. When I first met her, she was learning the job as well as attending college to get her master's degree in library science. It was a full and demanding load, but she handled it with ease and grace. She was never too busy to talk about a book she had read that she thought Imight enjoy, or ask about my own fledgling career.

Phoebe was a nourisher. She brought local writers to the library to speak about their books and the writing life. She was delighted to be told about a new author that she could persuade to come and talk at the monthly Brown Bag Book Club. Held at noon so working people could attend, the idea was that everyone brought something to share. Phoebe loved to cook, so there was always a pot of soup, chili, or corned beef and cabbage as the main dish. She loved photography, so each session was well documented.

She initiated programs for children and adults. Younger readers could find their books in a fairytale castle. Teens were encouraged to paint seasonal murals on the windows. Older adults were entertained with programs that included musical groups and storytellers.

When asked to help with the Carolinas Writers Conference, Phoebe threw herself into the project with her customary enthusiasm. She not only suggested authors and helped with the planning, she persuaded her Friends of the Library to supply goodies for the authors to nibble on between their workshops. It was not her fault if they returned to their homes a few pounds heavier than when they arrived.

Not everyone knew that Phoebe was struggling with her health all this time. A mysterious illness was eventually diagnosed as lupus. The treatment seemed to cause as much damage as the disease. There were other problems, both medical and personal. Phoebe never lost her smile or that great laugh. If you asked how she was, she'd tell you, but somehow you found yourself discussing the latest bestseller instead, or how the conference was shaping up, or if we'd had an acceptance from this or that writer. Her outlook was always optimistic and her goal was to live life as fully as possible.

When she was admitted to the hospital, she was promptly added to prayer lists in nearly every church in the county. People called or stopped by the library daily for updates from the staff. Although the news was seldom good, people never stopped believing that she'd conquer this obstacle as she had so many others. "The doctors don't know Phoebe," we said.

But the complications were too serious. Even her tremendous courage and strength couldn't overcome them.

The minister giving the homily said that Phoebe was now in heaven, using her myriad skills to make the place "more better."

So we grieve for ouselves, for we know what we have lost. But every time I enter the library, I will be reminded of the legacy she left. And, somewhere in the distance, I will hear her laughter.

All I want for Christmas...

Most little girls ask for dolls or a tea set for Christmas. Or, at least they did, in the days before television.

I liked dolls well enough, and we had Grandma's dishes from soap boxes to use for our imaginary parties. For those who don't remember, companies used to insert dishes in boxes of soap powder and someone who did a lot of laundry could accumulate an entire set, if she was lucky and didn't end up with seven saucers, one cup and five cereal bowls.

Maybe that's what Grandma's neighbor was doing when she hung out her laundry every day of the week and not just on Monday. "That family must be awfully clean or awfully dirty," Grandma observed.

So, having a family of dolls and enough dishes to invite the Queen for supper, I asked for books. When Christmas came and there wasn't at least on flat, rectangular package under the tree with my name on it, I was filled with disappointment. It didn't matter what else I received. If there was no book, my holiday was ruined.

After my parents discovered this, they made sure I wasn't sulking all Christmas Day while my brother and sister played with their new toys. First there were the Bobbsey Twins: Nan and Bert, the older twins, and Freddy and Flossie, the younger set. This lasted for several Christmases. Then I graduated to Nancy Drew. There were a few other, non-series books, along the years that I have forgotten the titles of.

The problem was, I read the books too quickly and often was finished by the end of the day. One year my exasperated parents presented me with the entire set (to date -- they were produced until 1955) of the Honey Bunch books. Honey Bunch was a saccharinely sweet little girl who had numerous adventures which I was privileged to share. The set lasted about a week.

I still think a book is the best gift. A few years ago I went to a book store and selected books for all my grown sons. This was not a hit. They like to read, but our tastes are too dissimilar. The only authors we share a liking for are Neal Stephenson and Clive Cussler.

Same goes for the grandkids. I spent the month before Christmas last year e-mailing back and forth with my daughter-in-law: me suggesting a book and her telling me they had already read it. I ended up sending her money to buy them gift cards a a local book store.

So -- there most likely won't be a book under my tree this year unless I go out, buy it, and wrap it myself.

Which isn't a bad idea.

Merry Christmas to one and all.

And does "it" really matter?

I'm still slogging through the WIP following Eliza Knight's editing tips. She suggests using the "find" function to locate weak or lazy words. I guess the laziest novel never-to-be-published would begin, "Yeah, well you know what I mean..." Unfortunately, this can't be accompanied by a vague armwave, so we novelists must say what we mean and not rely on the reader to guess.

I was able to substitute stronger verbs in most cases or remove an unneeded word entirely, but when I came to the word "watch" I was literally flummoxed. I'm sure Ms. Knight meant it as a verb, but in my case it was the noun that tripped me up. I had a character looking at her watch and mentioning the time in every chapter, and sometimes more than once. I deleted or rewrote these sentences while shaking my head in dismay. How did I miss this? I can't blame my critique group, who read the work in segments and undoubtedly didn't make the connection.

For the past three days I have been working on "it." "It" is a lazy word and the suggestion is replace it with the noun "it" is referring to.

Sometimes this is simple. Other times the sentence then reads like Dick and Jane. This passage:

"Have you seen my book?
"You left it over there, on the table."
"Oh, there it is. Thanks."

Becomes:

"Have you seen my book?"
"You left your book over there, on the table."
"Oh, there is my book. Thanks."

Or, "He picked up the book from the table and returned the book to the shelf, fitting the book between two other books, where the book belonged."

This means I have to stop and think every time the cursor highlights the word "it." Can it be replaced? Can I reword the sentence so it (the sentence) doesn't begin with "It?" Or can I leave it alone? After all, it is a very useful word and saves repetition.

I had hoped to have the editing finished by the end of this month. Now, I hope to finish this part of the exercise by Dec. 31. Alas, I still have all the adverbs to go, which means I will be searching for "ly" in January.