I’ve been rereading two of my very favorite books: Coraline by Neil Gaiman and We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson. Why? I could bore you with woeful tales of needing a book to obsess me and not finding it lately (suggestions welcomed!) but really, it all comes down to magic. Both of these novels, though extremely different, are swimming in magic—so much so that I can read them dozens of times and still remain captivated by the energies swirling around and in them.

For those who haven’t read them (off to the nearest indie bookshop with you!): Coraline is the short chapter book* about a girl who finds a mirror world by walking through a door that seems to go nowhere in the flat she shares with her parents. The mirror world is full of the dark and strange: button-eyed copies of her parents and neighbors (yes, with actual big black buttons for eyes), red-eyed chanting mice, ghost children, and a fabulously snarky talking cat who serves as a sort of aloof guide.

Shirley Jackson’s masterpiece, We Have Always Lived In The Castle, tells the story (from the point of view of an extremely unreliable narrator) of the Blackwood family. Merricat, Constance, and Uncle Julian are survivors of the arsenic poisoning that killed the rest of their family six years ago. Constance was accused and then acquitted of the crime, but all three of the remaining members of the Blackwood family are forced to live in isolation and are (at times violently) scorned by the village in which they live.

Both novels, though extremely different in so many ways, share a sense of quotidian magic. We Have Always Lived In The Castle is full of imagined trips to the moon, repetitive, almost incantatory movements and actions, buried treasure, and magic words. Books, milk saucers, dolls, jewels, are imbued with a sense of power, a power that protects the Blackwoods (or so the narrator believes) against the encroaching outside world. Coraline takes the familiar and defamiliarizes it, creating uncanny doppelgangers of the people and places that should be, ultimately comforting and protective.

These magics, while captivating, are not what keeps me coming back to these novels, why they are always tucked up close to my bed. It’s the ways in which these very disparate narrators, narrators who are outcasts through loneliness, isolation or their own madness, create and manipulate power (whether that power is real or imagined) over their lives and struggles. These young women are able to weave spells that change their worlds, if even in their own minds.

What is incredible about these novels are the ways in which Jackson and Gaiman show how women and girls who are disempowered can reclaim themselves, that power over the self is powerful magic indeed.

*Coraline is meant for children of all ages—though if you’re reading to or with actual children, know that it’s a creepy read–I revel in these things, and have since the womb, but younger children may be freaked out.

The only painting Van Gogh sold in his life time: “Red Vinyard at Aries”

“I love writing,” said a Grubbie in a one-to-one Career Boost, “but whenever I announce that I’m a writer, someone always asks me what novels I have in print.  When I tell them I’m unpublished, they give me a pitying look, and I feel like a failure.”

Of course, this writer is far from being a failure.  She is working at her craft, devoting time to her writing, and producing great work.  But in a society that too often believes lies about writers, we have to use some activism and turn those lies around.

Here are some of the key lies that the world too often believes about writers:

1. You’re only a successful writer if you’re published by paying markets, such as the magazines that you can buy in Barnes & Noble.

2. You’re only a successful writer if you’ve published a book-length work with a big publishing house.

3. It is hard to write a book, but if it is good, you’ll easily get it published and earn money from the royalties.

4. If you don’t publish a book, you can’t write very well and you’re certainly not a professional.

5. If you’re not earning large amounts of money, you’re not successful in terms of your career.

6. If you self-publish, it means you aren’t talented and/or professional.

All of these are lies.  And ultimately, they’re boring lies.  Plus they are easily disproven.  For instance, Anais Nin self-published Under a Glass Bell because she couldn’t find a publisher.  She sold a tiny amount of copies, until the little book of literary stories made its way into the hands of an editor and was reviewed by the New Yorker.  Fame at last.  Then we have Van Gogh who sold one—just one—painting in his life (and who wants to argue that he wasn’t a serious artist?).  What ‘s more, the great works of British Medieval authors were given away—to music, sometimes—by oral storytellers on the streets.  Grateful donations were optional.  And even further back in history, Anglo Saxon England saw its oral poets as being so vital that they bonded together people of all different classes through the essential power of story.  In fact, story wasn’t generally bought or sold, story was a right.

Of course, these are notions that we can use to argue that writing success isn’t about glitz and money.

Now, I argue that it’s exciting when one of us stands up and says, “I know society views things that way, but I see them differently.”  That shows initiative, rebelliousness, enthusiasm.  And the logical response is often, “Ooh!  Tell us more.”

For instance:

Jane:  “So, you’re a writer, are you, Sarah?  Where are you published?”

Sarah:  “Actually, I’m glad you asked.  You see, I’ve chosen not to publish my work as yet.”

Jane:  “Oh.  Okay.  Well, why is that?”

Sarah:  “I don’t want to just publish anything.  I want to really hone my craft.  I’m serious, you see, like Van Gogh.  Did you know that he only sold three paintings in his lifetime?  But think how he’s affected the world.”

Jane:  “Wow, I didn’t know that!  But I guess it makes good sense.  So, what are you working on at the moment?”

And then, you’re in a totally different conversation.

Another “for instance”:

Joe:  “So, you’re a writer, Harry?  Where are you published?”

Harry:  “Actually, I’m taking a different tack.  It’s perfectly natural to think about money, but I have an income already, so I’m actually more interested in how storytelling can change lives, rather than earn big bucks.”

Joe:  “Oh really?”

Harry:  “Yes.  See, I write stories primarily to affect others.  When you publish in a print magazine, you often don’t see your impact or effect on the world.  But when you give readings, like I do, you see the effects in action.  People are moved or excited, and they’ll talk with you afterwards.  You make wonderful connections.  It’s really quite amazing.”

Joe:  “Oh, now that’s really brave.  I admire your guts, reading your work in public.”

Harry:  “Well, when you really believe in what you do, that’s half the battle.  I mean, I overcame my shyness a couple of years ago when…”

And then you’re in a totally different conversation.

Another “for instance”:

Barry: “So I hear you’re a serious writer, Sal.  What sort of books do you publish?”

Sal:  “I’m really serious about my craft, but rather like my heroes—Anais Nin, Geoffrey Chaucer—rather like them, writing is a way of life for me, whereas publishing is optional.”

Barry:  “That’s great!  So it’s just a hobby, really?”

Sal:  “I guess I’d say it’s a passion, a craft.  It isn’t about cash, or passing time pleasurably, it’s more about reaching other people, affecting society, creating great art.”

Barry:  “Oh right!  So how do you get your work out there?”

Sal:  “Well, I publish in small magazines—often online mags, where the content is accessible for everyone.  And I also have a blog where I post my stories.  I might actually self-publish, if I do publish a book-length work—I’ve not decided yet.  They’re such different options.  You see…”

And again, you’re in a totally different conversation.

Also, if you try such tacticts and the person you’re talking with says that you’re speaking a load of rubbish, I suggest that you ignore them.  Seriously.  There’s a line.

Now, if you think about all the conversations above, they carry deep truths.  Those who are in writing to earn money, garner fame, get on the shelf at Barnes & Noble, are less likely to make it to those very destinations than those who write because they love their craft, or they want to reach others.  When we wish to affect the world or hone our craft for the love/pride/thrill of it, we are far less limited (and limiting!) than those who only want to be J. K. Rowling or the next Dickens.  I’ve seen this theory proven via Boost clients again and again.

That’s why conversations like those above are activist conversations.  They’re chats that drive our world to view art as something far deeper than money or fame.  And often, the people who ask us, “What novels have you published?” are the very people who long to be told, “I don’t believe in those restrictions.”  Because you can bet your bottom dollar they’ve been restricted themselves.  Maybe they’ve even been told that money is the only measure of talent, or that the “career ladder” is vital to happiness, or that great stories can’t exist outside of a chain bookstore.

Just think about that.  I know I have, and often.  Every time we say, “Art is deep,” we effectively say, “Your art can be deep too.”

And from that seed, most anything can grow.

–

P.S. If you want to be truly radical and earn money whilst also changing the world, you might consider publishing literary or popular erotica. (Yay, I have a course coming up! “Go Deeper, Baby: Writing Meaningful Erotica.”)  What’s more, you can book a Grub Street Boost with yours truly and get some help with re-imagining your writing career or getting confidence in your writing.

Hooray!

I am due to give birth in four days, and I am ready to crawl out of my skin from impatience. I’ve done everything safely possible to get things going—yoga, walking, red raspberry leaf tea, primrose oil, spicy food, you name it. But my little boy is cozy and comfortable and doesn’t seem like he has any plans of coming early, or even on time. In fact, my midwife says, most first-time moms usually go a week or two past their due dates.

Great.

I should acknowledge each day in-utero as another day my son grows healthier, stronger, but I’ll be honest, in my mind, that just translates to the fact that each day he gets BIGGER. And bigger does not seem better when this bulkier, brawnier baby will have to somehow exit my body.

Many people compare labor and delivery to running a marathon. I’d like to agree (though, as a first-timer, I can’t really imagine). But based on the excruciating waiting period in the last weeks, I’d like to morph that simile a bit to include what it’s like for someone who has never given birth, who has no idea when she’ll go into labor, and who chose to go to a midwife practice where inducing is not spoken of until absolutely necessary.

Labor and delivery is like a marathon, yes, but instead of knowing the date and time of the race, and having the assurance that it will be 26.2 miles, no longer, imagine that, instead, on any given day, at any given time within a few-week span, you can be tapped on the shoulder and told to begin running this race. Right now. It does not matter if it is 3 a.m., if you are sleep-deprived or mentally prepared, hydrated or nourished enough, that horn will sound, and you must begin. Then, when you are running, you are never told how long you will have to keep moving your legs. That, too, is unpredictable. It just ends when it ends. The finish line can be at 26 miles, or 30, or 65, you never know. You might be running in hilly New England, flat Chicago, scorching Arizona, or rainy Seattle. Again, there is no guarantee of anything. Injury, needing medical intervention—there’s no telling what will happen. Will the blisters, the shin splints, the chafing, the cramps, the muscle tension be unbearable? You have nothing to base the experience on.

These are the things I’ve been obsessing about for the last two weeks—the many many many unknowns.

When I can’t handle the waiting and the analyzing, I visit friends, I plan lovely summer outings for my son and I to stroll through museums and zoos (when, in all actuality, I will probably just be at home, sleep-deprived, and changing yet another diaper), and I go to yoga classes (where the other yogis look horrified that my baby’s head will pop out in downward dog).

Possibly sensing my impatience, or having overheard me say to another woman that I am SO ready to have my baby, my yoga teacher last Friday ended class with a message that appealed to me.

She stressed the importance of this incubation time by referencing the following quotation:

“Everything has a gestation period, a time period that must pass before things will come into form. If you plant a carrot seed, it takes about seven weeks for the sprout to make its above-dirt entrance. Bamboo, which can grow up to thirteen feet in as little as one week, takes up to seven years to break through the surface of the ground. But for seven long years it looks like absolutely nothing’s happening. Now that takes some commitment.” ~ James Arthur Ray from Harmonic Wealth

I left, thinking, Seven years? I can last another week.

Later, when talking to a friend, we used this analogy for writing as well. So much of the final published thing is dependent on the cultivation—the writing down of ideas, the reading of inspirational excerpts by beloved authors, the workshops, the drafts, the revisions, the submissions, the rejections, the waiting until it is really really ready.

The last part, I think is, by far, the hardest.

Two weeks ago at the Muse, I went to Nicole Bernier’s session in which she focused on this very idea. She confessed to having sent out query letters to editors and agents when her novel was not yet done, in essence wasting some of her vital contacts. Later, she presented her novel when it was done but not yet revised. Finally, after hefty revisions, her novel was ready, and she sent out her querries, which were responded to quickly and positively. Recently, it–her highly-praised book, The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D.–was reprinted in paperback.

Did I mention that she was having and raising her five children in the midst of all this?!

Nicole’s honesty was admirable and her lesson an important one. Though we must wait, and the waiting can be agonizing, sometimes we need to let our writing gestate, even when it appears as if absolutely nothing is happening under the surface.

By Michelle Seaton

Years ago, I was an assistant editor at a regional magazine. We were set to publish a piece written by a man who specialized in rescuing abused animals, including circus animals. The story detailed a relationship he’d had with a former circus elephant that had attacked and nearly killed him several times. The crisis moment in the piece was a scene in which he made an impassioned speech to the elephant, and the elephant cried.

The trouble was that our publisher found this scene hilarious. He acted it out in an editorial meeting and said, “We’re not publishing this because elephants don’t cry.” As the lowliest person on the editorial totem pole, I knew what was coming next. The managing editor said to me, “Can you look into this?”

I’m so glad this happened long before Google was invented, long before there were websites full of badly researched information waiting to be misused. So, push aside your computer keyboard. Here are some guidelines for finding esoteric information:

1. Consult people, not websites. Yes, you can look things up online, or in books, but people with lots of knowledge on a specific topic are always the best sources. Why? Because they can give quotes. They can nuance an answer. They might lead you to another story. Oh, dear. We need an elephant expert. Where to find one of those?
2. Start with someone you know. The six degrees of separation rule is true. These days it’s more like three degrees. You probably know somebody who knows somebody who knows the world’s leading elephant behaviorist. Failing that, you can call your local zoo and ask who takes care of the elephants. Ask that person if elephants cry. If that person doesn’t know, ask who would know.
3. Prepare for your expert interview. Once you have an expert’s contact information, you can scour the Internet looking for information on elephants, elephant behavior, elephant lore. Search for information about your expert, too. The point is to start the interview with as much information as possible so that you don’t waste this person’s time and so that you can ask good questions. The better your questions, the better the answers will be.
4. Be a grateful sponge. The person who shares expertise with you is giving you an invaluable gift, not just knowledge and time, but personal connection. It’s important to open your sense of wonder that you and you alone are talking to someone who has spent years in the company of elephants. If you can feel this sense of wonder in other conversations too, your life will change.

What will you find if you do these things? I learned that elephants do cry, in a way. Their eyes water frequently in part because elephants love to dump dust on each other. But it’s also true that they express emotions. They are joyful, playful, protective, angry, and they grieve openly. At the time, research didn’t indicate that emotion alone would cause an elephant to shed tears. Could an elephant feel regret after attacking a person? Perhaps. As one expert said to me: “It is as impossible to look into the heart of an elephant as it is to look into the heart of a man.” It’s a piece of wisdom I’ve never forgotten.

[Another entry in the ongoing blog "Would We Lie To You?: News from the Non-Fiction Career Lab"]

By Ethan Gilsdorf

So you’ve had your one-on-one with an agent or editor at the Muse and Marketplace conference. And you have this sinking feeling you need to give that query letter a makeover.

Or, you want to send out your manuscript. And you’ve never written a cover letter before.

Or, you just have an incredible idea for an essay, article, blog post or op-ed that you want to get out there into the world.

Guess what? Your meal ticket in this industry is the pitch letter. You need to write a pitch letter to sell that idea. And your pitch letter needs to rock.

The pitch letter (aka the query letter or cover letter) is the tool you use to communicate your idea, be it an essay, article, book proposal or book manuscript, to the buyer of your idea, such as an editor or an agent. And so the ability to write this letter needs to be in your writerly toolkit as you go forward into your career. It’s as important a tool as other tools and weapons a writer needs to have and master, like a thesaurus, a bull whip, a fedora, a hip flask and a +2 Eraser of Revision.

This Friday I’m teaching the latest iteration of my “Writing Killer Pitch Letters for Nonfiction Projects” class. (Still seats available! Sign up here!) In that class, and my other marketplace-oriented classes, I teach tips and tricks for writing the letter that best works for the editor or agent or publication where you are trying to sell your work.

I have seen success from my students who are trying to sell short-form nonfiction (essays, op-eds, articles, and feature stories) in mainstream and trade magazines, newspapers, literary magazines, blogs, and online publications, as well submit their nonfiction book proposals to agents and editors. (Sending that literary essay to a literary magazine requires less salesmanship, but still there’s a smidgen of pitch involved in those kind of cover letters, too.) And, as I said, these letters do work.

By examining pitch letters that actually worked (and we’ll do this in class), you’ll see writing pitch letters isn’t all that complicated. It just has to be done well — with verve, wit and originality.

Here’s a sneak peak of strategies to make sure your idea — and letter describing your idea —is sharp, focused, original, and targeted. Some tips:

1) Mimic it. The quality , tone and style of your pitch should match your project. If your novel is a thriller, then pitch it as if it were a thriller. Put us in a scene, in a moment of suspense. If it’s a timely op-ed, introduce your devastatingly-original idea by pegging it right to the bubbling news item everyone is talking about.

2) Custom fit. Remember that the same query letter doesn’t work for each editor or agent you are trying to pitch. You need to customize it based on what you know about the publication or the agency. A pitch for the Wall Street Journal is going to look a lot different from a pitch for Cosmopolitan.

3) Flattery. Yes, it works. In your letter, say how much you enjoyed the latest book this agent helped sell, or the article that the editor recently edited and published.

4) Why you? Why now? Why this topic? Your pitch needs to answer at least two of these three questions: Why are you the best person to write this article/op-ed/essay/book? (Possible answer: “Because my dad was in the CIA, that’s why.”) Why is the time for this idea now? (Because there’s a new study that’s been released that says spaghetti decreases blood pressure.) Why is this topic compelling? (Because people are interested to know how to prevent concussions in their children playing football.) Etc.

5) Don’t be boring. You have about two or three paragraphs max to grab your reader’s attention. Use all of your writerly powers to be compelling and artful and interesting. Think of seduction. Force the agent or editor to want to read further.

And there are more tips. But like a good pitch letter, my job is to tease you to want more. You have to attend the seminar for the rest. I hope to see you Friday. Sign up for ”Writing Killer Pitch Letters for Nonfiction Projects” here.

Ethan Gilsdorf is the author of the award-winning book Fantasy Freaks and Gaming Geeks: An Epic Quest for Reality Among Role Players, Online Gamers, and Other Dwellers of Imaginary Realms, his travel memoir investigation into fantasy and gaming subcultures. The poet, teacher, critic and journalist has worked as a freelance correspondent, guidebook writer, and film, book and restaurant reviewer. Based in Somerville, Massachusetts, he publishes travel, arts, and pop culture stories regularly in the New York Times, Boston Globe, and Christian Science Monitor, and has been published in dozens of other magazines, newspapers, websites and guidebooks worldwide, including wired.com, Salon.com, Playboy, National Geographic Traveler, Psychology Today, the San Francisco Chronicle, USA Today, the Washington Post and Fodor’s travel guides. He is a book and film critic for the Boston Globe, film columnist for Art New England, his blog “Geek Pride” is seen regularly on PsychologyToday.com, and his blog “Hip Points” appears on ForcesofGeek.com. He also contributes to blogs at wired.com‘s “Geek Dad”; Boston.com‘s Globetrotting; Tor.com; and TheOneRing.net. Read more at www.ethangilsdorf.com or Twitter @ethanfreak.

“Why can’t we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn’t work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.”

 – Charles M. Schulz

Last year around this time, I wrote a post about how elated Michelle Hoover and I both felt following the pilot year of our team-taught Novel Incubator program. After hearing ten stellar readings from our students at their graduation ceremony last Thursday night, I finished out this second year of the Incubator feeling perhaps even more strongly about the program’s merit. The Novel Incubator has been a wildly successful experiment, and one of the best teaching experiences I’ve ever had.

And, I’m sad to say, I won’t be teaching in the Incubator for a third year.

There were many factors that went into the gut-wrenching decision I made to leave the program. A lot of it came down to time: I have another part-time job in a field unrelated to writing, and while that job doesn’t nurture my Muse, it does pay the bills – no small feat in this economy. Add to that family obligations, friends I haven’t seen since the Incubator started two years ago, a long-distance relationship that has been scheduled around breaks in the Incubator, or weekends with a lighter work load. On my shelves stand a slew of beautiful new books by talented friends and colleagues that I haven’t had a minute to crack open. An indie rock fan who has always kept up on new releases, my iTunes library is sadly frozen in 2011.

Yet given the joy I felt teaching in this program, I think I could have found a way to make all of the above work, if my writing had been thriving. But my progress on a new novel is nearly as frozen in 2011 as my music library. For the first year, I thought it was simply an issue of time management. If I could jettison this or that responsibility, get up earlier, stay up later, cook even less than I do now, etc. … the writing time would magically appear before me. But then I came upon the following quote by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer:

“Writing is not a matter of time, but a matter of space. If you don’t keep space in your head for writing, you won’t write even if you have the time.”

For me, keeping that space in my head involves having a certain amount of downtime, and this is something I’ve always needed. My mother remembers how I used to come home from kindergarten, sit at my playroom table and stare into space for a half hour every day before I would go out to play. She was alarmed, but my dad told her not to be: “She’s just processing the day. She’ll go outside when she’s done.”

My dad was right, but what he didn’t know was that the processing time was also where seeds of stories would start to form – perhaps not at age 5, but certainly within a few years of that. I’ve carried this habit with me through adulthood. If I don’t have that time to process, if I just barrel from one commitment to the next, I end up feeling frazzled, harried. More importantly, I have no space to create stories.

Shortly after I made the decision to leave the Incubator, I received the news that my second novel, The Fifty-First State, would be published by Engine Books. I’m not a believer in mystical signs, but it did feel like confirmation that I’d made the right call, for I couldn’t possibly have promoted my book this fall with the kind of schedule I had last fall.

I will always feel deeply connected to the twenty amazing writers we had in the first two years of the Incubator, as well as to Michelle. Already I feel a bond with the students I’ve met who will be starting the third year of the Incubator this June, several of whom had been former students of mine. I know that they are in able hands with Michelle at the helm. And while I’d like to flatter myself that Grub Street’s decision to have Michelle teach the course solo after I stepped down meant that I was irreplaceable, I know it has much more to do with the fact that Michelle is a dynamic, insightful and incredibly giving instructor, and more than capable of running the program without a partner.

The year-long Novel Incubator course begins and ends with the Muse and the Marketplace conference, and I had a moment at this year’s Muse that crystallized for me everything that’s special about the program. For the first time at the Muse, Grub Street had a “Debriefing Room” for Manuscript Mart participants, where they could go and talk with a volunteer author about how their sessions with agents or editors went, to get some perspective on the advice they’d received. Late Saturday afternoon, Michelle, Yael Goldstein-Love and I were the volunteers in the Debriefing Room, chatting mostly at first with a few Incubator graduates. But then a time came when the room was full: a number of writers who’d never taken a workshop before, for whom the Muse was their first ever writing conference, filed in, looking a bit shell-shocked after their sessions. There were not enough volunteer authors in the room to talk to all of these folks one-on-one. As I spoke with one writer and wondered how we should handle the new influx, I saw an amazing thing happening: our Incubator students began to partner up with these newer writers, asking how their sessions went, offering perspective that they’d learned during our course. The pride I felt in that moment is indescribable: pride in my students and how far they’ve come, and pride in the program Michelle and I created.

This is not a goodbye; just a new beginning, for me, for Michelle and for the Incubator. I can’t wait to see the fabulous works that will come out of the third year class. And I will always be cheering on our Incubees – sometimes, I suspect, quite loudly – from the sidelines.

The Novel Incubator is Grub Street’s year-long intensive course in the novel for writers with a completed novel manuscript, taught by Michelle Hoover. Deadline for applications is in February.  For more information, go to www.grubstreet.org/index.php?id=1285.

By Kaila Kuban

Dear______,

It has been two days since I was at the Muse, trying to suck up all the air and warmth and good juju as possible.  It has only been today, however, that I could put my fingers to the keyboard and write you this letter.  I spent three days at the conference this year in one of those unmistakable bright baby blue “Ask me I’m a Grubbie” t-shirts.  You might have seen me.  Maybe you remember me?  Either way, it makes no difference, because I remember you.

Maybe I remember you because you were one of the literati superstars so many were enchanted by.  The day after the Muse ended, not quite ready to wrest the writing needle from my vein, I went to hear Elinor Lipman read in Brookline.  And sitting there, I jotted down this list of authors and agents and editors I had been lucky enough to rub elbows with over the course of the conference – a list that spanned the gamut – but included Amanda Fucking Palmer.  A list that would make any wannabe writer swoon.  Those interactions happened because of the Muse.  But the Muse is not about that.  Not for me.  For me, it’s about you.

Maybe I remember you because – as a recovering academic – the conferences I spent a decade attending were stuffy uninspiring pissing contests during the day and self-flagellating drinking ones at night.  And you were nothing like those people.

Maybe I remember you because I offered you water and time checks as you prepared to present, having no idea this session I was about to sit through would open up long cobwebbed windows in my head, visions bursting through painted seals, remembering.  And to think I almost didn’t hear your words.

Maybe I remember you because when you wandered up to me, lost, and I told you where your next session was you were so grateful and kind, and your kindness felt real – and honest.  And you moved me.

Maybe I remember you because when I walked you to get your coat during that time when coat check was closed and I asked you how your weekend was and we connected over how our heads felt both drained and electric – and you told me that you had just had your first meeting with an agent ever.  And that you got a request for a full manuscript.  And I wanted to hug you.  I wanted to jump up and down.  I told you to go outside and scream it from a building top.

I remember you because it was you who made that aura of good feeling that I couldn’t escape at the Muse. You – anxiously popping Altoids in the Manuscript Mart waiting room – or smiling to yourself as you texted furiously in the Manuscript Mart decompression room.  You – trying to keep your head above water while also wanting to let go completely, to be pulled under, to submit yourself into this tide of writers and writing and words.  You were seasoned and published.  You were green and self-effacing.  You had just been accepted into the fiction incubator and when you told me that I wanted to throw you a party – right there by the merchandise table.  In that moment I was so happy for you – a stranger.  Congratulations, it was the best news I had heard in so long.  You – making me believe that it could all happen.

On Friday you were bright eyes and where is the Charles River room and I don’t know what session I’m signed up for, and by Sunday you owned that hotel – taking the labyrinthine stairs instead of the elevator up to the forth floor where human sign posts in blue could have told you where to go, but you already knew.  You old seasoned pro, you.

And you didn’t want to leave.  You were strung out but buzzing, what with the all the new people and pretty words.  You were hashtagging and hilarious.  You wanted to sleep for days.  You wanted to hurryup.gohome.write. Because you were inspired.

And you were inspiring.

So thank you,

A Girl In Blue

Kaila Kuban, Ph.D. is an anthropologist interested in youth, class, politics and the use of art in social justice movements.  As a new Boston transplant, Kaila spends her days writing at Grub Street, volunteering at 826 Boston, and trying to figure out why people in this city honk so often.  You can read her musings on creativity, media, culture and life at www.kailakuban.com.  Follow her on twitter @doctak.

Today closes out the The Muse and the Marketplace. This is the fourteenth in a series of micro-interviews by an author, agent or editor who is attending the event.  

Micro-Interview with Benjamin Samuel

1. What is the toughest criticism to give or receive on writing?
   It’s the vague, more emotional criticisms that are the toughest. When you hear “something just isn’t working” or “something is missing” you know the story isn’t failing in a way that isn’t immediately apparent. Before you can even make repairs, but you have to figure out where the story is broken and that can be difficult to discover.
2. What do you think is the future of digital vs. printed media for the publishing industry?
   I think the one small thing that’s certain is that the news cycle endlessly declaring “”the death of print”" will eventually fade. People love a good doomsday story, but the publishing industry isn’t one.
   People are reading more than ever before. People are writing more than ever before. We just need to adapt to trends in a way that’s forward-thinking, and that will be facilitated by publishers who are interested in technology, and developers who are interested in literature.
3. What is the strangest place you’ve ever been?
   Queens.
   
4. What’s the one piece of advice you’d like to give to writers?
   Know your audience. And I don’t mean that in terms of writing for a specific group, but for sending your work to agents, editors, magazines, MFA programs, etc. You’ll have more success if you’re reaching out to places that are the right fit for you.

Benjamin Samuel is the co-editor of Electric Literature, an independent publishing company the Washington Post called a “refreshingly bold act of optimism.” Founded in 2009, Electric Literature uses new technologies to ensure literature maintains a place of prominence in popular culture. Their magazine, Recommended Reading—a weekly digital-only publication curated by literary tastemakers—was the first major literary magazine to publish directly to Tumblr, and picked up over 35,000 subscribers in its first six months. Benjamin has an MFA in fiction from Brooklyn College, and his thoughts on literature and publishing have been appeared in the Huffington Post, the LA Times, GalleyCat, Poets & Writers, and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn.

By Katie Li

“You mean, you’re taking a writing class at that place that has ads on the Green Line?”

This was the typical response I got when I told my friends about my summer plans.  I was fifteen years old and ready to write something more meaningful and imaginative than the brief exercises assigned for English class.  I was taking my very first creative writing workshop at Grub Street, a little known writing center that just happened to have a Young Adult Writers Program.  It was the year 2000, a few years before the birth of Facebook, and my friends were skeptical of any organization that promoted itself on the T.

I was hopeful, despite their taunting.  Grub Street seemed as good as any place, and I was not disappointed.  In fact, joining Grub Street was arguably the best (and very first) decision I would make in my writing career.

Every morning for two weeks, an intimate group of high school students gathered in a rented room in Coolidge Corner to study voice and dialogue, how to create believable characters and plot structures, and the importance of peer review.  Under the instruction of Chris Castellani, we read each other’s work and the work of established authors.  We played writing games and used prompts that I still use today.  This workshop provided the foundation for my craft that I continued to build and refine at the Boston Arts Academy and Hampshire College, and still rely on as I work to become a published author.

Just as important as those lessons in craft or the stories we produced was the literary community we fostered in that class.  We were curious to hear what new ideas our classmates had written overnight, and we learned how to accept feedback.  Discussion was supportive, and sometimes challenging, but always focused on how we could help each other grow.  For a mixed-race girl who always felt a little different for wanting to write, this feeling of connection was empowering.

Building community is what Grub does best.  From gathering writers together for workshops and the Muse and the Marketplace Conference, to hosting lectures that embrace new opportunities for authors and publishers in the digital age, Grub is constantly connecting us to make our literary world a little less lonely.  From humble beginnings in rented spaces, Grub Street has blossomed into one of the largest independent writing centers in the country, encouraging writers of all ages to share their stories.

The Young Adult Writers Program has evolved with the rest of the organization, now offering free monthly workshops to teens in all genres, and granting teen writers stipends to participate in the YAWP summer fellowship program as working writers.  For teens who have to choose between summer jobs to earn what money they can and their desire to write, this is a huge opportunity.  It is the chance to join a community that nurtures creative expression and self-reflection, while also building relationships and learning what it means to be an artist in our society.  Ultimately, the Young Adult Writers Program is an exercise in building confidence.

Writing, for me, was never really a choice.  Since childhood, it was the most natural way for me to express my ideas and understand the world around me.  Participating in Grub Street as a teen writer helped me gain the courage needed to pursue this craft as a career.

Today, I am an emerging author and Grub Street is still my first stop for all things literary.  Grub is where I go for workshops on new ways to build my career or brush up on some tricky writing techniques.  I rely on The Rag, Grub’s weekly newsletter, for announcements about local events and upcoming submissions and contests.  I had a Grub Street manuscript consultation for my debut memoir, Running: Troubled Teenage Girls, First Love Lost, and Finding Myself.  I am submitting this book to publishers with the support of my agent, Jennifer Chen Tran of Penumbra Literary, who I serendipitously met after sitting next to each other at The Muse and The Marketplace Conference.

The Muse and The Marketplace has become a literary homecoming, where I meet new and familiar friends as we compare notes on the joys and challenges of the writing life.  We may work in different genres, or utilize different publishing strategies, but Grub Street is where we go to connect with each other.

And together, we can go far beyond the last stop on the T.

Grub Street’s Young Adult Writers Program teaches teens the craft of creative writing. In year-round out-of-school programming, creative writing boot camps, and a one-of-a-kind summer fellowship program, young writers learn from Boston’s best writing instructors, meet other teens who share their interests, and develop a lifelong love of creative expression. Most of the programming is free, and Grub Street also offers a comprehensive scholarship program. Please help us raise the $25,000 we need to run this tranformative program again this year.

Raised by martial artists, Katie Li grew up with fascinating stories and an eclectic cast of characters.  She continues this tradition in her work, writing fiction and narrative non-fiction about personal transformation and unlikely possibilities.  Her work has appeared in Write From Wrong, The Nexus, and performed by the Boston based theatre company, The Next Stage.  She is a regular contributor to Xenith’s advice column, “Writers on Writing.”  She has written her first book, Running: Troubled Teenage Girls, First Love Lost, and Finding Myself.  Learn more about Katie at www.katieliwriter.com.

Day 2 of The Muse and the Marketplace. This is the thirteenth in a series of micro-interviews by an author, agent or editor who is attending the event.  

Micro-Interview with Ann Collette

1. What is the toughest criticism to give or receive on writing?
   As an agent, I find it’s not giving criticism that’s tough, it’s HOW I give it that can be hard.  Sometimes I forget how easily a new writer’s feelings can be hurt and I just barge ahead and deliver what I think is a brilliant critique, only to realize later that, whatever its real merits, my criticism should have been delivered — shall we say — with more delicacy.
2. What do you think is the future of digital vs. printed media for the publishing industry?
   I truly don’t lose any sleep over what the future of digital vs. printed media will be.  Ebooks will eventually peak, then plateau.  I suppose, in the far distant future, physical books could become something only owned only by the rich and elite, the “opera” of publishing, vs. the “pop music” of digital publishing. I also think we could find ourselves going online one day to a site where we could literally order exactly the kind of book we’re in the mood to read just like the way you order sushi now — meaning, you’re in the mood for a Western. Click on column A. You want it to have Comanche Indians. Click on Column B. You want Texas Rangers. Click on Column C. You want a captive Mexican girl in dire need of rescuing.  Click on Column D., etc. And then, bingo!  Your exact choice is automatically sent to your Kindle or whatever device you’re using. But I was also looking at a recent copy of the magazine “Entertainment Weekly,” where there was an article featuring pictures of the set of Mindy Kaling’s new show, She plays a doctor on it. And what jumped out at me was that every room of her set had plenty of books on display.  These books were not just decoration but more to the point, objects that “proved” how smart her character is.  And all I could think was, how could an ereader, no matter how big-ass it might be, ever make that point?  Physical books SAY something about us that ebooks never will be able to.
3. What is the strangest place you’ve ever been?
   Without question, the strangest place I’ve ever been is inside my own head.
   
4. What’s the one piece of advice you’d like to give to writers?
   The advice I find myself giving writers the most is, DO YOUR HOMEWORK.  Check an agent’s website before submitting to make sure she or he represents your genre.  Don’t send attachments.  And ALWAYS send your best work.  Agents are too busy to give you a second chance.  Rejection hurts.  Why set yourself up for it when, with a little homework and extensive revising, you might interest an agent instead?

Ann Collette was a freelance writer and editor before joining the Rees Literary Agency in 2000. Her list includes books by New York Times bestselling author B. A. Shapiro, Oprah’s “Fall 2012 Unputdownable Mysteries” author Mark Pryor, Anthony Nominee Vicki Lane, RT Award Nominees Clay and Susan Griffith, Mark Russinovich, Steven Sidor, Carol Carr, and Chrystle Fiedler. She likes literary, mystery, thrillers, suspense, vampire, and commercial women’s fiction; in non-fiction, she prefers narrative non-fiction, military and war, work to do with race and class, and work set in or about Southeast Asia. Ann does not represent children’s, YA, sci-fi, or high fantasy.