Rachel Writes A Book

You Are What You Read, Part II: What Are You Reading For?

2012-05-27T01:42:00.004-04:00

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

Everybody picks the books they read for some reason. They are looking for something out of their reading material that life hasn't given them. An escape from harsh realities, new insight on a subject that interests them, comfort in times of emotional distress.

My mother, for instance, has had a very stressful job for most of her life. She is a pediatric nurse, and she has spent the bulk of her career surrounded by very sick children; many of them so sick that they were having life-saving (or threatening) surgeries. Her job had caused her untold amounts of emotional distress and though she makes a huge difference in the improvement of these children's lives, the ones that don't get better eat away at her.

: Serenity now!

So is it any surprise that the books my mother reads are often books with happy endings or messages of hope? That the books she enjoys the most are the ones that put a cheerful spin on the ways of the world? I don't think so. She comes home from a hard day and looks forward to picking up a book where life is good and the people are kind.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, is into nonfiction. He likes to read about science and the way the universe works, planets and constellations and avian aerodynamics and how salamanders live underwater. He is a chef, so after high school, he went to culinary school, eschewing the formal education that he would've gotten from going to college. I know that he often laments not getting the knowledge that would've come out of college, though I don't tell them that the hunger he has for mental stimulation is a lot more intense than most people I knew even when I was going for my PhD.

: "Hey Rach, did you know that the word 'giraffe' is derived from an Arabic word that means 'to move swiftly?'"

That said, the materials that fill his reading time are, not surprisingly, things that fill his need for challenge, for learning, for understanding the mechanics of the world around him.
My sister is fifteen years old, and I have watched her development as a reader with much interest. She has never been as into reading as the rest of the family (my mother went through books like they were candy and my father is a librarian, for Pete's sake), but when she gets into a book, shereally gets into it. I guess part of that is just the fervor of the very young, the way they latch onto things they love more as things that define who they are than anything else. But part of it is also that my sister is an extremely sensitive soul with an artistic heart, and loyal almost to a fault. She loves things intensely, with her whole being, and the books she reads are no different.

: OMG. Srsly?

My sister reads books that open up parts of the world to her that she hasn't grown into yet. Her pre-pubescent years were taken up with the Twilight books, because they opened up the idea of romance to her for the very first time. She's really into Ellen Hopkins's novels in verse, which speak to both the poet inside her and the teenager curious about the darker, more difficult side of life. And right now she's reading the final installment of The Hunger Games trilogy -- what better books to read for a fifteen-year-old struggling to assert herself as an independent woman?

The books that we read say a lot about us; about who we are and who we want to be, as well as what we want from our lives. What books are you into right now, and what do you think they say about you?

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

The Pollyanna Game

2012-05-22T12:50:00.002-04:00

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

Have you ever seen the movie "Pollyanna?" If you're my age (late 20's, I'm afraid) or older, my guess is that you have. But if you're much younger than me, I'm guessing that you probably haven't. If you happened to miss out on this movie, the basic gist of it is that this little orphan girl, Pollyanna, goes to live with her mean aunt in a town chock-full of unabashed grumps, and by virtue of her sunny disposition, manages to turn all of their various and sundry frowns upside-down.

It is a very cheerful, feel-good kind of movie. It's a Disney movie.

The Pollyanna Game, then, following the cheery vibe of the movie, is a game of looking on the bright side of things. I learned it from my friend Brooke in about the 8th grade, and I remember it from time to time when I'm feeling bummed or cranky. It goes, "Let us not be sad that *insert crappy thing here;* let us be glad that *insert upside here.*" Basically, it's an exercise in optimism.

For instance: Let us not be sad that we still haven't found a real job; let us be glad that we have found any job at all.

Or: Let us not be sad that our phone broke; let us be glad that we don't have to get those annoying promotional texts anymore.

In that vein, here's a story: A couple of weeks ago, a co-worker asked me how the writing was going, and whether I'd heard anything hood from any agents. I launched into my usual rant about how I felt like I had wasted all the years I spent working on my novel, and how I was finding it hard to get motivated to work on my next project.

: Everything sucks! Everybody's a jerk!

My lovely co-worker stopped me and he said, "You wrote a book."

"But nobody cares."

"I care. You care. Lots of people care. It's a big thing you did. You should be proud of yourself."

It kind of stopped me in my tracks, because dammit, he was right. I wrote a freaking book. A good one. And there was a time when that made me feel good about myself, made me feel proud and accomplished and worthy of respect. And somewhere along the rocky road to publishing, I lost that feeling of pride and accomplishment. I somehow stopped believing in my abilities, stopped being confident that this is the life for me.

: I could do some work, but staring into space seems so much more meaningful.

Because it's hard. It's really, really hard. Being told no all the time, being constantly broke, feeling like I'm a failure.

But I'm not a failure. I did exactly what I set out to do when I got out of school. I wrote a book that meant something to me, that was engaging and well-written, that I can stand behind with pride. I did everything that I can do to make it great, and I can't stake my feelings of self-worth on what other people think about it. I have never been the kind of person that needs someone else's approval to feel good about herself, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna start now.

In summary: Let us not be sad that agents don't want our book; let us be glad that we are so badass that we wrote a mother-fracking book!

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

You Are What You Read, Part I: The High School Years

2012-05-19T12:34:00.001-04:00

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

When I was in high school, I had very strong ideas about what made something good. This is not, I suppose, an uncommon trait to find in teenagers, but I was particularly militant about my preferences, especially when it came to books, movies, and music. Put simply, I was an intolerable snob. There were certain books I thought were below me. As far as I was concerned, they were stupid, pointless, and without soul. Had I ever so much as cracked one of these books? Nope. I didn't need to. In fact, I think that I believed to read a book that I felt was too "commercial" would somehow taint me, that it would turn me into a Britney Spears-loving hot pink-wearing lollipop-sucking droolspot -- the kind of girl I loathed more than anything else in the world. This is the same reason that I refused to wear skirts (un-feminist), listen to anything but college radio (un-indie), or go see any movie that wasn't either in black and white or a foreign language (un-intelligent).


Basically, I was a chubby, bespectacled Jessie Spano.

I want to assure my readers that these days, I am much more relaxed in my judgements. The only books I hate nowadays are the ones that weren't written by their authors (Snooki, James Patterson, etc). I am a proud Will Smith fan, and whenever ABBA comes on the radio, I turn it way the hell up. In other words, I have learned to appreciate the things in life that are there solely for entertainment, the things that exist for no other purpose than to give pleasure to those that consume them.

When I was in high school, my favorite books were Harry Potter, High Fidelity, and The Handmaid's Tale, all of which I still love to this day. But they do say a great deal about who I was back then:
Harry Potter was written for children, not for adults. Perhaps I was just on the cusp of the target audience for this series, but I am sure that J.K. Rowling did not have seventeen-year-olds in mind when she wrote The Philospher's/Sorcerer's Stone. So what does it say about me that I loved Harry Potter? I was deep in the painful throes of adolescence, angsty as all hell, fighting with my mother, awkward in my body, longing for love and acceptance from my peers. Wasn't I looking at the eleven-year-old hero of that book wit longing for simpler times? For a world where every problem could be solved by magic? And Harry Potter's mother was dead! She never bothered him about doing the dishes, or making better grades, or going to see certain bands. Harry Potter filled my need to hold onto my childhood a little bit longer.

High Fidelity is a book about one of the snobbiest music lovers of all time. Seriously. This is a man who owns a record shop, but will only sell a record to somebody if he likes their taste in music and their knowledge of the subject. And I absolutely idolized him for it. Seriously. I actually bought more than one album because it was discussed at length in the book, and if I didn't like the music immediately, I listened to it over and over again until I did. I thought that music was something to be learned, that taste was to be honed and heightened and then lorded over other people, not to be enjoyed. And even though the novel's protagonist learns (sort of) by the end to accept that other people have different opinions from his own, when I first read High Fidelity, I used it as a sort of indie-girl music snob's bible.

The Handmaid's Tale I read for the first time in 8th grade. I borrowed it from the school library during my lunch period and read it in about two days (I have read it about ten times since then, and it has never taken me longer than that first time to get to the end). This book had everything: sex, women learning to be empowered, and my mother's disapproval (probably because of the sex). As a thirteen-year-old girl, I was just learning about the unfairness of womanhood, how boys' interests and opinions seemed to always be put ahead of my own, how I felt pressured to focus all my energy on attracting male attention. The hero in The Handmaid's Tale, Offred, lives in a world where women exist for the sole purpose of reproducing for men, and she struggles to keep a grasp of who she is as a person in such a world. My teenage self could relate, and my teenage self rejoiced when Offred found a way to buck the system. I loved tales of rebellion then, and I still love them now.

What were your favorite things to read in school? Why?

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

Writing For Yourself

2012-05-09T00:26:00.002-04:00

As many of you have probably heard already, the great children's book writer Maurice Sendak died today. While not entirely unexpected (he was 83 and had been in poor health for quite a while), his death saddened me a lot. Outside Over There was one of my favorite books as a kid -- it was creepy and full of adventure and I could identify with the story, as it was about the love-hate relationships of older siblings and their younger counterparts (I am a big sister myself).

When I read about Sendak's death this afternoon, I immediately thought of his recent interview on Fresh Air, which you can find here. It's a really sad, touching interview, and I remember getting teary-eyed the first time I listened to it, so if you are an emotional listener, just be ready. In the interview, Sendak talked about being old, about being aware of his closeness to death, of the fact that soon he would die. And in talking about that, he said something that I found really interesting. He said that he wrote only for himself now, that he wrote only things that interested him, that he'd always wanted to write, and nothing much else.

"I'm writing a poem right now about a nose.," Sendak said. "I've always wanted to write a poem about a nose. But it's a ludicrous subject. That's why, when I was younger, I was afraid of [writing] something that didn't make a lot of sense. But now I'm not. I have nothing to worry about. It doesn't matter."

What a gift it must have been, to be able to look at his work that way. To only write because he felt like writing, to write it and not to care if anybody ever read it or liked it (though they probably would want to do both, I'm sure). It's a thing that I struggle with every time I start to write something new, and I continue to struggle with it the entire time I'm writing. Because I can never get rid of that imaginary audience in my head, that cruel, nitpicky class of readers jeering my every word choice. I've struggled with it since I decided I wanted writing to be my career, because the reader is a necessary part of writing professionally.

The imaginary readers stole my creativity and left a dummy in its place.

It's not the same as it was when I was a kid. I wrote constantly, without filter, and I think that part of the reason I could do that was because I had not ever considered the fact that if anyone read my stories, they would judge them. They would judge the merits of the story, the believability of the characters, the words I used and the way I used them. I didn't fear improper punctuation or cliched phrases, because I didn't care about my readers. So it was easy to sit down and just write what I wanted to write.
As soon as I made the decision to pursue publication, everything about the way I wrote changed. There was a new pressure there, a new guilt that came with time spent doing other things. There was a new panic when I thought of a new story, this voice in the back of my head that squeaked, "But will anybody like it???" Writing became something hard, something stressful, something that had to be done. And I think now that a lot of the reason for that stress was the imagined reader.

They hate his work.

It's become worse since I finished my novel and sent it into the publishing fray. Rejection after rejection comes back to me with reason after reason for that dreaded phrase, "No thanks." So when I try to write something new, I'm automatically thinking, How can I make this sellable? How can I make them want to take it on?

This is terrible thinking, people. As artists, we are not supposed to worry about what kind of a reception our work is going to get, especially not before we're even finished with it. And while it is important, if you're going to be making a (supposed) living off of your work, to create something that can communicate with people, your work will be dead before it hits the water if you get too concerned with what people are going to think about it from the very beginning.

I want to get back to a place where writing is just something I do because I want to do it. I want to be like the little girl I once was, sitting in the corner with a pencil and a notebook scribbling away, because the story in my head was too good to stay there. I want to kill off that dissatisfied audience in my head, turn them out of the place and send them to some other person's stories. I want to write a poem about a nose, dammit, and I don't want to care who likes it.


He's naked cuz he feels like it.

The Magic of Coffee

2012-04-22T14:08:00.001-04:00

I don't know if this is the case for most coffee drinkers, but I can remember the exact week when coffee became a centerpiece of my life. More importantly, it became a centerpiece for my writing life.
I was living in Ireland at the time, going to grad school for writing, and one of my classmates and I decided to take a trip to Venice for part of our spring break. Venice, if you haven't been, is an incredible city -- everything there is old and winding and colorful and haunted. Just put your camera up to your eye and, no matter where you are in the city, you have an instant post card photograph. And when Kate and I went on our trip, it was also deserted.

: If this doesn't make you want a hot cappuccino and a good book, I don't know what will.

Sadly for her, my friend came down with one of the worst sinus infections I've had the misfortune to see, and so I spent much of my time in Venice wandering the narrow, twisting sidewalks alone. Which sounds bad, but really, it was kind of a magical experience. I had plenty of time philosophize and take photos and brood. And one of the things I did, being so inspired by the romantic nature of the lonely city, was write.
What I wrote, for the most part, was not particularly good, I'm afraid. Some core scenes of my novel did come to fruition there, but so did a lot (I mean a lot) of really, really, really bad poetry. But that caffeine is no joke, and when you're shaking with that first coffee euphoria, you write whatever comes into your head because you haven't learned to filter it yet.
I felt like the greatest writer that ever lived. It was magical.

: I'm a genius!

Once home, I was converted. Coffee was a way of life for me, and the coffee shops I frequented in Dublin are among the places I miss the most. I imbibed the juice of the enchanted bean with the fervor of a religious zealot. And the pages and pages I filled with enthusiastic scrawl while is sat along the canals of Venice, sipping an espresso -- those felt to me like a gift from another plane. I had met the gods, and they were highly caffeinated. All those people shaking in their pews in small, rural churches, the ones bowing down again and again and again at the Wailing Wall, the whirling dervishes spinning around and around and around in their white skirts -- I felt something like that.

: The blogger in her natural habitat . . . a coffee cup.

And yes, it sounds dismissive of those people, or like a severe exaggeration of my caffeinated inspiration, but I assure you, I mean every word. And yes, it was because I drank way too much of the stuff and it had made me high as a kite, and no, I don't generally get quitethat much out of coffee these days, but maybe you can see why I love it so much to this day, why I rarely go a day without at least a couple cups.
This very minute, if fact, I am sipping coffee from a favorite mug.
But don't take my word for it -- history is full of famous writers, whiling away the hours in tiny cafes. Everyone from Ernest Hemingway to J.K. Rowling spent their early days bouncing from cafe to cafe, mingling with other writers or scribbling out their seminal works. Ever walk into a coffee shop and notice that everyone there is on their computer? Maybe they're onto something.

: Good ole Ernie. The coffee may be Irish, but the cafe is Parisian.

Here's the science-y explanation: The caffeine in coffee binds to the adenosine receptors in your brain, which are responsible for making you feel sleepy. When the caffeine hits, BAM! The adenosine can't get to your nerves and you feel more alert. Caffeine also blocks reabsorption of dopamine in your brain (dopamine is a neurotransmitter that activates the pleasure centers in your brain), which is part of the reason you get that euphoric high when you drink a cup. You can find more information on the science of caffeine here.

: Coffee sends your neurons to a rave!

But there's more! Jonah Lehrer, author of Imagine: How Creativity Works, talks in his book about how relaxation help encourage creativity in our brains by turning down the volume on a part of the brain called the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. This part of the brain is basically responsible for impulse control, which is terrible for the creative mind because it gets you second-guessing yourself and stops your brain from allowing you to follow your thoughts wherever they take you. While I'll admit that caffeine is not physiologically a relaxing substance (it's actually a stimulant), the coffee shop is a very relaxing place. Think about it: people gathered around to chat or read, enjoying pastries and sipping warm drinks. It's all very calm. The ambient noise of keys clicking and hushed voices, pages turning. Strangers stop to chat with each other. Your guard goes down in a place like that. So what happens? That damned dorsolateral prefrontal cortex takes a nap while the rest of your brain is just waking up, stretching, and getting down to business.

: Eureka! We have found creative stimulation, and it is inside that mug!

One more factor, I think, contributes to the writer-in-a-cafe phenomenon, and that is the starving artist quotient. All artists, I think, benefit from a change of scenery, and coffee shops allow us to got to a place that is not our home, where we feel comfortable, and where we can stay warm, sheltered, with adequate facilities, for hours and hours at a time without spending a ton of money. While I would never suggest that a person stay all day in a place and only buy one cup of coffee (it's just rude, people), you can buy yourself a cup every hour or two and stay perfectly within the bounds of polite society, get your work done, mingle with other artists (because, who are we kidding, that's who else is there all day) and not break the bank.
One of the greatest things I got out of my coffee addiction while I was in Dublin was the Fellowship of the Bean. This was a group composed of three of my classmates and I who would walk down to the local Starbuck's (don't judge--it was right on the bay, and the closest good, local-owned coffee shop was a twenty-minute bus ride away) every Sunday after our hangovers wore off and stay there until they closed the place down. We're talking, five or six hours sometimes. It was lovely. Just four friends writing and talking and reading and pumping black, beautiful coffee goodness into their bodies. If I could've taken it intravenously, I would have. Those were some of the most productive days of my life, and spent with people who are some of my best friends to this day, despite the miles between us.

: The Fellowship of the Bean.

This is what coffee has given to me. And for that, I am ever grateful, and ever reverent (say that three times fast--if you're caffeinated).

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

Go Ahead. Make My Day.

2012-04-17T22:06:00.000-04:00

When I tell people I'm a writer, there are three questions they usually ask, which I will list in order from least annoying to most:
1) What do you write?

: I write words, y'all.

This question is generally not very annoying, except for the fact that I have to answer it all the time. They're being polite, making small talk, and they probably won't push the question much further because, who are we kidding, they're more interested in telling me about themselves. I tell them I write fiction and that's usually the end of it. They nod and tell me that's nice and move on. Where it really gets annoying is when they push the subject, which leads me to the second most annoying question:
2) What's your book about?

: So, how do you like my book?

I know that, as a self-employed person who should be constantly trying to promote their work, I should take this question as an opportunity to try and sell the book. But this doesn't really work for a few reasons.
First, I am not a good businesswoman. I would venture to say that most writers are not naturally geared toward business; that's what makes them good artists. It's a big struggle for the artistically inclined to see their work as a product to sell rather than as the result of blood, sweat, and tears. That's why we have agents and managers and so on (if you can get them) -- to help us hopeless artists with the business-y side of writing. While I'm trying to train myself to be more of a capitalist when it comes to my work, 90% of the time, I don't see the point.
Because, again, most people are not really interested in helping you further your career or giving your novel to that guy they know at Random House -- they're just trying to make conversation. And since I am now working on other projects, I'm kind of over telling people all about my first novel. I think this must be sort of what child actors or one-hit wonders go through every day; talking about that one thing they did a long time ago. Yes, I am proud of my novel. No, I don't want to tell you all about it. And you probably don't want to hear it, either.
Note: If you do want to give my novel to that guy you know at Random House, I will tell you about my novel until you tape my mouth shut.
3) Are you published?

: I'd like to tell you about my failure.

Any questions about my published status automatically make me want to hit the asker. This is mostly a result of my frustration with not being published (except for that one short story years ago), but it's also just a rude question. It's like asking a childless person why they don't have kids or asking a stranger how much money they make. It's a sore subject, I'd venture to say, for most writers.
And the ones for whom it is not a sore subject probably are published, in which case, trust me, you won't have to ask them whether they've got a book out there that you can buy. It'll be the first thing they say to you on the subject.
There's also the fact that this question suggests that the writer's worth is being judged based on whether or not they've been published. Not only is this unfair, but it makes them feel like a failure when you bring up the subject. You are reminding them that nobody has valued their work enough yet to print and distribute them, and you are bringing up all their insecurities about their career.
I know this stuff probably makes me look cranky, but I don't care. I bring it up here because I'm not exactly sure why these questions irk me so much.

: I'll be nicer if you'll be less annoying.

Perhaps it's because, to me, writing is very personal. I don't like making casual small talk about it in the same way I don't talk to strangers about my sex life or my political views or my spiritual beliefs. It just feels too intimate, to close to who I am at the core.
Maybe this is unprofessional; I don't know. Do stock brokers hate talking Wall Street with people who don't invest? Do veterinarians want to talk mange with the checkout lady at the supermarket? Maybe I don't like talking about writing with strangers because most strangers don't know the first thing about writing. They don't read, they don't write, and they don't really want to.

: When you finish reading, we'll talk about it...backwards.

I have no problem talking about writing with my friends (although I'm sure they wish I would stop sometimes). And I have already talked about my love of talking books with strangers who know about books -- it's one of the highlights of my day when it happens. Does this make me a snob? Probably. And I know I could avoid people asking me these questions by neglecting to mention my being a writer at all. But wouldn't that be a betrayal of who I am? A denial of my dreams? And shouldn't I allow for the possibility that these well-meaning strangers do have something valid to offer on the subject?
Because, as annoying as the questions can be, they do open up a whole world of discussion that might very well make my day a good one. If I can just bring myself to give people a chance.

*NOTE: I am in the process of moving blog to Wordpress. I plan to have phased this site out by the end of May, so if you want to continue subscribing to Rachel Writes A Book, mosey on over here and subscribe. Thanks!*

The Years of Busting Ass

2012-04-12T00:36:00.003-04:00

A few months back, I was feeling pretty rotten. I was frustrated with the lack of interest in my novel, worried that I had chosen the wrong path when I decided to focus on being a writer, and starting to wonder if I had what I takes to be successful in the publishing industry. I spent three years of my life working on something that perhaps no one would ever read, and I was spending a lot of time asking myself what the point of all that hard work had been.

: Invest in a duster so at least your book appears to be getting some interest.

Then I heard a story on "To The Best of Our Knowledge" (which is an excellent radio show/podcast from Wisconsin Public Radio), and it put all my frustrations into perspective. The story was an interview with psychologist Carl Dweck, who had recently published a book called "Mindset: The New Psychology of Success." You can listen to the story itself here, if you're interested.

: Image of the book in question, folks.

The gist of Dweck's argument is that people respond to failure in two different ways: some people fall apart when they fail and some people learn from their failures. To the people who fall apart, success and failure are measures of worth: failure means they are not intelligent, not talented, and that they never will be. They avoid challenges for the fear of being proven to be unworthy (or incapable) of success. But the people who learn from their failures seem to look at them as obstacles they have overcome, as lessons they have learned. These people seem to thrive, almost, on failure, to become energized by it. They understand that abilities, talents, and intelligence are not attributes a person is born with, but attributes that develop over time and with practice. Talent is less like the bones in your arm, which are more or less always going to be the same (nutrition aside) and more like the muscles, which get bigger and stronger the more they are used.

: Better start working on those brain muscles.

In some ways, this argument fits quite nicely with my Dorothy Parker apply-the-ass-to-the-chair philosophy; you will only ever get there if you work hard to get there. But what happens if you work hard and you don't get there? It feels sometimes like a hamster on a wheel -- the hamster might think it's going somewhere, but really it's just running in place. Dweck argues that we need to look at our failures as a chance to learn something about what we're going for. Why didn't it work? What did we learn from the process?
We spend too much time focusing on where we want to end up (in my case, well-respected and widely-read novelist) and not enough time thinking about the process of getting there. Even when we look at people we admire, we don't see the younger version of those people who stumbled along the way to their success. We don't look at their struggles, their failures, and say, "Look how persistent they were! Look how hard they worked!" We say, "That person is a genius." Or worse, "That person was destined for greatness."

: Isn't brilliance fun?

Nobody is destined for greatness. Some people get very, very lucky, but most people who wind up great bust their asses to get there. Their work, their contributions to our society, aren't just some magical extension of their natural genius, but the result of years and years of passionate, bone-grinding, sweat-flooded hard work. And sure, some people are naturally smarter and more talented than others. But as a writing teacher I once had said, "If you give me a student with natural talent and a student who works hard and ask me which will be a best-seller, I'd bet on the hard worker every time."
The fact that so many people envision their heroes as geniuses who burst, fully developed from the skulls of gods, makes me really value writers who talk about their failures. I love to hear stories about now-successful writers who struggled in their formative years, not because I'm a glutton for pain (my love of horror films notwithstanding), but because it makes me feel like the success that I want for myself is not so out of reach. Stephen King famously wrote about his collection of rejection slips, thousands of them, from the time that he was a child until he published "Carrie." And most writers have heard, at this point, about Kathryn Stockett's 60 rejections for "The Help." The fact that these writers learned from their rejections, that they kept evolving and persisting even when everybody around them told them to give up is inspiring.

: "I may have been born fully formed, but my brain wasn't."

I can look at my novel and say, yes, I hope it does better, but I can also learn from the things that I have done wrong. I have lots of feedback from all those agents who rejected my work, and if I stop looking at those rejections as just letters that spell N-O, and start looking at them as tools for learning the business, I have already gained something. And the years I spent tripping over words and trying to find the rhythm required for writing a novel taught me what kinds of things I need to do to motivate myself to write, what kind systematic approach I should take to writing a piece of work that long, and how to approach agents when I'm ready to publish -- those years were prime learning years!
In the end, who knows where my writing will end up? But I can't know that until the end comes. I have years and years and years to go, and right now the years ahead are for busting ass and learning how to get back up. And that's okay by me.

Daydream Believer

2012-04-12T00:30:00.001-04:00

I did not win the lottery, I am sorry to say. Normally, this would not have surprised me, since up until Tuesday I had never even purchased a lottery ticket before. But when the jackpot hits $400 million and you have a dream the day before that you are filthy rich and you start watching a movie wherein the hero wins the lottery and a friend of yours randomly walks into your kitchen and hands you a four-leaf clover, you think, "What the hell? I could win this."

: I may have gone a bit overboard.

You sit around waiting for the drawing, commiserating with our best friend as she smokes a cigarette and you prance around the back yard looking for dandelions to wish on (I do apologize to my landlords for that). "What would we do if we won?" you ask each other. You wouldn't tell anyone, so you could keep your friendships and families intact, you'd keep your crappy job and even crappier apartment, but you'd pay off your student loans and donate money to charity and, every now and then, buy a couple bottles of Dom just so you can spray the foam all over the place.

: This could be you.

It was definitely better before the drawing. When my friend Chrissie and I were sitting around musing about all the freedom we would have, all the worries that would disappear, and the secret rich girl parties we would have together, wearing thousand-dollar gowns and flambée-ing caviar just because we could. I was so excited. Just for a few minutes, it was possible that all my biggest problems could just vanish, in a snap, just like that.

Of course, I didn't get anywhere near a winning combination of numbers that night, nor did I get one last night, even though I bought more tickets in a desperate attempt to hold onto the dream. The thing is, I can see now why people go so lottery crazy. Why they pool thousands of dollars for a chance at the freedom that being filthy-freaking-rich can afford you. It's not that they really believe they will win -- at least I like to think so. It's that they get caught up in the dream, in the fantasy. They imagine how they will react when they see that, yes, they have the winning numbers, checking and double-checking, tearing up and breathing fast turning to jumping up and down and screaming, to (is it possible?) self-urination as the reality sinks in.

: That's not water, folks.

My consolation is that I can write about this dream, and in writing about it, I can make it real. And the fact that so many people get to wrapped up in the feverish pursuit of lottery pipe dreams makes me think that maybe there's a little bit of writer in all of us, that everybody has a piece of themselves that is forever up in the clouds, wishing, dreaming, believing that it could happen. And that makes me feel a whole lot better about the world. Is it better than a lottery win? Probably not. Is it better than nothing? Hell, yes.

: Daydreaming makes you big and strong. In your head.

To Lie Or Not To Lie?

2012-04-12T00:28:00.001-04:00

: Ever wish you could kill your mental pencil?

A few months ago I waited on some current students from my old high school. Those of you who know me know that I went to an arts high school, and therefore spent a lot of my teenage years dancing on cafeteria tables and breaking into song in the hallways. Because of my arts education, I went into adult life feeling pretty optimistic about my future as a writer, like all the true artist needed to get along in the world was heart and stick-to-it-iveness. Worst case scenario, I'd live in a crappy apartment and subsist off beans and rice for a few years while I wrote my masterpiece. It was a time-honored tradition; hell, it would be fun!

Well, folks, the only people who think crappy apartments and a beans 'n' rice diet are fun are people who have only lived in nice suburban houses and had their mothers cook for them. The life of a starving artist sucks. Hard.

: This meal is not even worth writing about.

I hate to admit it, but I have reached a point in my so-called career where I feel the strong desire to burn everything I've ever written, call it quits, and go to work in advertising. At least I could afford to go on vacation. Not only is writing harder than I thought, but the rewards are slimmer. You work for years on a piece, writing, editing, re-writing, re-editing, and when it's finished, you can't even get your friends to read it.

It is not fun, people.

Not to mention the fact that I went into tremendous debt to hone my skills as a writer, thinking that, at the very worst, I would be able to get a job as a copy editor somewhere, or a reader of slush at some magazine. Little did I know that those jobs do not exist, and if they do, they don't pay! And if they pay, they are in New York, where the pay is not even enough for a shitty apartment and a big bag of rice!

: Art is freedom! Art is joy! Art is living!
Bollox.

So. When these bright-eyed, hopeful teenagers came into the restaurant where I (still) make all of my money and asked me what it's like to be a real writer, to really Go For It, I told them, "Look around."
What could I have meant? They looked at each other, perplexed.

"Kids," I told them, "Life as an artist is hard as shit. You better be damned sure that you can't do anything else with your life, because if you think you can be happy doing any other job, that's what you need to do."

They didn't say anything to me, just shrank into their over-sized suit jackets and their vintage shoes, brushed a lone tear from each of their painted faces and ate their pizza in silence.

As I walked away, I wondered if I made the right call, being honest with them. Didn't they have a right to their youthful naivete? Wasn't it their turn to boogie down the street with abandon, to tell themselves that they would, in time, Make It? Would I have benefited from the voice of reason telling me to think long and hard about the life I was really choosing?

Nope. Not a teeny, tiny bit. While I may have thought twice about majoring in Film in college, I would pretty much have done the same thing as I did.

For two reasons:

1) Artists don't like being told things. They need to discover things for themselves. That's part of what gives them the crazy life experiences that allow them to create interesting art.

2) I really can't think of another job that would make me happy. Or, perhaps, given current circumstances, I should say that I can't think of another job that would make me feel fulfilled the way that finishing a story does. There is nothing in the world that I want to do more, or would choose to do over writing.

I meant it when I told those kids not to go into art unless it was the only thing you could imagine doing. Because at the end of the day, it's too hard to keep going if it's not truly what you need to do. The people who just kind of like to write will never, ever outlast the people who need to write. And if you aren't sure that you need to do it, then don't waste your time and talent starving in front of a blank screen. Writing will always be there for a hobby.

As for me, I'm stuck being in love with words.

: Damn it.

Book People

2011-12-25T15:57:00.000-05:00

: I love the smell of books in the morning.

One of the best things about my day job is the variety of people I come across every day. I wait on cops (the Dekalb County SWAT team are some of my favorite customers), rednecks, soccer moms and dads, hippies, hipsters, artists, politicians, bus drivers, mechanics, and --my favorites after the SWAT team -- book people.

Most of my book people are regulars, and part of the reason I love them is because they are so easy to wait on. The food is almost secondary to the book, and as soon as they order, they crack it open (or turn it on, if they are e-reader people) and they are gone. They don't need a whole lot, just their time alone with something good to read and a glass of wine to wash it down. I like to watch their faces as they read, as their emotions change with the events in their books, the shock or the sadness or the laughter.

Most of the time, I leave the book people alone, because I know how annoying it is when you're in the middle of a good book and someone keeps interrupting you, even if they are interrupting you to talk about the book you are reading. "Is it good?" they ask. "Yes," I always want to say, "I'd like to keep on reading this good book." Hint, hint.

But sometimes I just can't resist. A few weeks ago, for instance, one of my customers came into the restaurant with Don DeLillo's Point Omega under his arm, and I just couldn't help myself. Don DeLillo is one of my absolute favorite writers under the sun, and I hardly ever see people reading him. Which, if you ask me, is one of the great travesties of our time, but I digress. The point is, I just had to talk to him about the book, which is one that I hadn't read yet, and what followed was the kind of conversation that only happens between book people, gushing about dialogue and theme and words and stories. This ten minute conversation put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.

A few days later, I was even more excited to find, upon starting my shift, that this lovely gentleman had dropped his copy of Point Omega off at the restaurant for me to read. And this got me thinking about book people, and the beauty of books, and why book people are so devoted to them. Books are someone else's thoughts, their questions, their answers, their passions, poured out onto a page and bundled up to share with other people. We read them, and they become ours, and when we really love a book, we want to share it with our friends, our families, even strangers, because we feel part of ourselves in them. They can make all of our troubles and neuroses feel valid. They can make our lives seem better than we thought they were, or inspire us to try harder, to do better. And when that happens, we want to share it.

Book people are sharers, I think. We read a book we like and we pass it on to someone else, and we talk about how the book made us feel, how it changed our way of thinking about things, how it made us look at our lives from a new angle. I love lending books I'm crazy about to my friends, so that we can enjoy the books together, because books are all about sharing ideas with other people. And that's why I love them.

Back It Up!!

2011-12-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

: Don't let this happen to you.

Well, readers, I have returned, if ever so temporarily, from my unintentional hiatus to tell why I have disappeared: a few weeks ago, in the middle of a heated spell of writing, my dear computer decided that its services were no longer needed in this world, and that it had better retire to computer heaven (or hell, which is where I would send it). That is, it died. It's too bad, too, because I was finally starting to get some good writing done. But, alas. It was not to be. And as I am as yet too broke to buy myself a new computer (in cash or credit), it appears that my updates on this here blog with be sporadic at best. I am, at this very moment, coming to you from my father's computer, and let me tell you, typing on his ancient keyboard is no Sunday picnic. We all must suffer and endure for our art!

I also mean to reassure you lovely people that even though I am living without modern technology, I have not given up the craft! I am forging ahead, like a pioneer, writing (dare I say it?) by HAND! And I have to say, with the minor exception of aches and pains (okay, full out major, finger-crippling hand cramps), writing by hand is working out alright for me. And why not? I have a whole slew of empty notebooks in which to scribble, and a million and a half pens to do it with. I have to keep reminding myself that until college, this was how I always did it, scratching away furiously, hoping the words in my head would slow down just enough for my hand to keep up. Hell, for a time after an injury, I even hand-wrote stories with my left hand. I can do this! And as I always have a notebook on hand, I have no excuse to wait until I get home to write down what's plaguing my cerebrum.

That said, it is a major pain in the ass trying to query with my various backed-up forms and letters. Try attaching a Word document to a request from an agent when you don't have Word! And since they all want something just a little bit different, it's not like I can use the same document for everyone, with a little apology/disclaimer in the body of the email. Some want the first five pages, some want the first ten. Some want a one-page synopsis, some want five pages. But it could be worse. I could be one of those ridiculous writers who didn't back up their work or send it to anyone, and then I'd be screwed.

Seriously, I have heard too many stories like this, where something happened to the hard copy or the computer that held the only draft. People, do not be stupid. Back up your work and back it up often. We're talking, multiple formats and for every session. Email it to yourself, use a memory stick, print it out on paper. Ever watch Californication? All of David Duchovny's troubles (okay, many of them) could have been stopped in their tracks if he'd just backed up his work.

Ernest Hemingway's first wife lost the suitcase containing the only copy of his first novel in it. Years of work, gone. Ernest Hemingway lived in a time without computers or internet or photocopies. He had an excuse. You do not. If you save your manuscript only once, on your hard disk, and then take your computer on a plane and check it with your luggage and your manuscript then disappears with your luggage (a true story I read in the paper a few years ago), then you have no one to blame for the loss but yourself. Do not be like this person. Do not be a fool.

Say it with me: ALWAYS back it up!

On Writing: Truman Capote V. Jack Kerouac

2011-11-10T13:18:00.001-05:00

Ah, November: when fall changes to winter and families gather to glut themselves on buttery deliciousness. November also happens to be National Novel Writing Month. As I have in years past, I started a NaNoWriMo project and then couldn't figure out what the hizzle to write. Okay, so I wanted to do a collection of short stories rather than a novel, because I figured I would have to have a less grand plan for them, but of course, a plan is still necessary for a short story. And for twelve short stories, well, one must have twelve plans.

Which begs the question, how good are these NaNoWriMo novels, anyway? This is not sour grapes, I still have hopes that I will finish my project on time. The question comes from my knowledge that the work I am turning out right now is far from my best. Then again, it is work. I know that the point of NaNoWriMo is to get people to (say it with me folks!) apply the ass to the chair, to actually write that novel they keep telling everyone they're going to write that day. And for my own part, yes, I am actually churning out some work, and getting some great ideas while I'm at it. But in terms of quality? It's not quite there. Basically, what we see on my NaNoWriMo screen is stream-of-consciousness that may or may not make sense to a reader.

: Type faster, pokey!

Which brings to mind Jack Kerouac. Before you Kerouac fans get all defensive, I am not dissing the fella, nor am I saying that his writing was bad. What I am saying is, he famously wrote On the Road in, like, ten minutes (actually, it was three weeks -- a shorter period of time than the month of November). As the story goes, Old Jackie sat at his typewriter, fingers bouncing all over the keys, pounding words onto a 120-ft scroll of paper as his wife wiped the profuse sweat from his face. On publication, he added paragraph breaks and margins, took out some sections and added others, but the point is after three weeks, homeboy had himself a novel. And it turned out to be a major novel.

: Looking smug, I daresay.

While On the Road was a bestseller that some said revitalized the world of literature in the 1950's, others were considerably less pleased with the work, and wholly unimpressed with the method of writing. I am thinking of Truman Capote here, that catty scribe, who, upon hearing about Kerouac's three-week writing binge, famously said "That isn't writing. That's typing." (A little disclaimer here, folks: everywhere I looked to get the exact quote, it was different. While nobody disputes that Capote did say this -- it just sounds like the sort of thing he'd say, doesn't it? -- everybody who quotes him seems to be paraphrasing.)

: Oh, you spiteful kitty, you.

What Capote seemed to be getting at with that little jibe was this: Anyone with a little time and a decent idea (and a wife who will change your shirt for you as you type) can write a book in three weeks. That doesn't make it good. A writer takes time and consideration when putting word to paper, puts thought and care into the words they choose.

It's hard to imagine that the NaNo people are super concerned with the quality of their participants' writing so much as they are concerned with the fact of the writing. That is, they are trying to encourage people, all people, to think about words, to think about expressing themselves in words, to imagine a world of their own and assign it a reality on paper. And in that sense, they are saying to the whole world the same thing that Truman Capote said to Jack Kerouac: Anyone can do it if they sit down and try.

How good it is, then, is not the point. And that's what I tell myself this month.

Beer Money

2011-10-25T20:59:00.001-04:00

: Yup. That's pretty much the sentiment.

I spent the early afternoon listening to Terri Gross interview Colson Whitehead on "Fresh Air." Whitehead, in speaking of his early years trying to make a living as a writer, said something to the effect of, "I wasn't able to make a very lofty living, but I had money for beer, and that helped." At the risk of sounding like a raging alcoholic, the statement struck a chord with me.

My time in graduate school was the pivotal point when I decided to just go for it. Those were exciting years, and I got to live my dream life during that period. All I did was write, read, travel, and talk books over coffee or beer. Who wouldn't want to live that life all the time? I got published twice and had opportunities to rub elbows with Ireland's literary elite almost every weekend. Who wouldn't want that life to continue?

But alas, once the money ran out, so did the allure of the starving artist life. I do not love being poor but happy. I would much rather be middle class and happy. I don't think that's too much to ask -- not having a panic attack every time a bill comes in the mail. Panic attacks are really bad for the creative spirit.

There are a lot of downsides to trying for a life as a writer, or any type of artistic endeavor. You are choosing to do what makes you happy at the risk of never being financially stable. And to be honest, I'm not sure that I would have chosen this life for myself if I had known how hard it would be. But I probably also wouldn't have tried to be a writer if I thought I had any chance of being happy or successful doing anything else.

That said, I think that everybody's life is harder than they imagined, and at least I get to spend as much time as I want to doing what I love. It also helps that I have a patient, supportive boyfriend. And the world's most affectionate cat.

I may not have enough money to go on a week's vacation every year. I may not be able to buy myself new shoes or go out to dinner whenever I feel like it. But I have money enough to buy a six pack and curl up with my boys and watch a scary movie. And as Colson Whitehead said, that helps. It's good enough for now.

The Whole Vampire Thing

2011-10-17T14:53:00.000-04:00

: Oh, no! Don't bite me! (Please bite me.)

Okay, guys. It's confession time: I read Twilight. Not only did I read Twilight, but I also read New Moon and Eclipse and Breaking Dawn. I'm not proud. My little sister was about eleven at the time, and she's about the farthest thing in my family from a reader. So when she was giddy with the excitement of finding out what happened to Bella and Edward, I was just happy to see her reading. I wanted to support her. I wanted to give her someone to talk about the books with (which is something I often wish I had), so I borrowed her copies of the books as she finished with them. And since this is confession time, I have to admit that I really enjoyed the first book. The second one was less fun for me -- I thought Bella was waaaaaay to distraught -- and by the third book, I was rolling my eyes almost constantly. Seriously, I was getting headaches. My sister still bemoans the way I laughed every time the word "Renesme" appeared in the (thankfully) final book of the saga.

The thing is, I could totally understand my sister's fascination with the Twilight books. After all, I was watching horror movies with her since before she could string together a sentence. She loves creepy, kooky, dangerous fiction almost as much as I do. And I had my own version of vampire love when I was a teenager: Anne Rice's Interview With the Vampire. I read it the summer I turned sixteen, while I was spending the summer at my aunt's house in Florida. She lent her copy to me and I remember being rapt. I was up late flipping pages, re-reading passages. The eerie gorgeousness of the characters, the danger, the immortality -- they call to a young girl. And while Interview With the Vampire is infinitely less ridiculous and better-written than the Twilight saga, it spoke to me the same way Twilight spoke to my little sister.

The reason I bring it up is because last night (after watching an episode of South Park making fun of Twi-hards) I had the most fascinating dream about vampires. I won't go into all the details, because I don't want to confuse myself, but it started out at Fright Fest at Six Flags and ended in a dusty old Victorian mansion, and somewhere in between, I found myself taking notes for a novel WHILE STILL DREAMING. This is an important point: Most of what I have actually written and finished in my life came from a dream. My last novel and tons of short stories were all inspired by vivid dreams from which I could not escape upon waking. So the fact that my dream self was scribbling down notes about the dream for a novel is majorly symbolic to me. It's like my Muse is shaking my shoulders and screaming, "This is it, you idiot! Write this down!"

We all know I am shopping for a new novel idea. I thought I had one worked out, but I just couldn't get into writing it. I've been really getting into sci-fi lately. I've found that I enjoy reading it more than almost anything else, that it yanks me into its pages and won't let me go until the story is over. Plus, it's Halloween, my absolute favorite time of the year in almost every way. And I'm writing a ghost story. So it's not really surprising that this is the sort of idea I would come up with right now. So what's the big hang up?

It's this: Vampires are just so damned trendy.

I have never, never, never been into trends. Jumping on the bandwagon is just not my thing. And I can make myself feel better by saying that I've always loved vampires and creepy crawlies and zombies and werewolves and whatnot, but that doesn't change the fact that the vampire thing is sooooo popular right now that it's almost hard to take anything with vampires in it seriously (True Blood aside, folks -- I will take no dissing of True Blood).

That said, I have also never been one to ignore my instincts. I have tried at times, lord, have I tried, but every time I ignore the whisper in the back of my head the whisper becomes a giant, steel-toed boot and kicks my ass until I do what it said in the first place. So there's a very good chance that in the next year you fine people will start seeing new excerpts based on this here dream I had last night.
If I can figure out how to make it NOT about vampires.

Have You Tried This Reading Thing?

2011-10-06T15:47:00.000-04:00

: Reading together is twice the fun.

No, really. Have you tried this reading thing? It's great. Really great. I spent most of the last week reading the Hunger Games (this includes a lot of the time I was at work...and I assure you, it is very difficult to read a book and wait tables at the same time). It was something of a revelation for me. Or maybe more of a reminder. "Hey, Rachel," it was saying, "You used to be like this all the time. You used to be like Belle in 'Beauty and the Beast,' tripping over stuff because your nose was stuck in a book."

And it's true. I used to read at least one book a week, sometimes two (though I seldom reached the threshold of three like I did this week). I could barely put down one book before I reached for another, ad when I was younger, I didn't even wait that long. I got halfway through one book and started another, reading up to three simultaneously, which, I admit, is a bit much. The point is, I used to read a LOT. And now I don't. Which begs the question: What happened?

Growing up didn't help. Having bills to pay, a relationship to nurture, friends not to neglect, and a job (although I guess we know by now that this doesn't necessarily stop me from reading) are all big hindrances. But I think that the biggest roadblock has actually been my writing. After grad school ended and I decided to concentrate on writing my novel and I no longer had assigned (albeit excellent) reading to attend to, I guess I just stopped reading. Not altogether, but certainly with any zest. If I was at home (or anywhere, really) with any time on my hands, I felt like I ought to be working on the book. Where I used to keep a novel or two in my purse, I kept a blank book and a heap of pens instead. I just felt guilty if I was reading. I kept telling myself that I should be writing, instead.

Which is ridiculous, if you think about it. We writers write because we love to (or need to), but we only came up with the idea because we love to read (or ought to, anyway -- anyone who doesn't like reading has absolutely NO business being a writer). To ignore books as a writer is like being an actor who doesn't go to the theater (which is why I gave up acting, btw; I much prefer movies). It's just counterproductive.

I had a professor while I was in grad school and during my short-lived stint reading for a PhD, James Ryan, who is a brilliant teacher and gave me one of the most useful pieces of advice on writing that I have gotten to date. Being a writer, he said, is one part reading, one part writing, and one part living. None of the parts are more important than the others. Like I said, the man's brilliant.

So I guess the point of all this is to say that this past week has reminded me why I wanted to write in the first place. I freakin' love books. LOVE them. And I swear, here and now, on this blog post, to the vastness that is the internet, and the significantly smaller (but more important) population that makes up actual readers of this blog, that I will never again neglect my books. I feel like a better person when I read, a better writer, and a hell of a lot happier.

: Even kittens understand.

Also, I'm going to use this as an opportunity to plug the books that brought on this epiphany. If you haven't read The Hunger Games trilogy, you are wasting your time not reading them. Drop everything and find a copy. Do it now. I'm not kidding. Go. Now. Shoo.

The Journey Continues

2011-09-17T01:23:00.001-04:00

After a momentary lull, I have jumped back on the horse that is my (supposed) writing career. I spent yesterday querying and sending short stories to various lit mags, and I am happy to report that it is already paying off. Hurray for small steps forward!

The First Cut Is the Deepest

2011-09-14T23:16:00.001-04:00

: This is my rejection letter.

Well, folks, I heard back from that agent who requested pages from me. I would love for this to be one of those first-time-around, kismetic success stories, but alas, it is exactly the story you would expect to hear. That is, said agent said thanks, but no thanks.

What is interesting about this story, and the reason that I decided to post about it here, is that my reaction to this particular rejection surprised me.

I am no stranger to rejection slips. I have a whole bag full of them in my bedroom, and an e-mail folder full of cyber-rejections, too. I have had every short story I have ever submitted to anyone rejected at least once, and only two of them have ever been accepted anywhere. I keep my rejection slips as badges of honor, battle scars, rungs on the ladder to my eventual literary success. Normally, when I receive a rejection note, I shrug my shoulders and toss it on the pile. No biggie.

But this one was a little bit different. It was no surprise, really. Mentally, I knew that I was probably going to get it. But when I opened the e-mail and read the note, I found myself surprised anyway. How could she have rejected my lovely book? How could she possibly have read it and not wanted to read more? If I had read the first three chapters, I would want to read more. Because for all my bellyaching about having to read my own novel over and over, I really do love it. It's like an unruly child. I see its flaws and they annoy the hell out of me, but at the end of the day, I know it's destined for great things. Or at least, I hope it is.

I know that it is damn near impossible to get a manuscript agented these days, and yet, I found myself standing in shock that this one agent didn't want to represent me. And then I realized why: This is my first rejection slip.

Okay, so I've gotten about a thousand rejection slips. But this is the first one I've ever gotten for a novel. A short story takes weeks, maybe months of work for me. My novel took years. It took so much more work than I've ever put into one piece of work before, and this was the first time anyone had ever read part of it, anyone besides friends and family, and she didn't like it. Or not enough to want to represent it, and to me, that was what counted. That hurt a little bit. I didn't cry or feel like I would never be successful or write her a hateful letter (which, almost unbelievably, people actually do to agents). I didn't take it personally, but it did sting. Because this book is personal. It is very personal.

From a different angle, of course, it is all part of the process. It almost had to happen for me to move on. And while I know that there will probably be tons more where that first rejection note came from, I also know that none of them will have the same bite that that first one did. It's like Sheryl Crow said, "The first cut is the deepest."

So now, I say, "Bring on the second cut."

The Ever-Loving Query Letter, Revised

2011-08-29T13:00:00.007-04:00

After I posted my original query letter, I had a feeling of embarrassment about it. I kind of didn't want people to read it, and I thought that was weird, since it's supposed to get people excited about reading my writing. I brushed it off at the time as another example of me judging myself too harshly and kept it up (it's still here, by the way, if you want to look at an example of a truly atrocious query letter). But, being me, I couldn't just leave it at that. I kept reading about query letters, and eventually, I found the Query Shark. Suddenly, it became clear why I was so embarrassed about my query letter. It just didn't do its job. So I scrapped the old one and wrote this new one, of which I am much more proud.

: All the terrible drafts.

Dear Agent,

Thirteen-year-old Virginia has never seen a dead body before. That is, not until she and her best friend Amelia are the only witnesses to the death of their friend Jeremiah. Terrified of being blamed for the accident, Amelia convinces Virgina that they should hide Jeremiah's body and return to their lives as though nothing happened.

Lies don't come easy to Virginia, but she learns. She longs to talk to someone about Jeremiah, but Amelia keeps a close watch on her, threatening to pin Jeremiah's death on Virginia if she tells anyone what she knows. And there's a persistent voice in the back of Virginia's head, insisting that if she ignores the truth about Jeremiah long enough, her life will go back to normal.

When Jonah, the dead boy's older brother, calls Virginia to talk about Jeremiah's disappearance, she can't resist. She needs someone to talk to and Amelia's gone off the deep end. Virginia doesn't tell Jonah her secret, but through their friendship, she does see the damage her lies inflict. Jonah's family is collapsing under the strain of Jeremiah's disappearance. He loses sleep worrying about what happened to the little brother he was supposed to protect. Virginia can't help wondering if the truth would help her new friend or drive him further into depression.

Virginia's lies grow more desperate as suspicions surrounding the girls stack up. She worries that the end may be near, but she doesn't know how to prepare for it. Will she find the courage to tell the truth? Or will Jeremiah's death remain a secret forever?

Wasteland, 91K words, is my first novel.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Rachel Wright

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For sample pages, visit: rachelwritesabook.blogspot.com

"Write Drunk, Edit Sober": Ernest Hemingway's Writing Philosophy

2011-08-22T12:47:00.002-04:00

Ernest Hemingway was famous for two things: writing and drinking. So perhaps it's no surprise that his writing philosophy combines the two great constants in his life. It's definitely no surprise to anyone who's ever read any of his books, except maybe The Old Man and the Sea. Maybe.

: Typing with one hand, holding a drink with the other.

While I the first book of his that I ever read was that very book, the first time I read and loved him was A Farewell to Arms. Perhaps I felt a sort of kindredness with the protagonist in the story because we were both expatriates. I was living in France at the time, in Dijon, and there was a rumor that the great writer had studied French in the same program that I was in. While I hadn't really enjoyed The Old Man and the Sea (I was barely out of high school the first time I read it, and I think that I was just too inexperienced to really understand the book at that point in my life), I decided to give Old Hem another shot. He did, after all, love Paris, so he couldn't be all bad. I bought A Farewell to Arms in the Gare de Lyon while I was waiting for a train (I sort of think I was headed toward Berlin, oddly enough, because I was on my own, but I really could have been going anywhere, I suppose). After I put the book down, I had changed my mind about Ernie.

In the following years, my love affair with Hemingway deepened. I've read most of his books while living in various European cities, and I think that a big part of my connection to Hemingway draws from the fact that he was writing about expatriate life at the same time as I was experiencing it. He so perfectly captured the loneliness and the excitement and the pureness of friendships between expats. The Sun Also Rises. A Moveable Feast. These books were my expat bibles.

People who have read my work are always shocked to hear that I have been influenced by Ernest Hemingway. His tight, concise style seems in direct conflict with my own style, which tends toward the verbose, often waxing emotional and quasi-poetic. I think that people just roll their eyes and say, "You're probably influenced by Shakespeare and Stephen King too." And it's true, when I'm writing, I totally ignore Ernie's spare voice. But when I'm editing? He is the heavy bird-of-prey on my shoulder saying, "Cut it. Throw it to me."

Which leads me nicely to my point. Hemingway once (supposedly) said, "Write drunk. Edit sober." And while I have no doubt that he meant the statement (at least partly) literally, that's not how I read it. Personally, I'm a horrible writer when I'm tipsy, and if I ever gave it a shot when I was flat out drunk, I'm pretty sure it would be a horrible, rambling mess.

But what I think that Hem was getting at was this: the time to censor yourself is not when you are writing. When you are writing, you should let yourself go, put on the page (or the screen) whatever comes into your mind, whether it makes logical sense or not. We're talking stream-of-consciousness, wild and crazy stuff. As though you are the drunk dude at the bar at the end of the night, hugging everybody and telling them how nobody loves him like his mother and it's been three years since the last time he got laid and he really hates his job because his office smells terrible. Nobody is really interested in what he has to say, but HE is interested. It means something to him. And when he wakes up the next afternoon, he will wonder what the hell he was talking about. He will wish he hadn't said certain things. He will edit.

See what I'm saying? More importantly, see what Ernie's saying? He's telling you to let yourself go when you put pen to paper. Follow your imagination wherever it takes you. Enjoy yourself. Make stupid jokes. Bring in characters who don't belong. Make up indiscriminate love affairs and ill-conceived antics and senseless crimes. Fall in love with every word you write. Become drunk with the power of creating your own universe, being the god of that universe. If you censor yourself from the very beginning, you'll never get anywhere.

And then, when you've written the last word, get yourself a strong cup of coffee. You're going to need it. Now you've got to edit this mess.

Writing is fun.

2011-08-10T13:37:00.000-04:00

: Writing is fun!

I am working on a new short story. I started writing it (or outlining it, I guess) before I finished editing my novel, but I was distracted. Editing is sort of the opposite of writing. It's all about restraint and a critical eye (I am working on another blog post about this very subject, so look for that soon). Writing is about letting yourself go, openness and appreciation for every idea that flits through your mind.

Which is why I am so excited now. When I was editing, I was frustrated. My creative instincts felt stifled, and I had to force myself to keep going. But now I remember why I love this job. It's letting my imagination go nuts, creating something totally new, something that came out of my brain, through my hand, onto the page (or the screen). It didn't exist before, and now it does, solely because of me. I made it, and only I could have made it.

And that is exciting.

Onward!!

2011-08-09T00:41:00.002-04:00

: This book is riding into the sunset. It's been a really, really long day.

Ah, dear readers, today I am truly content. Because today -- only moments ago, in fact, I finished the final draft of my novel.
Yes, I am aware that I have made this claim before. I am aware, too, that in the event of acquisition by an agent/publisher, more edits will be made to this piece of work. But those are edits to be made in another time, and more importantly, at least in part, by another person. As for me, I am finished.
I am sure that the novel is not yet perfect. I know for a fact that if I were to look at it again tomorrow, I would find a hundred new problems to fix. I could edit this novel for the rest of my life and never be completely satisfied. Because as I grow as a writer, and as a person, my goals for my work will also shift, my expectations grow, my red pen (actually, I use a hot pink pen for editing) scribble liberally. I would be like that director in the movie "Synecdoche, NY," every day saying to myself, "NOW I know what to do! Now I can make my novel perfect!"
It will never be perfect. And while I'm trying to make it perfect, I'm losing precious time I could be using to write something new, something that excites me, something that obsesses me, something that I'm not sick to death of the sight of. So that's what I intend to do.
Expect new stories soon, reader. Expect rants about how much I hate having writer's block. Or about how many different choices I have for what to write next. Or about not knowing what I want to communicate with my new novel.
Yes, friends. The best part about being done with the old novel is getting to write a new one!

Borders Closes...I Save

2011-07-28T18:12:00.002-04:00

: It strikes both fear and joy into my heart.

I know it should make me sad that Borders, one of the largest book retailers in the country, is going out of business. I know that it implies a lot of distressing things about the state of literature in our society. I know that it suggests even further that the paper book is going the way of the dodo. I know that it means that the closest bookstore to my house will soon be gone, and my boyfriend and I will have to find someplace else to hang out on Saturday afternoons.

But part of me was thrilled -- THRILLED!!! -- to walk into the bookstore today and see it full of patrons. It was more full than I have ever seen it outside of the weeks leading up to Christmas. I saw one lady walk out with a shopping cart full of books. Full. We're talking, top and bottom and baby seat full of books. I nudged my friend Chrissie (who was good enough to accompany me on the outing, despite having just stepped off a plane from India). "Look at all the books!" I squealed. "In my greatest dreams, I could buy that many books."

I did, in fact, manage to purchase one book, despite the meager wages I eke out as a waitress while I wait for that big three-book deal. And you know why I could buy said book? 20% off all fiction. Because Borders is closing.

So yes, I know that in the very near future, I will lament (and lament deeply) the loss of what was a truly wonderful place to hang out. But for now, I'm just looking forward to cracking open Swamplandia!

Progress At Last!

2011-07-18T14:34:00.000-04:00

I read recently that summertime is not the best time for querying agents, as the publishing industry tends to operate on a school-type schedule (i.e., off June through August). This is because many of the smaller presses are run through universities, which more or less shut down for the summer months. I should have guessed this from my years of short story-writing. I would finish a new story only to find that none of the lit mags I wanted to send it to were accepting submissions during summer break, as their staff of students had all gone home.

Also recently, I discovered the amazing Query Shark, who critiques query letters with much gnashing of teeth (as her name suggests). The discovery inspired me to take a shotgun to my old query letter and begin anew. If you are wondering how to write a query, by the way, ignore all other sites and go directly to the Query Shark. She is amazing.

So imagine my surprise when, having decided that both my query and my timing sucked, I received an email from one of the agents I queried (with my old letter), asking for sample pages. Yay! A foot (maybe more of a toe...or a toenail) in the door!

: It looks like a mountain, but really it's the pebble in front of the molehill.

I am well aware that this doesn't necessarily mean that said agent will want to read more of my novel (although I am of the opinion that she will, seeing as how I have written possibly the greatest work of literature since The Sun Also Rises). I am even better aware of the fact that she won't necessarily want to represent me. And even if she does, she won't necessarily be able to sell it, and it won't necessarily garner me a three-book deal with Random House and a permanent spot on the Times' Bestseller List and so on and so forth, etc.

But it did make me feel like I've got a shot at all of the above, however miniscule. And because of that, I thought I'd share my joy with you lovely strangers.

Applying the Ass to the Chair: Dorothy Parker's Philosophy of Writing

2011-07-05T01:33:00.002-04:00

: Thinking up clever quips, no doubt.

I was initially drawn to Dorothy Parker because of a T-shirt. I bought it in Charleston, SC on either my 18th or 19th birthday, and it was dark orange and said, in circus-poster font: "I'll try anything once; twice if I like it." My friend Brooke, who almost always accompanied me on the road trip from Atlanta to Charleston, told me she thought that it was from a Dorothy Parker poem, and I immediately resolved to find out more about this woman. It probably stands as a testament to my lack of motivation that I, to this day, can neither confirm nor deny that Parker ever did write that pithy T-shirt-destined line, but I have, indeed, read more by and about ole Dot, and I find her work a delight to read.

I think that my attraction to Parker stems from her tendency toward both melancholy and sarcasm -- sometimes at the same time!! I don't think that I can ever stress enough how much I love a smartass; someone who is funny and irreverent and observant, and I say in the most respectful way possible that Dorothy Parker was one of the greatest smartasses of all time. I give you some small examples, so that you can understand my love:

"Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne."

"She was a great, hulking, stupidly dressed woman, with flapping cheeks and bee-stung eyes."

"But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!"

Like I said, I love her. I could go on like this for pages and pages, but then y'all wouldn't go out and read her for yourselves and find your own little gems of acridness to fall in love with, and what's the fun in that? There are a million things I could say about her -- she was a founder of the Algonquin Round Table (a bunch of writers who sat around in the Algonquin Hotel and got drunk and talked about politics and books and gossiped about writers and politicians they didn't like); wrote several collections of shorts stories and poetry and was a very early contributor to the New Yorker; lived in France for a time (like all great American writers did); was blacklisted in Hollywood during the McCarthy era; was famously a champion of progressive causes, not the least of which was the Civil Rights movement (she even bequeathed her estate to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. -- the estate was transferred to the NAACP upon his assassination and, in a long, twisted, and ironic chain of events, her ashes also ended up at the NAACP's headquarters). Again, Dorothy Parker was a fascinating human being. I can say, in all honesty, that I really, really, really wish I could have known her.

But what is most pertinent to me now (and to this blog, I suppose) is her philosophy on writing, which was all about hard work and perseverance (grim determination of the soul!). I picture Parker at a desk, furiously scribbling, sweat pouring down her face, mental muscles rippling as though her brain was John Henry driving steel for the railroads. Parker had no patience for the whimsical artist, the one who worked only when "inspired," the one who claimed that one cannot push art. She once said, "The art of writing is the art of applying the ass to the chair," and I cannot agree with her more.
"...You writers don't know what struggle is," Parker once wrote in a short story. The character that says it is an actress, old, alcoholic, washed up. "To write. To set one word beautifully beside another word. The privilege of it. The blessed, blessed peace of it." And those of us out there who are writers can see the joke she's making, though personally, I can't quite bring myself to laugh, knowing how the toil that goes into writing sometimes results in very little. It's a common misconception that writers are just mediums, channeling ghostly voices of inspiration, words that come pouring like magic out of our fingers to settle comfortably on paper. But anyone who's ever tried to write something, and write it well, knows that this is the worst kind of fairy tale. And trust me, Dot knew.

Good writing, like good dancing, looks easy. Words flow from one to the next, each one in its place, creating a cohesive, meaningful, and aesthetically pleasing work of communication and (dare I say it?) art. And writers, as a species, don't help with the perception that they are a rollicking, whimsical bunch; at least not the (in)famous ones. A writer that I went to school with once called our class Alcoholics Synonymous. But for every night we spent drinking and dancing and cavorting, we spent three alone in our various rooms, toiling over which word to put where. I have personally spent hours fiddling with the same paragraph, rearranging it, flipping through dictionaries and thesauri (is that a word? am I crazy?) and literally tearing my hair out to get it just right. And to be honest, if I look at that same paragraph now, I could probably spend another hour or so tweaking it some more. Parker said once said in an interview, "It takes me six months to do a story. I think it out and then write it sentence by sentence—no first draft. I can’t write five words but that I change seven."

That's pretty much the gist of it. It's not that inspiration doesn't count, or that it isn't real. It does count! It is real! My own novel was inspired by a dream, which haunted me for days until I finally threw my hands up, shouted "Enough!" and scribbled down what turned out to be my first chapter. But never again did I experience that kind of clarity, that kind of passion and certainty -- at least not with that project. Everything that has happened with the novel since then, every blessed word of it, has come from hard (and sometimes forced) labor, and that's how it should be. I worked my ass off. I did it because that's what I had to do to get it right. A good writer, as Parker once put it, works "damn hard and all the time."

Despair

2011-07-01T14:17:00.002-04:00

I feel like I will never stop editing this damn book. Every time I think I'm finished, I see another typo. Or find another plot hole. Or read another sentence whose parts are wrinkled.

I think I've read this novel about twelve times in the last three years, which puts it at the top of my list of most-often read books (right after "The Handmaid's Tale," which I prefer, because unfortunately I didn't write that one).

I go cross-eyed when I look at a page of this damn book, and that's before I start reading. Is it possible to do a good editing job when you know everything that's coming? I don't know.

All I know is, I really, really, really hope somebody pays me for all this.

As my old pal Dorothy Parker once said, "I hate writing; I love having written."