I can't believe it's been six years. I guess I just wasn't ready to make it happen before, even though the responses were decent the motivation just wasn't there yet. Sometimes these things take time (mental time, that is). It's a new year, and this year is the year of the book.
So far, things are going quite well on a few fronts. I was invited to speak at a TED Talk next week, I found 200 lost pages of a memoir I wrote when I was 20, and I started a book project with one of the most talented artists I know. Things are happening, now I just need to ride the horse in the direction it's going and not lose track again.
More soon...
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Saturday, August 2, 2008
...Crickets....
There is just nothing going on on this front right now. I'm starting three new jobs in the fall, and they're all taking pretty much everything out of me. The first and foremost is my teaching job, but then I'll also be teaching college online and tutoring through a new company. The book will still happen, it really will, and I'm still working on revisions, but I just haven't had a free moment to work. I know, I know, there are no free moments except the ones we create, but damn it's hard. Throw a toddler into the mix and I'm impressed when I manage to shower, never mind feeling like a writer. Thank God for blogging. At least I can pretend I'm doing something creative....
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Another Conference
I went to a writer's conference last weekend. Alice Hoffman spoke on Friday night, and it was as if she was channeling me. She talked about trying to write as a young mother, which was funny, since most of the audience consisted of college students and retirees. I dare say, I was one of the only newish mothers in attendance. But, she talked about how difficult it is to write when you feel the needs of your family pressing down from all sides, and about the strain of attempting to make sense of a story when you can barely remember to put on deodorant in the morning, and the harsh reality that there just. isn't. time. ever. Her advice? Make time. Get up at 5am (that would work better if Hayden didn't get up at 5am too). Write at night. Write in the bathroom. Just write.
She also said that she accomplished more in a two hour period when she had young children than she ever did since, and that I believe. The last time I had a two hour stretch I cleaned the house (And I mean deep cleaned, down to the inside of the microwave and the toilets), I rearranged my closet, did three loads of laundry (and actually got to fold them!) checked my email, paid all the bills and cooked dinner. Of course, that was about a month ago now. And none of those things have happened since.
Alice Hoffman was just what I needed though in terms of inspiration. It can be done. It really, really can. I know this, but sometimes I really need that extra shot of reassurance, because it's all just so daunting sometimes.
On Saturday, we had a day-long panel discussion that turned out to be very informative. I learned that blogs count as a platform builder (so tell everyone to read my blogs and then find famous friends to say nice things) and that while it would still benefit me to be shot or stabbed, I may be able to pull this off without either of those things happening.
Sidenote: Why are my students so lazy?! We had around 45 teen pregnancies this year at my high school, and a whole bunch of them talked about how "like, cool" it would be to "you know, like, have the babies, like, together and stuff", but they didn't put it in writing. A pact. That would have done it for me. There's a platform. I could have gone on Good Morning America and talked about the tragedy of teen pregnancy and I could have blamed Juno, and I could have waxed poetic about the horror of it all....no, wait...that wouldn't have worked. My kids are mostly Hispanic. The Gloucester story made news, not because 17 kids got pregnant at the same time, (newsflash: that happens all the time), or because they were trying to get pregnant (that's practically a given these days) or because they wanted to "like, raise their kids together and stuff". They made news because they were a bunch of white girls trying to get pregnant together. Okay, the random homeless guy one of them slept with just added to the impact, but it wasn't about teen pregnancy, it was about the possibility of teen pregnancy in "our" communities. And that pisses me off.
But, I digress....
Oh yes, a platform. Well, since my kids won't put it in writing, I'm back to square one. Write good stuff, impress an agent and get published. I met with an agent after the panel who looked at my query letter and critiqued it. She had some very positive things to say. 99% positive, in fact. She helped me to get around some of the "this is a tight shelf" issues, and she said that I have a solid, compelling voice in my writing. Yeah me :) Interestingly enough, she's from the same agency as one of my really nice rejections. She said the guy who rejected me with a long letter never, ever writes to anyone personally, so I should take that as an excellent sign. Okay...I will. I still want someone to like it just a little, tiny bit more though. Like, say, enough to take it on.
She also said that she accomplished more in a two hour period when she had young children than she ever did since, and that I believe. The last time I had a two hour stretch I cleaned the house (And I mean deep cleaned, down to the inside of the microwave and the toilets), I rearranged my closet, did three loads of laundry (and actually got to fold them!) checked my email, paid all the bills and cooked dinner. Of course, that was about a month ago now. And none of those things have happened since.
Alice Hoffman was just what I needed though in terms of inspiration. It can be done. It really, really can. I know this, but sometimes I really need that extra shot of reassurance, because it's all just so daunting sometimes.
On Saturday, we had a day-long panel discussion that turned out to be very informative. I learned that blogs count as a platform builder (so tell everyone to read my blogs and then find famous friends to say nice things) and that while it would still benefit me to be shot or stabbed, I may be able to pull this off without either of those things happening.
Sidenote: Why are my students so lazy?! We had around 45 teen pregnancies this year at my high school, and a whole bunch of them talked about how "like, cool" it would be to "you know, like, have the babies, like, together and stuff", but they didn't put it in writing. A pact. That would have done it for me. There's a platform. I could have gone on Good Morning America and talked about the tragedy of teen pregnancy and I could have blamed Juno, and I could have waxed poetic about the horror of it all....no, wait...that wouldn't have worked. My kids are mostly Hispanic. The Gloucester story made news, not because 17 kids got pregnant at the same time, (newsflash: that happens all the time), or because they were trying to get pregnant (that's practically a given these days) or because they wanted to "like, raise their kids together and stuff". They made news because they were a bunch of white girls trying to get pregnant together. Okay, the random homeless guy one of them slept with just added to the impact, but it wasn't about teen pregnancy, it was about the possibility of teen pregnancy in "our" communities. And that pisses me off.
But, I digress....
Oh yes, a platform. Well, since my kids won't put it in writing, I'm back to square one. Write good stuff, impress an agent and get published. I met with an agent after the panel who looked at my query letter and critiqued it. She had some very positive things to say. 99% positive, in fact. She helped me to get around some of the "this is a tight shelf" issues, and she said that I have a solid, compelling voice in my writing. Yeah me :) Interestingly enough, she's from the same agency as one of my really nice rejections. She said the guy who rejected me with a long letter never, ever writes to anyone personally, so I should take that as an excellent sign. Okay...I will. I still want someone to like it just a little, tiny bit more though. Like, say, enough to take it on.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
A Positive Rejection
This is the rejection letter I just received from an agent I spoke to at a conference last month. At the conference she told me she wasn't interested at all, but I sent her my work anyway with a cover letter explaining that even though she said it's not her style, I'd love to try to change her mind. This is her letter (all emphasis hers)
Dear Elaine,
Thank you for your interest in our agency, and for taking the time to pitch to me at NHWP. I hope you had a wonderful and fruitful time at the conference.
I reviewed your sample, and I'm sorry, but we're going to pass on requesting more of your work. It was a tough decision, actually, as really like your style, but ultimately I had to be honest with my doubts about who I could sell this to. Maybe you'll have better luck with an agent who has already done something a little closer to this, but it is a crowded shelf. I'm so sorry I don't have better news.
Although I'm passing on your project, I hope the next agent will feel more drawn to your work. Keep sending it out there!
Best of luck with it. I do hope to hear of your success.
Warm regards,
***
So, that was really nice. It would have been better, of course, had she decided to take it on. But, still, it's a really good start.
Dear Elaine,
Thank you for your interest in our agency, and for taking the time to pitch to me at NHWP. I hope you had a wonderful and fruitful time at the conference.
I reviewed your sample, and I'm sorry, but we're going to pass on requesting more of your work. It was a tough decision, actually, as really like your style, but ultimately I had to be honest with my doubts about who I could sell this to. Maybe you'll have better luck with an agent who has already done something a little closer to this, but it is a crowded shelf. I'm so sorry I don't have better news.
Although I'm passing on your project, I hope the next agent will feel more drawn to your work. Keep sending it out there!
Best of luck with it. I do hope to hear of your success.
Warm regards,
***
So, that was really nice. It would have been better, of course, had she decided to take it on. But, still, it's a really good start.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Sample Chapter One
The job I never ever want to have is being a teacher. I don’t want to be a teacher because you have to go to school and it’s like going to school all over again. Also because you don’t get a lot of money. This is why I don’t want to be a teacher.
-Angelo
Bright yellow police tape surrounds the entrance of the school. I stop for a moment as I wait for security to buzz me in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
My own seventh grade experience consisted of almost being expelled for accidentally setting the hallway on fire, failing shop class for building a rocking duck that wouldn’t rock, and skipping so many classes that several teachers assumed that I had moved away. I’m hardly the ideal candidate for this job. But, part of me wonders if I would have done better if I’d had a teacher like myself, one who didn’t believe that these were the best years of our lives; one of the cruelest lies we tell kids.
I never planned to become a teacher. But, after spending almost a decade working in the insurance industry, I found myself fantasizing about jobs that didn’t involve policy renewals and endorsements. One day on a walk I strolled by the local Charter School, and, on a whim, I decided to see if they needed a volunteer to teach a writing program. Instead, they offered me a position as an assistant in the sixth grade. I took the job on the spot, and I cut my regular work hours back to accommodate my new schedule.
That first day I was wooed by the smell of radiator heat and wet mittens. I found that I loved being around kids, but working in an affluent suburb I grew tired of students telling me that their gardeners made more money than I did, even though it was true. The kids I really connected to were the ones who were accepted into the school as part of a lottery system that attracted students from lower income towns nearby. By the end of the year I knew two things, that I wanted to teach, and that I wanted to work in an urban school system.
But now, as I wait to be let in for my interview, I wonder if I really know what I’m doing.
The building is enormous, taking up close to a city block, and it looks more like a prison than a school. It’s one of the least inviting buildings I’ve ever seen, dark cement with only a few windows that are covered with a deep, red film that doesn’t let in the light. I can’t imagine the rationale behind the colored windows; maybe they think kids will be distracted if they can see outside.
After several minutes a short, balding man opens the door. He shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself as Mr. Fitzpatrick, one of the vice-principals. He leads me down the corridor toward the main office. He doesn’t mention the police tape, and I don’t ask as we walk down dark corridors, dodging puddles of water on the floor.
“Excuse our appearance,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says. “We’re still getting things cleaned up for the start of school.”
I follow him into a cluttered office and he offers me a seat. As he flips through my thin file, I try to think of questions that will make me sound more competent than I feel. I know a bit about the school from my friend’s husband who used to work here. I remember Sean talking about the incongruity of baby-faced Cambodian gang kids, seventh graders who look so young, machetes cloaked under baggy jeans. Those were stories told over a glass of wine; a chorus of, “that’s so sad” leading into political discussions about the Khmer Rouge and refugees. But now, sitting here, I wonder why I never asked him how he handled those kids. Was he afraid to give them detentions for fear of retaliation? Did he tell them to leave their knives in their lockers?
Mr. Fitzpatrick closes my file. “Everything here looks good,” he says. “I know Sean told you about the school, so I won’t really get into that except to say that most of our kids are very needy. They need teachers who really care about them, and they can tell the dedicated teachers from the hacks. This isn’t the place to be if you can’t handle taking the job home with you at night.”
“I have no problem with long hours,” I say.
He looks at me evenly. “I’m not talking about your workload.”
He gets up and shakes my hand. “I think you’ll do well here.”
I can’t believe the interview is over so quickly. I’d rehearsed answers to all of the tricky questions I figured he’d ask, but he’s already leading me back into the corridor.
“What grade will I be teaching can I see my classroom is there a copy of the textbook?” I ask in one breath as he walks me toward the door.
“We’ll let you know what grade you’ll be teaching before school starts, and you’ll get your room assignment then.”
“But school starts in less than a week,” I remind him.
“Don’t worry; we usually have everything set by the time school starts.”
Usually?
“What about a textbook?” I ask.
“Oh, I suppose we can give you one, I think there are some seventh grade books in the closet. You could be teaching sixth or eighth, but at least you’ll have an idea of what to expect.”
At least I’ll have some reading material stave off the panic.
He leads me to a broom closet with dog-eared books piled floor-to-ceiling next to paint thinner and mops. He digs out a copy of the seventh grade literature text and hands it to me. It’s large and purple and it looks like a lot more reading than I can handle in just a few days, but somehow it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
As he walks me to the door he asks, “So, are you getting nervous?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Good. The ones who aren’t scared scare me.”
-Angelo
Bright yellow police tape surrounds the entrance of the school. I stop for a moment as I wait for security to buzz me in and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
My own seventh grade experience consisted of almost being expelled for accidentally setting the hallway on fire, failing shop class for building a rocking duck that wouldn’t rock, and skipping so many classes that several teachers assumed that I had moved away. I’m hardly the ideal candidate for this job. But, part of me wonders if I would have done better if I’d had a teacher like myself, one who didn’t believe that these were the best years of our lives; one of the cruelest lies we tell kids.
I never planned to become a teacher. But, after spending almost a decade working in the insurance industry, I found myself fantasizing about jobs that didn’t involve policy renewals and endorsements. One day on a walk I strolled by the local Charter School, and, on a whim, I decided to see if they needed a volunteer to teach a writing program. Instead, they offered me a position as an assistant in the sixth grade. I took the job on the spot, and I cut my regular work hours back to accommodate my new schedule.
That first day I was wooed by the smell of radiator heat and wet mittens. I found that I loved being around kids, but working in an affluent suburb I grew tired of students telling me that their gardeners made more money than I did, even though it was true. The kids I really connected to were the ones who were accepted into the school as part of a lottery system that attracted students from lower income towns nearby. By the end of the year I knew two things, that I wanted to teach, and that I wanted to work in an urban school system.
But now, as I wait to be let in for my interview, I wonder if I really know what I’m doing.
The building is enormous, taking up close to a city block, and it looks more like a prison than a school. It’s one of the least inviting buildings I’ve ever seen, dark cement with only a few windows that are covered with a deep, red film that doesn’t let in the light. I can’t imagine the rationale behind the colored windows; maybe they think kids will be distracted if they can see outside.
After several minutes a short, balding man opens the door. He shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself as Mr. Fitzpatrick, one of the vice-principals. He leads me down the corridor toward the main office. He doesn’t mention the police tape, and I don’t ask as we walk down dark corridors, dodging puddles of water on the floor.
“Excuse our appearance,” Mr. Fitzpatrick says. “We’re still getting things cleaned up for the start of school.”
I follow him into a cluttered office and he offers me a seat. As he flips through my thin file, I try to think of questions that will make me sound more competent than I feel. I know a bit about the school from my friend’s husband who used to work here. I remember Sean talking about the incongruity of baby-faced Cambodian gang kids, seventh graders who look so young, machetes cloaked under baggy jeans. Those were stories told over a glass of wine; a chorus of, “that’s so sad” leading into political discussions about the Khmer Rouge and refugees. But now, sitting here, I wonder why I never asked him how he handled those kids. Was he afraid to give them detentions for fear of retaliation? Did he tell them to leave their knives in their lockers?
Mr. Fitzpatrick closes my file. “Everything here looks good,” he says. “I know Sean told you about the school, so I won’t really get into that except to say that most of our kids are very needy. They need teachers who really care about them, and they can tell the dedicated teachers from the hacks. This isn’t the place to be if you can’t handle taking the job home with you at night.”
“I have no problem with long hours,” I say.
He looks at me evenly. “I’m not talking about your workload.”
He gets up and shakes my hand. “I think you’ll do well here.”
I can’t believe the interview is over so quickly. I’d rehearsed answers to all of the tricky questions I figured he’d ask, but he’s already leading me back into the corridor.
“What grade will I be teaching can I see my classroom is there a copy of the textbook?” I ask in one breath as he walks me toward the door.
“We’ll let you know what grade you’ll be teaching before school starts, and you’ll get your room assignment then.”
“But school starts in less than a week,” I remind him.
“Don’t worry; we usually have everything set by the time school starts.”
Usually?
“What about a textbook?” I ask.
“Oh, I suppose we can give you one, I think there are some seventh grade books in the closet. You could be teaching sixth or eighth, but at least you’ll have an idea of what to expect.”
At least I’ll have some reading material stave off the panic.
He leads me to a broom closet with dog-eared books piled floor-to-ceiling next to paint thinner and mops. He digs out a copy of the seventh grade literature text and hands it to me. It’s large and purple and it looks like a lot more reading than I can handle in just a few days, but somehow it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
As he walks me to the door he asks, “So, are you getting nervous?”
“A bit, yes.”
“Good. The ones who aren’t scared scare me.”
Sample Chapters to Big Kid
The sample chapters just went out to Big Kid Agent. I clicked "send" and my heart just sank. I know it's far too early in the game to be put off by rejection, and by most standards I really haven't faced a whole lot of rejection, but I'm just feeling discouraged today. I've revamped the first chapter at least a dozen more times, and I feel like it's pretty tight, but the marked for this kind of book is tighter, and there's really nothing I can do about that. It's not that I thought people would be banging down the doors to represent me, but I didn't expect so much of the feedback to center on the fact that this is a type of book that's tough to market. In a sense, I'd be better off if they just thought my style sucked, because then I could work on that, but people are saying pretty decent things about the writing, it's the subject matter that's the plague. It's kind of like dating and being told that it's nothing personal, you're just too tall to find a boyfriend. Heavy, poorly dressed, crappy personality, hell, even butt ugly could be changed, but height is what it is. And teacher memoirs are the gangley kid at the party. Sure, people will make comments about modeling and basketball, but at the end of the day, you'd better be damn hot to pull it off. And right now, I'm not feeling hot.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Big Kid Agent Called Me Back
Just when I thought I was being stood up by Big Kid Agent, he called me back. Of course, Bear Cub was screaming bloody murder in the background and Disney Radio was blasting in the background, so I'm sure that set up a sweet mental picture for Agent Man. New Hampshire is an interesting return address to New Yorkers. Some days it congers up images of maple syrup and quaint country inns, and other days it's all toothless hicks with gun racks. I have a feeling I'm now some barefoot woman in a housecoat with a kid on my hip and a bottle of beer in my hand.
Replace the housecoat with flannel pjs, and the beer with a decent scotch and I guess you're pretty close.
Oh, but anyway, Big Kid Agent wants to see my first few chapters. So, I reworked them again, and as soon as I figure out how to disable the "track changes" feature, so they can't see all the inner workings of my mind, I'll send it out.
In the meantime, I'm channeling David Sedaris via Naked on audio in my car. Damn, he's good. But, if you think of him in terms of a query letter, he reeks of rejection.
Dear Agent,
My book is...well, it's about licking doorknobs, and how my mom got all the teachers drunk so they wouldn't keep talking about how I licked doorknobs, and my crazy grandmother...
Damn, I take it back, even the query sounds funny. Maybe I need to find my inner doorknob licker.
Replace the housecoat with flannel pjs, and the beer with a decent scotch and I guess you're pretty close.
Oh, but anyway, Big Kid Agent wants to see my first few chapters. So, I reworked them again, and as soon as I figure out how to disable the "track changes" feature, so they can't see all the inner workings of my mind, I'll send it out.
In the meantime, I'm channeling David Sedaris via Naked on audio in my car. Damn, he's good. But, if you think of him in terms of a query letter, he reeks of rejection.
Dear Agent,
My book is...well, it's about licking doorknobs, and how my mom got all the teachers drunk so they wouldn't keep talking about how I licked doorknobs, and my crazy grandmother...
Damn, I take it back, even the query sounds funny. Maybe I need to find my inner doorknob licker.
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