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.
A nice rejection
Dear Elaine,
It was a treat meeting a fellow Bardian at the NHWP Writer's Day. Thanks for following up and sending along your memoir.
While I appreciated your story and admired how you poured your heart on the page, I just don't think I could be successful on your behalf. The memoir market is very crowded and I don't think I'd be able to cut through the noise with Gangsta Bears. But I hope I'm wrong and that another agent feels differently.
I wish you the best of luck with your writing.
Sincerely,
L.
A rejection, but in a world of largely impersonal rejections, I've gotten three really nice ones, and two that said they hoped someone else would feel differently and take me on. Kind of the agent version of, "it's not you, it's me". Granted, being turned down still sucks, but it really does take the sting out to get the occasional letter that's not addressed "Dear Writer".
It was a treat meeting a fellow Bardian at the NHWP Writer's Day. Thanks for following up and sending along your memoir.
While I appreciated your story and admired how you poured your heart on the page, I just don't think I could be successful on your behalf. The memoir market is very crowded and I don't think I'd be able to cut through the noise with Gangsta Bears. But I hope I'm wrong and that another agent feels differently.
I wish you the best of luck with your writing.
Sincerely,
L.
A rejection, but in a world of largely impersonal rejections, I've gotten three really nice ones, and two that said they hoped someone else would feel differently and take me on. Kind of the agent version of, "it's not you, it's me". Granted, being turned down still sucks, but it really does take the sting out to get the occasional letter that's not addressed "Dear Writer".
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Left hanging
So, I called Big Kid agent and he was in a meeting. So, what did I do? I broke the cardinal rule of dating/agent hunting. I left a message for him with his assistant. Of course, we know he won't. He's busy, and he has no idea who the hell I am. So, now I have to call back without looking like a stalker. Ugh.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Big Kid Agent Wants A Call
"Big Kid" agent is "curious" and wants me to give him a call. I'm nervous about it, because I know I'm going to have to pitch this in a way that will make him want to read it, without having it feel like a rehearsed pitch, and that's tough. But, I'm going to go into it with the attitude that it's a strong book and hopefully that energy and confidence will shine through. I just have to clear my mind a bit first. It's been a long, tough week in a lot of ways, and I really need to find a good place before I talk to him, since I'm pretty burned out right now.
I accidentally picked up a copy of Writer's Digest at the school library last week. I was talking to the librarian, and when I picked up my papers to leave, it must have been on the counter under them. It's actually a really interesting magazine, and now more than ever, it has information that I can really use. I remember looking through it once before, but since it's all on the publishing end, I really didn't find much there that worked for me. This month's issue has a whole article on the best website resources for writers, and I'm already finding some interesting things there. Of course, I'll have to bring the magazine back at some point, but it feels like some odd gesture on the part of fate that I ended up with it. Either the universe is trying to tell me that I'm on the right path, or that I really need to do some reading and research before I put myself out there further.
I accidentally picked up a copy of Writer's Digest at the school library last week. I was talking to the librarian, and when I picked up my papers to leave, it must have been on the counter under them. It's actually a really interesting magazine, and now more than ever, it has information that I can really use. I remember looking through it once before, but since it's all on the publishing end, I really didn't find much there that worked for me. This month's issue has a whole article on the best website resources for writers, and I'm already finding some interesting things there. Of course, I'll have to bring the magazine back at some point, but it feels like some odd gesture on the part of fate that I ended up with it. Either the universe is trying to tell me that I'm on the right path, or that I really need to do some reading and research before I put myself out there further.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Another Day, Another Agent
Today was my first generic rejection. Actually, that's not bad, considering the fact that I've been turned down about a half dozen times, and this is my first "dear writer" letter. Still, it's tough when you gage everything based on the quality of the rejections. When I look at the number of rejections most people rack up before getting their work published, it gives me hope. Dr. Seuss was rejected something like 84 times. So there.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
You like me, you really, really like me
Agent #2 passed on the project. I'm actually okay with that, for a kind of backward reason. The woman I knew who had her as an agent wrote a truly terrible book. Now, I know I've decided never to be a book snob again, but this thing really wasn't good. It was a young adult book, and she told me that she never planned to write YA, but she thought it would be easy since it's just "dumbed down" adult lit. That's a huge pet peeve of mine, since good YA lit is it's own important, if undervalued, genre. Of course, it's not her agent's fault that she feels this way, but somehow I always connected the two of them in my mind.
Of course, when I think about it, that should make it worse that she turned me down. She supported the author of an almost unreadable book (really, this thing sucked) but she doesn't want me. And then there's the fact that she must be damn gifted to get that thing to publication. Yup, now I feel like crap.
Here's the thing though, I really do see this like dating. It's all about finding a good match, and as with on-line dating, sometimes you don't get past that initial first impression.
Of course, when I think about it, that should make it worse that she turned me down. She supported the author of an almost unreadable book (really, this thing sucked) but she doesn't want me. And then there's the fact that she must be damn gifted to get that thing to publication. Yup, now I feel like crap.
Here's the thing though, I really do see this like dating. It's all about finding a good match, and as with on-line dating, sometimes you don't get past that initial first impression.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Agent #3 - A Big Kid
Agent #3 is a rock star big kid agent. He's one of those who only looks at query letters through referrals from current clients. I'm fortunate to have a connection of sorts who's willing to send along my query (God willing without all those funky problems that seem to be plaguing the text I've been sending out). I'm not too nervous about this one because he's a long shot, and I really can't get too worked up over being turned down by someone who deals with A list clients to begin with. Not that I don't consider myself A list material...you know what I mean.
Agent #2
A sample chapter just went out to Agent #2. I actually sent her a query letter almost ten years ago for another book I wrote, a memoir of my experiences in Italy. I really didn't know anything about the process back then (as if I do now) and I shudder to think what that letter looked like. I wasn't ready to pitch the book at all, but a writer I had met several times offered to put in a good word for me, and I figured it was worth a shot. Needless to say, she passed.
But, now I'm back again. I didn't mention the old pitch, or her old client, because she has a new agent now, and I have no idea if they ended things on good terms or not. I figured it was best to go at this one blind.
She liked my proposal and she wants to see the first chapter, so that went out today via e-mail. Come to find out though, my e-mail has been doing screwy things, putting all kinds of characters in the text and taking out punctuation. Way to look professional.
We won't be holding our breath for Agent #2.
But, now I'm back again. I didn't mention the old pitch, or her old client, because she has a new agent now, and I have no idea if they ended things on good terms or not. I figured it was best to go at this one blind.
She liked my proposal and she wants to see the first chapter, so that went out today via e-mail. Come to find out though, my e-mail has been doing screwy things, putting all kinds of characters in the text and taking out punctuation. Way to look professional.
We won't be holding our breath for Agent #2.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A book and no publisher, a publisher and no book
In a strange twist of fate, I met a woman at a dinner party who's a publisher. She's really interested in publishing a historical book that I've been floating around ideas for for quite a while. Her agency only deals with history, and we got into a fantastic conversation which, I realized at some point involved me pitching a book idea to her. It's great that she wants it. It just blows that they don't do memoir as well. Or have contacts that do. Or somehow shift time around so that I actually have time to write this great historical book. Life is just so odd sometimes.
Carpet Bombing Agents
Today I went through Writers Market and carpet bombed agents. I got as far as the "E"s and then stopped. I don't want to hit them all only to find out that there's some major flaw in my proposal. There are a finite number of agents out there after all.
One of the ones I emailed was an A list agent. I figured it was probably a long shot, but what the hell. After I sent the query I got a form response telling me that due to the busy nature of the firm, I shouldn't expect a personal response. Twenty minutes later, I got a personal response. He liked the query and wanted my first three chapters. I sent those, and a few hours later, he replied back. He's passing on the project, but when I shot him an email asking if he had any pointers to pass along, he did. Just that bit of human contact was really nice in a world of form letters. I don't mind that he passed, I'm just thrilled that he took the time to write to me.
All in all, a good day.
One of the ones I emailed was an A list agent. I figured it was probably a long shot, but what the hell. After I sent the query I got a form response telling me that due to the busy nature of the firm, I shouldn't expect a personal response. Twenty minutes later, I got a personal response. He liked the query and wanted my first three chapters. I sent those, and a few hours later, he replied back. He's passing on the project, but when I shot him an email asking if he had any pointers to pass along, he did. Just that bit of human contact was really nice in a world of form letters. I don't mind that he passed, I'm just thrilled that he took the time to write to me.
All in all, a good day.
Writer's Conference: A Blind Date With the Popular Kid
I didn't go into the Writer's Conference with high hopes of instant contracts and fame. OK, maybe in the deepest corner of my brain I remembered driving by Danielle Steele's house in San Francisco and thinking, shit, if she can get published, I sure can. Now, I'll never be a fan of Ms. Steele's, but after enduring a day of pitching my book, I honestly don't think I can ever look with contempt at any published writer. I don't care what they write, just the act of getting it out there is feeling so herculean right now that I'm finding myself coming to the defense of writers I hate. At least they had the balls to put it out there, and that's a lot.
So, the day began with an amazing poet who gave a slide show of his life as a poet. He was inspiring, and I think we were all left with a bit of a "let's run out there and write great verse" kind of feeling after seeing him. That was the last time I felt that glow all day.
At lunch, I was scheduled to pitch my book to an agent. When I looked up her info on line before the conference, I just knew it was going to be a disaster. She specializes in romance for one thing. She also just so happens to live in the affluent town that in some ways represents the "bad guy" of my story.
The fist line of my query is, "Someone must have liked seventh grade, but in my time on the planet, I have yet to meet that person." Well, that person was sitting right in front of me. Late forties or maybe just a tad older, perma tanned in that "just got back from the Bahamas" kind of way. Perfect hair, killer diamond ring...I know, that could describe a lot of people, but think of that girl in high school who lived for the Junior Social and worked to ensure that the balloons matched the streamers exactly on the prom committee. This is her, grown up. Somehow, those people can always seem to sense a high school misfit in their midst. Maybe my un-manicured nails gave me away, or that little bit of residual baby spit up that I just can't seem to get off my black sweater. Whatever it was, the vibe was off from the minute I sat down. I started my pitch and she listened for a minute before stopping me.
"I have to be honest and tell you off the bat that this isn't a project I'd be interested in. It's too hard a sell, and I just don't feel like you have a strong platform."
Now, I've read a ton of publishing books, but somehow I missed the part about platforms. I figure I can make a good educated guess though, so I start talking about professional communities I'm a part of, and ways that I feel I could promote the book.
"That's not what I mean," she said. "I like my authors to come to me with a strong media presence. For example, last week a woman was attacked by one of her students. She'll be able to sell her book."
"I just duck well." I smiled. "So, are you saying that if I get attacked, we might have something?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying."
I figured we were probably done. I shook her hand and thanked her for her time.
The worst part was that out in the lobby, other people were waiting to go in and they were all looking for hints as to their own fates. A thumbs up, a tearful explosion of emotion, something. I talked to one of the guys I had been waiting with who was there to pitch a multi-generational war saga. I told him to play up any bodice ripping and he might get somewhere.
Later, five agents spoke as part of a panel. They were all pleasant and professional, but, as expected, what they had to say was discouraging at best. There's less than a 1 percent chance of getting signed by most agents based on the numbers they were throwing out there. I don't know where that would put me in comparison to being struck by lightning, but I'm going to guess my chances in a field in a heavy storm would be better. But then, I kind of knew that. Some of their advice was a bit obvious, like, "make sure you include your name and contact info with your book proposal or query." Come on, who wouldn't do that?
After the panel, I talked to one agent who told me straight up that the ubiquitious first year teacher memoir is something she gets tons of every week. I get that. We teachers are a navel gazing bunch and we do tend to like to write. But, people buy those books. Or, at least, they seem to based on the number of them out there. The agent told me to go ahead and send her my book proposal, with an emphasis on why this isn't like all the rest. Note to self: do some soul searching to figure out why it's not like all the rest.
Another agent I spoke to went to my college. That was a good contact, and a proposal is headed his way. But, I was embarrassed to tell him that it's a first year teacher memoir. I'm starting to feel like that's there with the "how I got abducted by aliens" memoir. I left things pretty vague.
Then, in the parking lot, I started talking to the other agent from the panel. She asked what my book was about, and I told her that it's the "ubiquitious first year teacher inner city memoir, with out the Michelle Pheiffer violin playing." (This, by the way, is NOT a way to pitch a book.) Amazingly enough, she said she'd like to take a look at it. I told her I could send it, or I could give her the copy I had with me (the one that was earmarked for the agent who didn't want to read it.) I figured that if she could read it over the weekend it would be less likely to end up on a sludge pile in her office.
"I'd love to take a copy of the proposal to read this weekend," she told me.
Score one for me.
In the car driving home I realized that, because that one didn't have a cover letter, it didn't have my contact information.
Yeah, that sucked.
Was it a good day? I guess that all depends on ones definition of good. It was a great learning experience, but all in all it felt like a series of bad blind dates. I hate the feeling of being rejected by a romance agent. I mean, it's clearly not a good fit, but still, I want to be the breakup-er not the breakup-e.
So, the day began with an amazing poet who gave a slide show of his life as a poet. He was inspiring, and I think we were all left with a bit of a "let's run out there and write great verse" kind of feeling after seeing him. That was the last time I felt that glow all day.
At lunch, I was scheduled to pitch my book to an agent. When I looked up her info on line before the conference, I just knew it was going to be a disaster. She specializes in romance for one thing. She also just so happens to live in the affluent town that in some ways represents the "bad guy" of my story.
The fist line of my query is, "Someone must have liked seventh grade, but in my time on the planet, I have yet to meet that person." Well, that person was sitting right in front of me. Late forties or maybe just a tad older, perma tanned in that "just got back from the Bahamas" kind of way. Perfect hair, killer diamond ring...I know, that could describe a lot of people, but think of that girl in high school who lived for the Junior Social and worked to ensure that the balloons matched the streamers exactly on the prom committee. This is her, grown up. Somehow, those people can always seem to sense a high school misfit in their midst. Maybe my un-manicured nails gave me away, or that little bit of residual baby spit up that I just can't seem to get off my black sweater. Whatever it was, the vibe was off from the minute I sat down. I started my pitch and she listened for a minute before stopping me.
"I have to be honest and tell you off the bat that this isn't a project I'd be interested in. It's too hard a sell, and I just don't feel like you have a strong platform."
Now, I've read a ton of publishing books, but somehow I missed the part about platforms. I figure I can make a good educated guess though, so I start talking about professional communities I'm a part of, and ways that I feel I could promote the book.
"That's not what I mean," she said. "I like my authors to come to me with a strong media presence. For example, last week a woman was attacked by one of her students. She'll be able to sell her book."
"I just duck well." I smiled. "So, are you saying that if I get attacked, we might have something?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying."
I figured we were probably done. I shook her hand and thanked her for her time.
The worst part was that out in the lobby, other people were waiting to go in and they were all looking for hints as to their own fates. A thumbs up, a tearful explosion of emotion, something. I talked to one of the guys I had been waiting with who was there to pitch a multi-generational war saga. I told him to play up any bodice ripping and he might get somewhere.
Later, five agents spoke as part of a panel. They were all pleasant and professional, but, as expected, what they had to say was discouraging at best. There's less than a 1 percent chance of getting signed by most agents based on the numbers they were throwing out there. I don't know where that would put me in comparison to being struck by lightning, but I'm going to guess my chances in a field in a heavy storm would be better. But then, I kind of knew that. Some of their advice was a bit obvious, like, "make sure you include your name and contact info with your book proposal or query." Come on, who wouldn't do that?
After the panel, I talked to one agent who told me straight up that the ubiquitious first year teacher memoir is something she gets tons of every week. I get that. We teachers are a navel gazing bunch and we do tend to like to write. But, people buy those books. Or, at least, they seem to based on the number of them out there. The agent told me to go ahead and send her my book proposal, with an emphasis on why this isn't like all the rest. Note to self: do some soul searching to figure out why it's not like all the rest.
Another agent I spoke to went to my college. That was a good contact, and a proposal is headed his way. But, I was embarrassed to tell him that it's a first year teacher memoir. I'm starting to feel like that's there with the "how I got abducted by aliens" memoir. I left things pretty vague.
Then, in the parking lot, I started talking to the other agent from the panel. She asked what my book was about, and I told her that it's the "ubiquitious first year teacher inner city memoir, with out the Michelle Pheiffer violin playing." (This, by the way, is NOT a way to pitch a book.) Amazingly enough, she said she'd like to take a look at it. I told her I could send it, or I could give her the copy I had with me (the one that was earmarked for the agent who didn't want to read it.) I figured that if she could read it over the weekend it would be less likely to end up on a sludge pile in her office.
"I'd love to take a copy of the proposal to read this weekend," she told me.
Score one for me.
In the car driving home I realized that, because that one didn't have a cover letter, it didn't have my contact information.
Yeah, that sucked.
Was it a good day? I guess that all depends on ones definition of good. It was a great learning experience, but all in all it felt like a series of bad blind dates. I hate the feeling of being rejected by a romance agent. I mean, it's clearly not a good fit, but still, I want to be the breakup-er not the breakup-e.
How this thing got started
So, I wrote the book. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. I'm still writing the book, but I've done enough drafts of it at this point to call it finished, even though every time I pick it up I cringe at something that's so glaringly wrong I can't believe I ever wrote such trash. But, that's the insecurity talking. On better days, most days, days when I'm not trying to sell myself to agents, I really like it. The trick though, I'm discovering, isn't having a good book, or even having a great book, it's convincing agents that said book will make a ton of money without them having to put in a lot of effort. And that really isn't easy.
What's the book? I'll post the query letter...at least this is today's version. Who knows what it will look like in a week when I realize that it's drivel, that it's horrible, that it's hopelessly wrong in every way. (That's not insecurity talking, by the way, that's just the reality of rereading things with the benefit of more expertise, which I'm getting every day.)
Interesting...I can't seem to paste the query in here...That will come later. Suffice it to say it's the story of a first year teacher, me, working in an inner city school. The book grew out of a year's worth of journals, "The Spam of My Life" that helped me to survive that first grueling year with my sanity more or less intact. Those journals then became the basis of my graduate thesis, and, later, the book which is still a bit of a work in progress. Writing the book was never a choice. I just had too much that I needed to vent, and while Brian is a patient husband, there's only so much, "guess what lunacy happened today?" that anyone can take. Besides, I needed mass quantities of support. In the course of the year I accidentally dropped a student who skipped school for almost two months, I stood by while one of my Cambodian kids stared at the board every day, because he couldn't speak English and I don't speak Khmer, and I dealt with more than my share of court appointed advocates, parole officers and the like. But, I do know how to "Throw down the 'B' sign" now, and while that hasn't come in handy yet, and I expect it won't, it does make watching MTV a bit more informative. You know you've been teaching in a city too long when you find you relate better to your Bloods because of their "underdog " status in relation to the Crips.
But, this blog isn't as much about the book as it is about the process of getting it published. At least, that's the plan.
What's the book? I'll post the query letter...at least this is today's version. Who knows what it will look like in a week when I realize that it's drivel, that it's horrible, that it's hopelessly wrong in every way. (That's not insecurity talking, by the way, that's just the reality of rereading things with the benefit of more expertise, which I'm getting every day.)
Interesting...I can't seem to paste the query in here...That will come later. Suffice it to say it's the story of a first year teacher, me, working in an inner city school. The book grew out of a year's worth of journals, "The Spam of My Life" that helped me to survive that first grueling year with my sanity more or less intact. Those journals then became the basis of my graduate thesis, and, later, the book which is still a bit of a work in progress. Writing the book was never a choice. I just had too much that I needed to vent, and while Brian is a patient husband, there's only so much, "guess what lunacy happened today?" that anyone can take. Besides, I needed mass quantities of support. In the course of the year I accidentally dropped a student who skipped school for almost two months, I stood by while one of my Cambodian kids stared at the board every day, because he couldn't speak English and I don't speak Khmer, and I dealt with more than my share of court appointed advocates, parole officers and the like. But, I do know how to "Throw down the 'B' sign" now, and while that hasn't come in handy yet, and I expect it won't, it does make watching MTV a bit more informative. You know you've been teaching in a city too long when you find you relate better to your Bloods because of their "underdog " status in relation to the Crips.
But, this blog isn't as much about the book as it is about the process of getting it published. At least, that's the plan.
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