|
Anyone out there ever hear of Alanis Morissette’s song called “Ironic?” It’s kind of a funny song with lyrics such as: “It’s like rain on your wedding day. It’s the free ride after you’ve already paid. It’s the good advice you just didn’t take.” (It’s a very weird video, by the way. I may see if I can add it to my blog for the full effect).
Anyway, irony is a funny thing—a very, very funny thing. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I whined about writing and the sucky aspects of doing it? Yep, it was yesterday. I posted my blog yesterday morning, being a whiny baby and talking about how I wasn’t sure I was any good at writing or if I even wanted to continue to do it. I was in a mood (a funk I was told by my very good writing buddy and friend of mine). I hadn’t been sleeping well either, so minor criticisms of my work really took their toll on me. They shouldn’t. I have to have a thick skin to be in this business. But at that moment in time, my skin was paper thin. Here is where irony comes to play . . . I went to the League of Utah’s Writer Convention this past weekend and had my work judged for a contest. The comments made by the judge made me feel less than happy and so, therefore the reason for my “funk.” (Okay, here comes the irony . . . ) It wasn’t even a day later after I posted my whiny blog for all of you, more like a couple of hours, when I received a very promising email from a literary agent I had been waiting to hear back from (one I had my fingers crossed for). In this email she said, “I'm not quite sure what to do with Desert Rice. It's intriguing and involving. For the most part, I see it as a Young Adult novel. But the ending is far, far too graphic for Young Adult . . . Would you be willing to revise the ending so that most of the events now chronicled in that section are suggested but not described in detail . . . If you think you'd be willing to revise, I'd like to talk to you about representation.” Just to clarify, the graphic details are not graphic details, per se. More along the lines of PG-13, maybe a hint of R. I’m not a graphic details kind of person. BUT did she just say what I think she just said? Representation? Ahhh, I will revise this novel and give them rainbows, kitty cats, and pretty little ponies—HECK YEAH! My heart flutters like crazy every time I think of it. Actually, the issues this agent brought up were issues I have had concerns with all along—it reads Young Adult because the characters are 12 and 15 of age, but the trials they face are heavy adult issues. This agent helped clarify what I had known. I have no qualms with revising at all. But isn’t that ironic? I was ready to toss in the towel over what some dummy judge of a writing contest said about my work, when an agent (who means more) saw the potential of my work and may want to take me on as a client. Yeah, that’s irony for you. (I’m starting to like irony, I think). Don’t get me wrong, this can all still fall apart. I am a realist/pessimist. Things happen. Wait a minute . . . I think I like irony, unless of course I write and post this blog and then the agent emails me and says, “Whoops. I change my mind. I thought you were someone else”. Now that would be irony and I wouldn’t like it one bit. That would suck. Okay, let’s all hope that irony decided to stop where it’s at and that irony doesn’t decide to twist things up again. Yeah, let’s all chant, “No more irony! No more irony! We like you just the way you are!” That just might work. Keep up the chanting guys. Cross your fingers and toes too. Let’s cover all the bases. All I know, is that after I received that email, that beautiful golden nugget of opportunity, my spirits have been heightened. I will keep writing. I will work on my confidence. I will not let others determine my worth (okay, that one I will still need to work on, because I’m a sucker for letting others determine my worth—I’m a fool). I will continue to hold onto hope and possibility. Isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think? I spent this past weekend at the League of Utah Writers Convention. It was an all day Friday and Saturday deal in which you went to various classes, heard various speakers, and ate buffet styled meals. I am still getting over the buffet styled meals—they weren’t horrible, they just didn’t settle well with me. Hampton Inn, you’re still cool).
I do feel I learned quite a bit—I have a notebook full of, well, notes. So obviously, I did feel enlightened enough to write things down. But at the same time, I felt sort of depressed. There are a lot of unpublished writers at this event and the overall feeling is: write because you want to write, because getting a foot in the door of the publishing world is hard to do. I mean, I stare at the hundred plus people at this convention and think, “Crap! These people are my competition in a very competitive writing world. And this is just a handful of what I am up against.” So, I left feeling down on myself and I found myself thinking: “Why am I doing this? Why do I want to be a writer?” I started doubting in the one thing I LOVE to do. I have always loved to write—since elementary school—and I would like to believe I’m okay at it (I don’t think I suck. I’m at least a step up from the “you suck” level). I love creating a world that did not exist until I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). I love inventing characters and watching them evolve and grow through the trials they face. I LOVE WRITING. But then when you throw in the business side of writing (which I have only delved into a tid-bit) and it becomes less fun. Rejection letters suck. They do. They’re horrible. Waiting for a response from an agent sucks. It does. I’m on pins and needles nearly every day as I wait to hear back from two agents that have my full manuscript (I’m not a good waiter at all), and I have been told it could take months to hear back—months! That’s torture. So what do I do? Well, I decided I know what I’m not going to do: I’m not going to give up. I can’t. I will write until I take my last breathe. It’s what I have to do. Maybe I will never be published and that’s okay. I will keep on writing regardless. I will embrace my rejection letters. I will try again. I will continue to enter contests I can’t possibly win—because feedback, though not always positive, is feedback and it’s valuable. I don’t think I have a choice in this whole writing matter. I don’t think I do. God gave me the love of writing words back when I was a kid. And back then, I didn’t question it. When I wrote something (and I was always writing) I thought it was great stuff. I knew I was great! I just did. But I am older now, wiser to the world and its ways, my confidence isn’t so high. I am an insecure writer, which is not a good thing to be, not that a writer should be cocky, but they should believe in what they do. I am working on that. I guess, as long as the ideas and story lines keep coming, I will keep writing. I need to try to remember the joy of it, still do the business side, but keep it all in perspective—I write because I love it. Like John Gilstrap said (paraphrasing), “We all have the ability to become published authors. And if we don’t, well, it just means we died too soon.” (He was one of the speakers and class instructors at the convention. He is a New York Times Best Selling Author. I enjoyed listening to him very much and found his advice very helpful. I have not read any of his work, but BOY do I plan too!) Keep on dreaming. I know I plan too. I’m horrible with surprises. I mean, I’m okay with surprising other people with parties, gifts, acts of service. It’s when someone is trying to surprise me that I don’t tend to do too well.
Don’t tell me that you bought me something for Christmas or my birthday AND heaven forbid do NOT hide it in the same area in which I live (home, shed, yard, etc . . . ). Because I will find it. I will. Do not look in that box! I will. Do not open that closet! I will. Do not look in the trunk! I will. That is a promise. I can’t help myself. I remember as a child I snooped in my parent’s bedroom, under their bed and found a box that contained a few of my Christmas presents—ordered from some type of nic-knack catalogue. It wasn’t my fault I found it—my mother didn’t hide it very well. Also, I ALWAYS knew what I was getting from my grandparents for Christmas. My grandmother put our presents in gift boxes and would simply tape the sides down, not wrap them, just tape them. I always peeked. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do like being surprised. But if you’re going to surprise me, don’t even hint at it. Don’t even say, “Oh, I got you something good for your birthday! You’re gonna love it!” I will go crazy until I figure out what it is. I will search for it and then I will hound you with questions until you give in and you tell me. (I will love it, by the way). The reason I bring all of this up, is that I’m reading The Hunger Games. The book is fantastic. I have hardly been able to put the sucker down. (Yes, it’s that good). I have to say it is one of my favorites this year. I started reading it on my own Tuesday evening. Read a great deal Wednesday morning and then I read a little to Scott. He really liked it as well and wanted me to keep reading it to him. (Yes, it’s that good). Keep in mind, Scott is not a reader. AND if he does read a book, he likes it to be non-fiction. He’s always saying, “Is it real?” I say, “No.” and he’s like, “Then what’s the point?” He doesn’t like made-up stuff, which kind of sucks since all I write is made-up stuff (fiction). He’s very supportive of my writing. He tells me I’m a wonderful writer, but as far as reading any of my completed novels, he hasn’t. I’m okay with that. He’s not my intended audience anyway—I do not write for cynical old men. Anyway, back to the point of this whole blog (and yes I DO have a point). The Hunger Games. We read for hours together yesterday. It was quite pleasant. We nearly finished it. We have about 50 pages left of this remarkable story of hunting/survival/humanity and love. This is Scott’s week of working the graveyard shift. He had to go to work at 7:30pm last night. We had 50 pages left. I promised him I would wait until today to finish it with him—together. Now, I feel I have done quite well . Normally, I would have just read it all and then reread it with him and he wouldn’t know a thing (I’m tricky that way). The book sits on the nightstand next to my bed beckoning me to read it without him. I’m trying to ignore that it is there. Because . . . drum roll please . . . I have NOT read the last 50 pages. I have been strong. I have abstained from reading on without him. BUT, I did peek at the last page and because I sort of know how it ends, I’m okay in waiting for him to wake up today so we can finish it together. Hey, one page is actually pretty good in the whole scheme of things . . . at least it is for me. Windows closed.
Sealed up. No more summer air to filter between meshed screen waking me by licking my face. Autumn knocks. Raps on the glass pane. Sorry bitter breath. You can’t come in to chill me and raise my skin. Let me in! Stoke the furnace! I beg of you, wake and smell the colored leaves and porch pumpkins. Not now, later when the sun rises. I will throw open the windows, and gladly beckon you in. I accept your fall footsteps across my floor. Because soon, crystals will take your place. Winter white fingers will scratch the glass. It will not want in, It only taunts and knows it’s not welcome. |
My Face...Enjoy!
Ahh, the fruits of my labors...
Blogs & Websites You Should Visit
Click for more info about Mallory Rock, Cover Designer
Click for more info about Megan Harris, Editor
Blog AwardsCategories
All
FUN STUFF  
 
 |
