I have a good excuse for neglecting my blog for so
long. If you’ve been reading it at all, you’ll know I’m looking for a job. This
week I had an interview, which was a nice surprise. It took a ton of energy to
prepare for it, including buying a proper outfit—since I no longer have “interview”
clothes—getting my portfolio together, researching the company, alerting my
references about the possibility of being contacted, and basically getting myself in the mind-set
for making a big pitch to the potential employer. Because I’m me, I probably
did some over-thinking (refer to sub-title of blog), and it occurred to me that
the interviewing process is a ritual. Thinking of it that way was sort of
comforting, because I adore rituals.
I
interviewed with two people, the first of whom asked if I could take rejection.
Good thing I didn’t laugh out loud. Most people are unfamiliar with the
publishing industry. They have no idea that authors don’t just bundle their
books off to printers to be published. They don’t discern between
self-publishing and traditional publishing. They have no idea just how much
rejection is involved. Of course an interview isn’t the time to educate the
public about the harsh realities of publishing, so I merely assured my interviewer that I handle
rejection just fine. But do I?
You’ll
never guess what happened! I got the promised rejection cum explanation. It said, Mean Girls was very YA (my book is MG) and Oliver Twist
was very…old. Dot. Dot. Dot. In short, she didn’t admonish me for comparing
myself to a timeless genius; she insinuated that Oliver Twist is outdated. Irrelevant
to young people. Oliver Twist! I'm sorry. I just can't live in a world where that's the case. (I'll have to watch some reruns of The Wire.)
Anyway, at first I considered this to be the
snidest rejection I’ve received so far. But after I thought more about it (Like I said, over-thinking is what I do), I found I wasn't defensive on my own account. I mean, poor
Charles Dickens! I'm sure he's cringing. I’d hate to be as
old as he is. Not to mention, dead.
Seriously, though, this unhelpful exercise
paid off, and I'm grateful because now I know I don’t have time for games. Early on, there might've been time, but I've since upped my game to the next level. I'm to the point where getting an agent, any agent, is no longer the directive. It's like a shift in the balance of power--and that's good news.
From now on, I will treat my writing
the same way I treated my interview, and I urge you all to do the same. Prepare
yourself, devote time to it, prioritize, get in the mindset, launch. The query process is a
ritual too—and rejection is something that comes with the territory. No more. No
less. Read only as far as no, and then move on.
Okay, so that worked for like a second. Now I'm thinking I'll hear back about the job and it'll be a no-go, because things come in threes in advertising. Rejections are probably no exception. With my luck, there’ll be a
resurgence in Dickensian tales with a modern YA twist—and they’ll all be
New York Times best sellers and none of them mine. In the meantime, while I'm waiting for disaster to ensue, let's hear tips on how to cope with
rejection…in all of its incarnations.
Thus far, I’ve
garnered a lot of good life advice from ad slogans. Sometimes I think it’s
better than anything my parents ever told me. (Let me remind you of dear old dad’s
contribution: Children should be seen and not heard.) Here are the ones that
daily shape my worldview.
Try it. You’ll
like it.
Translation:
Try new things, even if your first instinct is to make like Mikey and clamp
your mouth shut in a really bratty fashion. It's not the new thing that is giving you indigestion but your tendency to stress, so stop it.
Friends don’t
let friends drive drunk.
Translation:
If you get skunked while out with friends, stay out, loitering, until one of
you by some miracle sobers up and can navigate the ride home. If this sounds as
questionable to you as it does me, try making a really prudish friend who doesn’t
mind staying sober. Hopefully, when you attempt to get into your car, he (or
she—most likely, she, in fact) will claw your keys away from you while droning
out the aforementioned mantra.
Don’t
squeeze the Charmin.
Translation:
This one’s self-explanatory. I feel the need to add, in the interest of common
sense however, that not squeezing won’t get you out of changing the roll. Certain
people might claim they’re unable to touch the stuff without losing control. To
those people I say, get a grip. (Just make sure your grip is softer than a
squeeze.)
Sometimes
you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don’t.
Translation:
There will be moments in your life when you believe yourself to be on the brink
of insanity. Don’t worry. That moment will pass, yielding to a certainty that you’re
no crazier than anyone else. It’s all good.
I’m a
Pepper, he’s a Pepper, she’s a Pepper. Wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?
Translation:
While it’s tempting to succumb to this badgering, what it boils down to is a
devious incarnation of a mob mentality. And that’s never good. Try to resist
and keep your options open. It’s okay to like Coke better one day and chug an
ice-cold Pepsi the next. That’s your right as a consumer. Don’t ever feel
pressured to join up with any gork who tries to convince you that Dr. Pepper is
some edgy, subversive, revolutionary drink. Dude, even Dr. Pepper is a waffler, distributed by Coke in some areas and Pepsi in others. And it doesn’t have a grain of Pepper in it, last I checked. So don’t commit to
being a Pepper unless you are truly a believer. You’re better than that.
Footnote: If
you haven’t guessed, this is my guiding ad slogan for politics.
Dirty mouth?
Clean it up.
Translation:
If you go around swearing like a sailor, you won’t have cause to smile much,
and no one will see how it brings out that comely sparkle in your front tooth.
And also, chew gum or your breath will be an abomination.
Celebrate
the moments of your life.
Translation:
Enjoy it while you can. ‘Nuff said.
When you
care enough to send the very best.
Translation:
Instances in which you’ll want to send someone the best ,via snail mail, on your
own dime instead of your company’s will be few and far between. So it’s okay to
splurge and spend six dollars on a greeting card.
Be all that
you can be
Translation:
Always feel guilty whenever you’re sitting around doing nothing because it is a
luxury not everyone has. What’s more, if you don’t rouse yourself right now and
find something worthwhile to do, your innards will slowly liquefy, shaving
three years or more off your life.
Because I’m
worth it.
Translation:
That woman, the one on the screen who is far prettier and thinner than you’ll
ever be, deserves all the money and fame people have thrown at her. You, on the
other hand, deserve this: a modest salary commensurate with your experience,
three square meals a day (unless you’re going to try that wacky Atkins thing
again), on average twenty facebook posts to your wall on your birthday, and sex
once every blue moon if you’re lucky.
The heartbeat
of America is today’s Chevrolet.
Translation:
This country and what it symbolizes are as timeless as that rusted out piece of
crap up on blocks in your red-neck neighbor’s backyard. So even though it is an
eyesore, and probably a danger, let the schmuck next-door keep up his efforts
to restore it. After all it’s a free country. Plus maybe he can salvage something.
Don’t look at me like
that. It is inevitable that a blog about writing (Hello! It’s called The
Block—and I didn’t mean of Gouda.) will resort to featuring excerpts of the
author’s work sooner or later. It’s not enough for me to entertain you with subversive
opinions (though whether or not I’ve even done that is debatable), I won’t rest until I wow you with my writing. Not
because I want to solicit comments and/or critiques (although that would be
great, so long as you sway toward compliments) but because it will get me back
to the crux of the matter. I’m having a hard time getting inspired.
My kids just went back to school, my house
is a mess, the weather is so nice, facebook continues to fascinate, I should
blog more, query more (in fact, today I'll be critquing pitches for the GUTGAA Pitch Polish week, where I'm entry #32 if anyone wants to take a gander) I need a job, whine, whine, whine….and—oh yeah, wine. All
of these excuses have made it nearly impossible for me to write. Am I blocked?
You be the judge.
Three words: Too many ideas. (I know,
right? Annoying.) Since I don’t know which to concentrate on, I might as well
be blocked. Life is ironic. But you can help by telling me what to write. Why
should you grace me with your guidance, you wonder? Because fellow authors should support
one another. Plus it's not like you’re not
writing, either, you’re surfing the web like a freaking pre-shark Bethany
Hamilton. (I see you there!) Chill. I’ll return the favor. Someday. (Jeez,
it’s not like I’m asking you for rent.)
Here are your/my options: a Middle Grade
fantasy that I wrote a long time ago. I have some ideas to improve it and if I
can do it to my satisfaction, I may get up the guts to resend it, along with a
letter explaining about the revamp, to an agent who requested a full way back
when. Who knows? She might want to take another look. Or not.2.) a YA about a girl who was kidnapped and
molested when she was a kid and is now dealing with the dire ramifications;
i.e., she’s on drugs, acting out, pissed off at the world…Total hot mess (the
girl, not the story, which is actually kind of good). It has religious
undertones and a bit of romance thrown in. One-third done. 3.) a YA about a
cell phone prank gone viral and the effect it has on a mentally imbalanced teen
and, in turn, the community. 4.) a mystery that could probably be characterized
as women’s fiction, leaning heavily toward romance, with a tinge of 50 Shades
of Puke. (This would be my first completed novel for grownups—and it’s so close
to being done I can smell the trailer—book trailer, that is. Not the
double-wide.) If I had my choice of projects, I’d work on that. BUT I DON’T. I
HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO! At night I place a writing pad on a table, light a
candle, and enter a fugue state. When I wake, the pad is filled with words I don’t
remember writing. (Yes, I am Lady
Oracle!) That’s how tenuous the state of control has become.
What would you read? What would you write? While I wait for your response, here is the promised excerpt
from the mystery/romance I described. It features the hunk detective and meek
ad chick engaging in a banter-y version of a Detroit parlor game called Guess what I Drive.
“Lollipop?”
I nudge the bowl toward him with my index
finger. He digs and comes out with a cream soda, which is my personal favorite
too, but the candy doesn’t pacify him as it’s meant to. He still seems restless
and dissatisfied. I suck rather thoughtfully for a moment before attempting
more conversation.
“That archetype exercise was probably more
harmful than anything.” I muse. “It’s not good to put much stake in
stereotypes.”
“But people tend to, and—if nothing else—you
learned a new big word.” He graces me with a half-hearted smile, what those of
us in advertising call a teaser. It does its job; I’m left wanting more.
“That’s not all. After being exposed to all that psychobabble, I can now tell with
dead-on accuracy what kind of car a person drives just by looking at him.”
To gloat, I roll the sucker around my teeth.
Matt perks up.
“Really? Care to take a shot at me?”
I balk. I didn’t plan on having to perform
my little parlor trick; I keep forgetting who I’m dealing with. This man is
seriously into proof.
“C’mon,
you claim to be the expert. Tell me what I drive,” he urges.
“Oh, you
don’t want to go there,” I assure him, backpedaling frantically. “I mean, isn’t
that what we were just talking about? If I’m right, you feel like just a
demographic. It’s demoralizing. If I’m wrong, you transcend the stereotype, but
I’m—well—even more shallow than you
already think I am.”
He
shakes his head, feigning dismay. “God, it’s the Birmingham thing all over again.”
I bite the sucker and chew. Matt seems to
think this indicates I haven’t understood and goes on to elaborate. “You
know—how you assumed that because I was a cop I couldn’t afford to own a house
there…“
“I never said that—“
“Or buy your drink,” he patiently supplies.
Two back-to-back pieces of damning evidence.
Just as I was prepared to defend my course of study earlier, I fumble to
explain away my tendency to label people. It’s especially difficult because I’m
having a mini-epiphany. See, Matt thinks I have underestimated him because he
is in law enforcement, but—little does he know—he has burned me for the wrong
brand of bigotry. Regardless of his education or salary and despite where he
lives or what he drives, deep down I feel that he is simply far too hot to be
allowed any insight. Yet here he is, showing some. It’s almost as though he’s
thumbing that perfectly formed nose of his at me. No wonder I’m struggling with
the concept. Having one’s preconceived notions shattered thus is not a pretty
sight. (Except for today, when it is ruggedly handsome.)
“Remember now? You went so far as to get out
your wallet,” Matt accuses.
“Because
I didn’t want you to think that I...I mean, I thought that drink was Gabby’s by
right, that maybe you and she were, um—“
Matt raises his eyebrows. “You thought I
was sleeping with Gabby?”
“That was before I knew you were related,
of course,” I stammer, taking a moment to collect my thoughts. “Dodge.”
He smiles and leans back with an air of
confidence. “’atta girl! Dodge what?”
“Ram.”
This is fun. It’s kind of like charades.
“Damn.
What color?” he challenges.
“Red,”
I blurt.
“Now,
there you’re wrong. It’s black.”
I
retreat into a sulk. “I was gonna say black next.”
“I
believe you. Now, it’s my turn. I really shouldn’t do this. I’m such a show-off.”
He
holds up what looks like a tattered coupon and my pale brows automatically
flex.
“Know
what it is?” Matt asks, relishing some secret. I shake my head, mute with fear. “A
crystal ball into your life.”
“It
isn’t even mine!” I object.
“You
don’t recognize it? Tanning coupon. It fell out of your purse the day of the
murder when you got your badge out to let yourself into the building. I picked
it up and pocketed it. See, I was right behind you coming in. Good thing I
wasn’t some psycho because you held the door, enabling me to enter without a
key pass.”
I roll my eyes at his stern glance and am
about to argue that the chance of a psycho lurking in our parking structure on
a Monday was pretty minimal, except he’d only counter with the obvious:
There had been a murder in the building that very day. Who knew? I soothe
myself.
“You took the stairs. Since you’re not what
I’d call health-conscious, I’m thinking it was to avoid being on the elevator
with me,” Matt continues.
“With
anyone,” I admit numbly. “Okay, it’s mine. So, give me it.” I make a grab.
“It’s
expired.” He lets the coupon flap playfully. “Besides, you don’t tan anymore. The
only reason you did in the first place was for this guy, the short one with the
olive complexion. Italian, maybe? That’s also why you were so defensive earlier
when we had the short men vs. tall men debate. You understandably have some
lingering protective feelings, since you were about to marry him but ditched.
In any case, you stopped tanning around the same time you guys broke off the
engagement, as evidenced by the almost-faded-but-not-quite tan line on your
ring finger. It was pretty recent, I’d say. Any tan you had would fade quite rapidly.
The fact that you even had one at all here in the month of October is what
first caught my attention.”
“Well,
aren’t you the little Colombo?” I say bitterly.
“I
wish,” he laughs. “Now here’s some advice.”
“Don’t!”
I am in a panic.
“Oh, but you need it.” He might as well be
sprouting horns, his smile is so devious. “Your friends are worried about you.
They were telling me exactly how worried they were before you busted in on our
conversation earlier. I’ll give it to you straight. The guy was a jerk,
Allison. You have red highlights in your hair and skin prone to freckling. The tanning
booth is not your friend. Any man who would allow his future bride to be
exposed to skin cancer to boost his own ego deserves to be jilted. You did
exactly the right thing. Plus, the fact that I got the gist of your
relationship with him from a tanning coupon raises another red flag. You’ve got
a good head on your shoulders. Next time, aim for someone with more depth.”
After he leaves, I clunk my good head right
down on my desk in despair. A good head on my shoulders? Romantically speaking,
it’s the kiss of death.
Very funny. I know how to do that. I was talking about cracking into publishing. If it's anything like advertising, connections are key, so here I am, participating in my first blog hop. (Sounds fun-- like a pub crawl, except without all that pesky walking...and no hangover.) Although I'm an experienced writer, I'm new to blogging--so please be patient. (I just noticed I'm a little late to the meet-and-greet party, but here goes nothing.)
Where do you write? In my great room (which, ironically, is quite small.) Sometimes at my computer table, where I continued to type, despite neck cricks and leg spasms, even after I bought my laptop.
-Quick. Go to your writing space, sit down and look to
your left. What is the first thing you see?
A lamp. (Boring, I know.) And my brother's most recent book, which you can buy here. (Far more exciting. So proud of him.)
-Favorite time to write? Mornings, which is odd because I am a nighthawk. I guess all those studies on optimimum brain performance are right.
-Drink of choice while writing?
Coffee. Sometimes tea.
-When writing , do you listen to music or do you need
complete silence?
Silence.
-What was your inspiration for your latest manuscript and
where did you find it? As I drove by the trailer park down the street, Linkin Park's "Waiting for the End to Come" was playing on the radio. The stars aligned. (In other words, I take the fact that Linkin Park was playing as I passed another "park" while thinking up the story as proof that The Universe approves of my idea. That's how I roll. Literally.)
What's your most valuable writing tip? You don't need a business card proclaiming you're a writer. In fact, if you have a business card to that effect, you probably aren't. Don't feel like you have to be published to stake your claim in the industry. Now more than ever, words are up for grabs.
This is what we on
the ABNA discussion threads refer to as a Smullen, which is a really long
headline constructed for the very purpose of inciting deep thought and/or riots.
Sometimes these titles have intentional typographical errors, as well. Mine
doesn’t because A.) I am a proofreader trained to rebel against typos, although
Lord knows I’ve made my fair share over the years. B.) I am attempting to
launch a semi-literary blog and don’t want to look like an idiot. (But I must
remind you, I’ve disclaimed all the information contained here—read the
archives, people!—which is a little trick left over from my years in advertising.)
Now that I have your attention, let me elaborate on how Roald Dahl ruined my
life. First off, he set the standard pretty high. How in the world am I to
compete with an author who’s run the gauntlet? I mean, everything from witches,
magic, mysterious chocolatiers, bullying schoolmistresses, used-car salesmen,
space travel…seriously, what is left? And he’s a generation-buster. My
daughters are, as we speak, cooking through all his books. Curse you, Roald. (Please envision me shaking my fist.)
Second, his villain
always gets an unpleasant comeuppance, which has fostered the fantasy that
villains always get what’s coming to them. Um, no. This disconnect is downright
scarring, because I’m still waiting for various villains to get theirs. This situation
is complicated further by my inability to tell the villains from normal, non-villainous people. (In Roald Dahl’s universe, they are always puffed-up buffoonish types. In real life—not so much.)
Villains rarely stand out in a crowd.
photo: Marvin Gentry/Reuters
Third, he has a really cool name, which led me
to believe in my youth that people who did not have cool names (which I don’t)
had no business writing books. (And no, I hadn’t heard of pen names back when
my worldview was forming, but I guess the use of one now would remedy this gripe. So ignore the last two sentences, please. I'm too lazy to hit delete.)
The main reason my life was ruined straight out of the gate, thanks to Roald, and perhaps to Mrs. Freund (who--if you must know--taught me how to read) is that as long as Roald was on the job, there was no incentive to think up stories.
His were sublime. Why bother, especially when so many were made into movies.
Don't be alarmed! I like to read hanging upside-down, like a bat.
Lucky for me, along
came Suzanne Collins. Be warned, I just finished Mockingjay, but what follows here
holds more sour grapes than spoilers. Still, if you feel passionately about
the series, turn back now.
It’s not that I
didn’t like The Hunger Games. I loved
it; I stayed up all night, reading. My enthusiasm waned a bit for Catching Fire, perhaps because too much
time spanned in between. Our library had a waiting list, you see, and I couldn’t
in good faith pluck the book from the waiting jaws of the local tweens and
teens, all of whom were eager to devour it. (They needed it far more than I did.)
I thought things were back on track with
Mockingjay. I stayed up late again, convincing myself it was because I cared so
much about Katniss and her family and friends. I don’t know what made me
finally realize that I was persevering because I just wanted to get it over
with. In some weird way, I had become
Katniss, marching stoically to my fate, choking down the disbelief of having to
go through it all again. I was a hair’s breadth away from begging someone to
kill me—quickly—not with stones, as in the morbid precursor to The Hunger Games. (Don’t even try to
dispute the parallels between this series and The Lottery by Shirley Jackson,
but do remind me to devote the next
blog to how Shirley Jackson ruined my
life by forging That Career while having kids and writing The Lottery in ONE
DRAFT and by wearing Those Glasses.)
This blog needs some pretty about now. Isn't this pretty?
Of course I
didn’t really contemplate suicide, silly blog-buds. Unlike Katniss, I was subjected
not to a barbaric reality show
requiring a fight to the death, but to joyless writing, which is almost worse. I
waited all night for good to win out over evil, and what did I get? A draw. (Katniss waxed...for this, thought I.)
Why did I see it
as a draw? Someone tell me, please? Is it because I’m bitter and jealous,
coveting Suzanne Collins’ success? Is it because I’m not the target audience?
(No, it can’t be that one; The Hunger
Games is a crossover!) Is it because I can’t deal with reality? (Although,
I don’t think the trilogy is building its stellar reputation based on its realism.)
Here’s the thing, no matter what anyone says, I want to believe that if the
world comes close to annihilation, there will still be moments of humanity. Symbolic
scenes that manage to break through the insanity of the times. Interactions
between people that reassure me we’re all deeply connected and that we haven’t
sacrificed everything as we meet our
doom. I want to keep believing that a nice kid like Charlie Bucket could win out over Varuca
without throwing a single punch or slipping a date-rape drug in her fizzy drink.
That stubborn hopefulness is my most definitive quality.
It pains me that kids
someday will look back on this trilogy as a story that has shaped their
childhoods, and certainly their psyches. Here's what I found lacking in the
wee hours of the night: Redemption. Hope. A dawn hinting at a day that might burst in one's mouth like a handful of fresh berries. In the finale, I looked for a trace of the joy or the love that Katniss had on her worst day in the Seam and found...nothing. Her
life was ruined—just like mine is, thanks to Roald Dahl.
On the bright side, a generation defined by such a story will definitely know the grim score as they’re
turned out into the arena, whereas my buddy Roald sent me aloft wearing
rose-colored glasses (at least they weren't Shirley Jackson's!) I'm surprised I haven't been ninja'ed to death yet.
Truth be told, these taste better without the golden ticket. So much less grainy.
Everyone knows
that in real life Varuca Salt would’ve been the victor in the bid for the chocolate
factory. Her father would’ve pulled out his checkbook and ended things within
the first five minutes of the contest. And when the business showed signs of going
under, Willie Wonka would’ve issued little pink slips to all of the oompa
loompas. Then an executive from Hershey would’ve swooped in and bought him out,
awarding him a nice severance package. He would’ve exited by way of a golden parachute,
not a glass elevator, and poor Charlie would’ve wandered home only to see a
foreclosure notification on the window of the shack he’d lived in his entire life.
That’s the way the cookie really crumbles, folks.
The Hunger Games was a departure from
the rainbows and unicorns. I get that. What I’m saying is: go back! Rainbows
are real. Unicorns are lovely. I don’t want the tattered remnants of a girl’s
soul on my conscience. I want to be here, ranting and railing against Roald
Dahl for getting my hopes up only to have real life bat them right back down.
Shouldn’t every generation have that to look forward to, in addition to a ride in a glass
elevator and the possibility of a lifetime’s supply of yummy bonbons? That's what gets us through our nasty, miserable lives. Maybe I should be thanking Roald Dahl for lying to me.
ATTN: Future Suzanne Collinses
(no relation to Tom Collinses) of the World, please don’t stick another Katniss in the games on my account. I
want to go on believing that windmills might be giants and that my child's ADHD could signify she is a god among kids. That Voldemort will be
vanquished before he’s even had the chance to make that first appointment for a
nose job consultation. That Good has the smallest chance of prevailing over Evil—and
when it does, that the survivors will be happy.
Maybe not ever after. Maybe only for a day--and under heavy sedation--but I need to know the struggle was worth it. Sure, it's life-and-death, but does it have to be so damaging? Can't we laugh a little? On Roald's watch, we could. These kids agree:
Now let’s
all head off to use the Insert Hope function in our stories. Go to Microsoft
Word, to Insert, and then scroll down. (See it? Right there under clip art, next to ‘Insert Humor’—another thing
poor Katniss lost along the way.) If you use Scrivener, well then, you’re plum out
of luck.
