Magic

Two posts in as many days? Unheard of! But I wanted to share the wonderful experience I had while researching agents to query--yes 'wonderful' and 'query' in the same sentence (I've moved on from feeling queasy about it, so it's a good thing). In my research, I ran across Russell Galen (of Scovil Galen Ghosh Literary Agency) and learned the first book he'd ever sold as an agent was The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley. This was the book of my childhood.

It's been nearly 20 years since last I read it, but I still have two copies on my bookshelf--the original tattered and worn paperback, a gift from my 6th grade teacher, which I read eight times in a row, and a barely touched hardback I keep around in case the other one disintegrates before I have a chance to read it again.

Hearing that Russell Galen had been involved in creating that book made me love him instantly. More importantly, I suddenly remembered why I'm a writer: Magic!

It was the magic of words and stories that made me start reading books like Charlotte's Web (as soon as I'd covered the basics of See Spot Run, of course) and keep reading everything I could find in my elementary school library and then on my mother's bookshelves at home. But it wasn't until I picked up Mists of Avalon that I truly believed in magic.

It's a retelling of the King Arthur story from the point of view the women, and the main character is Morgaine (aka Morgan Le Fay). I'd never read any Arthur stories, so I had no preconceptions. Marion Zimmer Bradley's Avalon came to life for me as no other book before quite had. The characters were all so real and terribly sad, and in those pages I could feel the lost Atlantis described by Igraine, the heart-pounding exhilaration of the Wild Hunt and hear the bells of Glastonbury Isle before they magically vanished in the enshrouding mists of Avalon, another, older and richer world existing in parallel to this one but drifting apart from us, like the land of Fairy, and taking magic with it. At the end of that book, I  believed. I knew the world had once been full of real magic, seers and magicians, and that now all we have is the faintest echo of what was.

When an author makes us believe so deeply in their world, if only for a short time, that's real magic. And that's why I wanted to become an author, to create amazing and affecting worlds and share those with others so they might believe in them too, if only for a while.

Thank you Marion Zimmer Bradley and Russell Galen. Thank you especially for reminding me, weary from years of writerly toil and bogged down in the midst of queries, what it's all about. And thank you for rekindling that warmth of belief in my heart, for bringing back the magic.

Monday

It's Monday in Australia (sadly we get them before most other countries) and each one seems to last a week, especially since becoming a mum. Today's week-long Monday was spent in the juror's waiting room at the courthouse. Even as insanely busy as I am, I'd prepared myself to serve (willing to give up the week but a longer trial I'd need to reconsider, as I am INSANELY busy). Of course, I never got called because the defendant pleaded and the lot of us were sent home (with huge sighs of relief from most). But I'd been ready and mostly willing!

I wanted to fulfil my civic duty and all that, but there's also the experience of it. Us writers are all about experience. It fuels writing. The waiting room alone was a marvellous source of inspiration, such as the cool Asian chic with short hair, high boots and tight snakeskin dress, which made me wonder if she normally looked that tough or had picked the outfit to avoid being chosen as a juror (a thought I'd entertained myself as I looked at my collection of temporary tattoos while thinking about all the work I'd need to catch up on at work). There was the guy in dark glasses, baseball cap and goatee trying his best to look like a terrorist (too obvious, dude) and the other guy in baseball cap and dark glasses sitting next to me and watching a Dexter marathon on his laptop. Please.

There was the college kid (who looked way too clueless and who I'd not want on my jury) and the older businessman in full suit and tie, clearly stating he needed to be somewhere else, and the middle aged business man (I could tell despite the lack of suit) who was all prepared and gung ho for the occasion, wearing his best 'casual' outfit and leather carry bag (it looked far too new for him to have an opportunity to wear it much).

And me? I was clearly going to be jury foreman. The woman who tried to cut in line? "To the back of the queue," I told her, and I had a quick rebuttal to her weak arguments. The older lady next to me seemed relieved that someone had stood up for what was right and true, justice and all that (the older lady was the perfect juror by the way, with a reliable face and an underlying edge of toughness, like she'd come straight out of a courtroom drama).

All for the best, I suppose. I would have made a terrible juror. I'm too weird.

Querying: I think I'm going to be sick!

I've missed my blog terribly, but, as I've been unable to bend the laws of physics and find more than 24 hours in a day, sacrifices had to be made. My gorgeous little boy is nearly two years old, and based on the way parents' mouths gape as he zooms back and forth across the length of the park chasing pigeons, I can safely say I drew the firecracker from the toddler pile. He takes up most of those 24 hours. Another chunk is eaten up by my full time job where (patting self on the back) I've managed to be promoted to Head of the Corporate Marketing and Communications department in only one year...we won't mention that the department is just me and two other people. At least I've got a great title. 

But all I want for Christmas, Santa, (and I'm telling you now so you have time to make it happen) is an agent! 

In every 30 minute to 1 hour nap period I get from my toddler on weekends (he refuses to go to bed before I do, so evenings are shot), I've been glued to my computer plugging away at the epic fantasy I've been writing. It's a four book series, and I've finished 2 and 1/2 of them (that's about 250,000 words) just to make sure I was happy with the plot and characters. I've re-written the first book three times to address plot, pacing, character development and plain old internal consistency, not to mention the zillion times I've gone through it copyediting. My synopsis of the entire series brings me and my husband to tears every time we read it. I'm on version 37 of my query letter, trying to make everything perfect... and now I feel like I might puke.

I've queried before. Novel number one when I was 21...best not to describe that sad sticking of my toe into the publishing world. And way back with novel number two, in my wonderful ignorance, I blithely sent off query after query telling agents how great my story was. It really wasn't. I'm not surprised by all the rejections. In the end, I decided I needed more practice, so I wrote about a dozen teleplays and screenplays (I can't stand short stories so I chose a different medium for practicing plotting and dialogue) and another novel. My beta readers said this third novel was much better. I didn't even bother sending out queries. I needed to get it right.

Thus, here I am with an epic dark fantasy that's everything I'd want to read if I ran across it in the days when I still had free time to read...and I'm terrified. Call me old fashioned, but I want a traditional publisher. And for that I need an agent. And most just want to see my query letter. 250 words to represent 250,000 and more. Years of work in 250 words... You can see the big pit of blackness that I feel like I'm falling into, can't you?

Excuse me while I go be sick...

Getting on with it

I have three blog drafts sitting around, and, admittedly, some are no more than a great title and a few words, but some are almost done. I look at them and say 'someday I'll finish that thought'. I have about thirty unfinished 'thoughts' in the form of novel ideas with bits and pieces of research or even a first chapter all filed away on my laptop. Two completed manuscripts waiting for revision, one half of a fantasy duology left to write, and a partridge in a pear tree.... The point is life can be so distracting, especially with a new job and a needs-bouncy-bouncy-all-the-time baby boy, that I forget I'm a writer. I NEED to write. It's an ache in my blood and bones that turns to discontent and then outright depression if ignored.

And when I write? I soar. I feel light and free and satisfied. Like this is what I was meant to do.

Not, I've found, the writing for work that requires I abide by the 'understated' tone of the organisation and get three different approvals for every paragraph posted on the website. I need real writing. The kind that streams from the movie in your head, that sings with emotion, vibrates with your soul. I need to work on my damn book. It's 4:30 am--I've been up since a 3:30 baby feed--but it's taken me this long to psych up for a blog post. Will I even open my manuscript before the baby wakes for the day or I decide to steal a few more minutes sleep? Why do I delay?

Because I need it too much. It's too important. And what happens if I finish that novel, finish those revisions, finish those queries and actually get what I want? What happens after happily ever after? 'Well,' I tell my idiot inner procrastinator, 'there will be more books you can write, book promotion to deal with, a whole host of crap you can't even dream of, basically a whole new world to explore. Get on with it.'

So, I'm signing off to get on with it. I hope you all find the will get on with it too. Happy writing!

Happy New Year!

One advantage of living in Australia is we get the New Year nearly a day ahead of my family in North America, so I can get a head start on my New Year's resolutions. Unfortunately, I can't help them out with the lottery numbers as much as they'd like.

First resolution? Get back into contact, and that means you, you beautiful blog readers! I've been busy with my gorgeous little boy (you can see from the pic how easy it is to be enraptured by his smile), and I've suddenly realized he's 9 months old and it's almost 2012!

Second resolution: slow time. I know it's impossible, but I will try to savor every moment with my family.

Final resolution: don't be afraid of change!

I knew I was taking the tiger by the tail when I decided to start a family, so I'm going to hold on and see where it leads me. The changes are already coming fast and furious; I'd just grown comfortable with being a mommy and making homemade baby food when work has asked me to come back months early and change my career. It looks like (fingers crossed everything works out) I'm going to be melding my love of writing with my training in science and take up the science communications job for the charitable institute where I work. Wow, getting paid to write!

It's exciting, and I've got a lot to learn, but at least I have an excuse to blog more--it builds up my 'new media and social networking skills' as requested for the job description. Best of all, it will be a 9 to 5 position instead of the crazy hours I was putting in before, so I should have more time to spend with my cute little elf boy and still squeeze in some novel writing when he goes to bed at night. I've managed 50,000 words while on maternity leave (in between diapers, feeding, and endless hours of play time and baby related activities), so I'm feeling pretty good about 2011. Here's to an even better 2012!

May all your dreams come true in the New Year, my friends. (Holds up imaginary champagne glass) Cheers!

6 tips for writing with a 3-month-old baby in the room

1. Learn to type (fast) one-handed.
I'm doing this now while rocking the baby in his pram. It's a trick I picked up in hospital when I was on bedrest and forced to lay on my side for two months. Remember, you can use Caps Lock even when only writing the word "I". Doesn't work for those pesky quotes though. I can't guarantee accuracy either, but you can fix that when he finally passes out from screaming his head off. Which leads me to...
2. Close your ears. Don't ignore the crying baby--rock him, put the binky in his mouth, feed him and making soothing noises, whatever it takes--just don't let it interrupt your thought processes or the character's voices (remember, you're still typing with the other hand during all this). Good training is listening to hard rock while you write and slowly tuning it out. Other tips: baby slings and weight training for your biceps.
3. Use every spare minute. Priorities are the baby's care and play time, food, and and sleep (hah! good luck with that), but when that little guy is dozing, be it 20 minutes or 2 hours, write. There is no time for courting the muse here. Get it done.
4. Keep the muse fed. I said there was no courting her, no gentle routines to entice her into whispering in your ear. What you have to do is chain her to you like a slave.
5. Write notes whenever you're not at the computer, and keep pen and paper everywhere--even beside the change table (with hand disinfectant too).
6. Enjoy that lack of sleep. Sleep-deprivation, like alcohol, makes everything better--at least to you and Hemingway. But if you check your writing the next day and everything reads "feed the baby, feed the baby..." then you might be in trouble.

Forget Plans

I'm a huge planner. I have lists for everything from what to do today, to next week, and next year, not to mention the shopping lists, birthday lists, etc. From the start of my 3rd trimester, though, NOTHING went according to plan. My baby was due May 20th, plenty of time to finish up some writing projects, especially work related stuff. Well, complications ensued, and to cut a very long and interesting story (which I may revisit in more detail later in this blog) short--I've been in hospital the last two months and the baby is here already!

Meet Max Alexander:

Isn't he the cutest!
Thus, there has been no blog posts and sporadic work on my novel, but at least I finished my grant for work from my hospital bed, while being forced to lay flat on my side and type one-handed with IV's sticking out of me. This impressed all my workmates, so I hope it impressed my boss too.
Now, I'm on maternity leave, snatching one hour bits of sleep between feeds, and generally trying to learn this mommy gig.
I'm not making any definite plans--I've learned my lesson!-- but I want to start blogging/writing again soon.
Hope to see you all around!

Balancing your writing projects

What do you do when you have too many irons in the fire? In my case, it's too many writing projects while there's a bun in the oven. I have a deadline of May 20th 2011, the baby's due date, but this could be weeks earlier or later because babies aren't as precise about deadlines as editors and publishers.

As an 'aspiring writer' (the kind term for 'unpublished'), you'd think I have all the time in the world to tinker with my manuscript, right? So, so, so wrong. I work full time and have no delusions about finding time to write when there's a newborn in the house. Then after I go back to work, I'm certain my spare time will be spent playing catch up on my career as well as trying to keep up with the baby (and I want to be there as much as possible). So, with a scarcity of writing time available in the foreseeable future and heaps right now (relatively speaking), what do I do first? Here are the current projects to consider:

1. my first novel (it's actually my third, but the first I really have high hopes for)--currently 130,000 words, fully revised, but it's only one half of an epic fantasy, and I want to complete both parts before submitting to agents, so I can be sure I have the story exactly how I want it and nifty foreshadowing worked in, etc.
2. a screenplay for a 20 min short, promised to an 'aspiring independent film-maker' friend--currently outlined and at 5 pages (~1/4 done)
3. a collection of Native American stories, retold for modern comprehensibility, meant for a calendar and an illustrated book featuring my husband's artwork, both of which we plan to self-publish--still in the research stage, but of huge importance to my husband and his art career
4. blogging and social networking--but I've already cut that back so much there are probably only two or three of you out there still reading this
5. work-related writing, namely grants to support me when I come back from maternity leave and to fund my child's future--currently at the vague idea stage with the first deadline in February (and this is a real deadline)

Any ideas? I'm currently in the overwhelmed and paralyzed stage, so nothing is getting done.

If I can shake off this freeze reflex (it's not just fight or flight, people--some of us freeze when frightened out of our wits), then, logically, my priorities should be #5, #2, #3, #1, and still-suffering-#4.

Stupid logic.

I SO want to work on my novel right now.

Guess I'll resume staring at my to do list...

Rich and Poor

I read this great post by Julie Bush and was moved to say something, alot of things, but I'll try to keep my thoughts from going off on too many tangents. A bit of background: Julie writes with raw emotion. Sometimes I steel myself before reading her stuff, knowing I'm going to feel uncomfortable, but that's what I love about her too. This time she made me feel shame, hope, and even a bit transcendent all at once. She was talking about growing up in poverty, not ghettos of South Africa poverty, but the American version, where everyone around you seems so much better off with their shiny new cars and perfect teeth, while you're too embarrassed to even let friends see your house. I know exactly how that feels. I grew up on food stamps, wearing dollar clothes from the Salvation Army, and my house was so trashed you could barely tell where the junkyard next door ended and our place began. Even if my beer-swigging, always-red-with-rage, stepfather had allowed us to bring friends home, I wouldn't have dared.

But Julie has great friends who won't let her dwell, and they told her to write about being rich. Rich and poor are states of mind. She told a story of being a struggling writer, whingeing online about being unable to afford one thing or another, and how a screenwriter in LA looked up her address and sent her $300. Six months later, she moved to Hollywood, paid him back, and has worked as a screenwriter ever since. That guy gave her the money, not because he expected to be paid back, but to show that he valued art and artists...Okay, this is when I started crying. And where I felt ashamed.

My junkyard environment was not conducive to the arts, and I haven't even mentioned to my mother that I write novels on the side. I was told I spent too much time with my head in the clouds, a dreamer. She never expected any of us kids to do anything with our lives. I think she hoped for it, making her life seem less grim in comparison. She's not the reason I went to college, got a PhD, and moved to Australia--that was all for me--but it doesn't hurt that 'I showed her'. And what I'm ashamed of is not so much fearing to talk about my writing dreams with family or colleagues, who'll think I've got my head in the clouds, but of how I talk about my husband's art.

I have always, always encouraged him to follow his dreams, to paint, to enjoy life because it's over too quickly, and I haven't minded being the chief bread winner since I graduated (I'm a patron of the arts after all!), but I never talk about it like that to others. Friends ask how my husband's degree is going, and I say great, and they ask what his plans are, and I say he hopes to teach...It's what they want to hear, but I feel dirty every time, knowing I'm lying. He's severely dyslexic, how is he going to get an education degree to go with his arts degree? He's only sold a couple of paintings to acquaintances, so we can't rely on the art either. I see other people buying houses because they have two incomes, but I can't. Deep down I'm fine with it. I know if things ever got really tough, my husband would get whatever job he could and work hard to help out. He supported me through ten years of college doing hard labor 12 hours a day, so I know he's no slacker. But I made a choice to support a dream, whether something comes of it or not, and I'm not about to tell him to give it up so I can have the same luxuries as my colleagues.

Thanks to Julie, I realized I'm letting others make me feel poor when really I am so very very rich:

• I have the best husband in the world, and we're still madly in love after 21 years
• I'm going to have a baby!
• I have a wonderful brother, several wonderful friends, and two beautiful cats
• I have a great job that allows me to support both me and my husband's dreams
• I'm healthy, well fed (unlike my childhood), with a spotless house, and I never want anything but chocolates for Christmas because I already have everything I truly need
• I'm a writer! To be published someday (fingers crossed)
• and all those terrible, strange, beautiful experiences of childhood are fodder for the imagination--it's all good in the end

I'm rich in every way that matters, and from now on I won't be ashamed to support an artist. More people need to. Most importantly, I'm happy, and it's not 'stuff' that makes me feel that way. How about you? What makes you rich?