RE: What Query Letters Do To Your Face

It's Halloween! So I decided to do a blog post on the thing that currently scares me most-- hold onto your panties, it's a doozy!!!-- my career. I know what your thinking: "Is this chick bonkers? The thing that scares her most is her CA- REER?" *waits while you roll your eyes*. But alas, it's true! It's not exactly my "career" that scares me-- it's the not knowing if I will be able to MAKE this dream my career. My actual current career is college student/bank teller, and I am green-in-the-face sick of both. ME WANTS TO BE A REEL RITER. And who holds my fate in their hands (or inbox, rather)??? The 50 literary agents that I've queried.

A few weeks ago, I sent my first query letters. My original plan was to send it out to my top 5 agents and wait the agonizing 6-8 weeks for a response. But then I started to have my normal little thoughts of self doubt. Me: "WHY would any of these agents want to represent ME? They represent people like Maggie Stiefvater and Veronica Roth and Suzanne Collins. WHAT was I thinking???" And that combined with me being the type of person who has-no-patience-and-wants-everything-right-now decided to send out more letters. I started with 20. Then 30. Now my count is at 50. That sounds pathetic, right? *is ashamed of my impatience*. So far, I've gotten 9 rejection letters and I'm waiting to hear back from 6 other agents who graciously answer every query letter. The rest only contact you if they want to see more material. WHAT KIND OF TORTURE IS THIS????? It's pretty close to the ancient Chinese torture method of tying somebody to the ground and letting bamboo grow through his or her body. (A nice visual for your Halloween pleasure).

After I got my first rejection letter, I shrugged it off. It was no big deal, right? There were plenty more chances for me to get requests, right? But then came the day of darkness. I woke up feeling icky, but had 2 tests at school and no sick days left at work, so I drug myself out of bed and forced myself to go. By the time I got to school, I'd gotten 3 rejection letters in my email. *started to feel kind of sad* I was pretty sure that I'd flunked both of my tests, and while waiting for another class to start, I got another rejection email. That's when the tears came. My throat was throbbing, both my ears were hurting, I was pretty sure that I had a fever, and on top of all that, I had FOUR rejections in one day. ALL THIS HAPPENED BEFORE 10 AM. I was crushed. But I went to work anyway, and when I broke down in tears in front of my boss, I was sent home to rest (to my intense relief (and mortification)). When I got home, I received ANOTHER rejection, and that was just IT. I took a big ole dose of cold medicine for my 101 degree fever and buried myself in my blankets, where I slept for five hours. When I woke to my husband bearing chicken soup and ginger ale, I checked my email once more to find another reply from an agent. I was CERTAIN that it was another rejection, but then I remembered: "HEY! This agent said that she only replies if she's interested in reading more!!!" I opened the email and sure enough, SHE WANTED TO READ MY BOOK. mmmmmmyyyyyyyyy bbbbbboooooookkkkkk!!!!!!!!!

(After popular demand) This was my face then:

Or maybe it was something more like this, since I still had a 101 fever:

So there you have it. After all that depression and anxiety and impatience, I received a manuscript request. I am still waiting to hear back from her, and of course my impatience has taken over again.

My face while I've been waiting:

And waiting:

And waiting:

And still waiting. But I know that there is some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, even if it ends in rejection too. If it does, I know that I need to re-evaluate my story and alter it as such. And my best friend keeps reminding me that Harry Potter and Twilight and such were all rejected multiple times, and that helps me keep my head up a little. :-) 

But to all of you out there who are waiting like me: I FEEL YOUR PAIN!!! I will keep you updated on my face as the rejections (and hopefully more requests!!!) keep flowing into my inbox. AND I am participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time, so I hope to have book two in the series complete by the end of the year! Who's doing it with me?? Have any of you experienced multiple rejection lately? I'd love to hear your comments so we can complain together! :-)

WHAT QUERY LETTERS DO TO YOUR FACE

So I mentioned a few weeks ago that I finished the novel I've been working on for three years. This was what my face looked like that day:

After I went through and edited it, had a couple of people read over it and then edited it some more, then edited again one more time, I thought it was ready for agent querying. As you probably know if you are an aspiring author like me, getting an agent is basically like getting a passport; with it, you can have amazing adventures and go to all the places you've dreamt of going. But without it, no pasaporte, no entrada, and you're stuck in your dinky little hometown (i.e. my awful job as a bank teller)

So after I sent my query letter to my top five agents, I began to realize that the three hundred or so words I'd chosen to describe my novel might not have been GOOD ENOUGH. My face after hitting send:

Most publishing companies do not accept "unsolicited manuscripts", or in layman's terms, "the fantabulous story that you made up and want to get published, but didn't want to have to pay anyone to sell it for you". Literary agents are basically the gatekeepers of author's dreams. They take your work and help you tighten it and perfect it, then they send it off to the magical land of New York City, where book babies are born. But to GET a literary agent is HARD. Hundreds of people hit the "send" button to Ms. Agent at the exact same time you do, putting your query letter smack dab in the middle of the dreaded slush pile. But everyone must start somewhere right? You just have to have that one little spark (out of hundreds) that catches the agent's eye and makes him/her want to read more. So you can imagine my face when all my insecurities began to run wild and I began to seriously doubt myself. "WHAT IF I DON'T HAVE THAT SPARK??? MY LIFE WILL BE OVERRRRRRRR!!!!!" 

So far it's been 1 week, and I haven't heard a peep from any of the five agents I queried. Which in all honesty, is completely normal. Most agents say it can take them up to six/eight weeks to even GET to your query in their inbox, so it's quite possible none of the agents I queried have even read my pitch yet. But still. This is my face NOW.

So.... Yeah.... The waiting continues. I am completely, 100% terrified of what I have done. But I want more than anything to get published, and finding the right agent is the key to the magical door of that dream. Chasing your dreams is amazing. It's invigorating. It's fun. And most of all, it's SCARY. But I think fear is what makes it all worthwhile. If things like writing a book or diving out of an airplane were easy, nobody would dream of doing them, and therefore, nobody would dream. Here's to making our dreams come true, no matter how terrifying/nail-biting/ulcer-making/sleepless-night-causing they are. 

And meanwhile, every time I hear the "ping" sound that means I have a new email, my face looks like this:

Short Story: A BODY TO BURN

Humans are the smartest creatures on the planet, so surviving in the freezing cold couldn't be that hard. My body could adapt, right?I bit down on my lip, testing to see if I could still feel it. It was cold and tough between my teeth, but I could feel no sensation in the frozen skin. That had to be a bad sign. I shivered deeply as a strong gust of wind blew cotton ball-sized clumps of snow across my face, stinging my already numb nose.

“Are you still alive over there?” I asked Mitchell, who had grown a little too silent for my comfort.

He uttered a grunt in response.

“You know that whole, ‘snuggling to keep warm’ thing is not sounding too bad right now, eh?” I said playfully.

“There is no way in hell I would ever snuggle with you man,” he mumbled. “I’d rather freeze.”

I chuckled and blew into my hands in an attempt to warm them. There was really no use since my breath turned into icy crystals of fog the instant that it left my mouth. The snow was swirling around us so fiercely that it was impossible to tell the ground from the sky.

“I’m starting to think that this isn’t worth it,” Mitchell sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. “Not even for one million dollars.”

“Speak for yourself,” I replied. “After I win this, I’m taking up permanent residence somewhere where it’s hot as fire year round.”

Mitchell groaned as another gust of wind roared through the trees, piercing our bodies like frozen shards of glass.

We shivered in unison for a while, our blood beginning to congeal in our veins. We were the last two contestants in a survival of the fittest contest—what a stupid idea. I jumped in surprise when Mitchell suddenly nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. I turned to him to protest, but the look on his face stopped me.

“Do you see that?” he asked, pointing a shaking, blue finger in front of him.

I peered through the falling snow in the direction that Mitchell was looking, but didn’t see anything.

“You mean that hot girl carrying coffee and parkas?” I teased him, trying to ignore the ache that enveloped my body. 

“I’ve heard that insanity makes you hallucinate.”

“Seriously, Adam,” he said eagerly, standing up from his perch on the log that we were sitting on. “What is that?”

I squinted, trying to make my vision clearer. I saw it; there was a light reflecting off of the snow. The roar of the wind grew louder at that moment, and I marveled at how it was possible for air to make such a noise. But then I realized that it wasn't the wind yelling at us; it was a helicopter. Somebody was going to save us.

We both began flapping our arms and screaming at the sky. We were going to be warm again. At that moment, I couldn't even remember what being warm felt like.

The trees were too thick for the helicopter to land, and I wondered how they were going to get to us. Then, through the blinding blankets of falling snow, I saw feet descending toward us. A small woman bundled in thick winter gear jumped to the ground from the helicopter’s rope ladder, landing nimbly on her feet.

“So there are still two of you,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “Boss was afraid this would happen.”

“You’re here to save us, right?” I asked eagerly, no longer caring about the stupid contest. I just wanted to be lifted into that warm helicopter. I wanted her to save me from this cold. Mitchell took a step toward her, ready to hop onto the ladder as well, but she pushed her hand against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, the fur trim around her hood fluttering in the wind.

S

he pulled three objects from her jacket pocket and threw them onto the ground. They landed in the snow bank with a soft “whoosh”.  Mitchell and I stared down at them, not understanding. What did she mean, “no”?

She tapped her right foot in annoyance, nodding towards the items: a pack of matches, a tiny bottle of lighter fluid, and a long, carving knife.

“What are we supposed to do with these?” I asked, unable to keep my voice from shaking.

Her expression hardened. “There can be only be one survivor,” she said slowly, like she was afraid we would not understand. “Those are the rules. There has to be a body to burn.”

A body to burn?

“You have one hour,” the woman continued. “Whoever is successful must take the other body and set it on fire. Be sure that the body is coated completely in lighter fluid so it will burn beyond recognition. We will come get you when we see the fire. If neither of you succeed, you will both die.”

What kind of sick game was this?

She grabbed hold of the rope ladder and it quickly began pulling her back into the sky, the snow swirling around her as she climbed. Mitchell reached out to grab the ladder, but his almost-frozen limbs made him too clumsy to be fast. The woman disappeared in seconds, and we were left alone in the dark again.

I did not want to do it. But I had to survive. I had to. Mitchell dove into the snow to grab the supplies, but it was too late for him; I already had the knife.

 Later, as I warmed my hands in front of the blazing flames before me, I smiled. Humans could adapt to the cold, couldn’t they? I sure thought so.

ALERT THE MASSES! MY NOVEL IS COMPLETE!

Today has been a very momentous day for me. I finished the novel that I have been working on for three years!!!! The concept of this book has been floating around in my head for quite some time, and has gone through several re-writes. But today, for the first time ever, I finished a NOVEL. I've had a love/hate relationship with theses characters for the past few months since they wanted me to finish their story, and I didn't have as much time to write as I liked. But I worked on it little by little, whenever I could, and I must say: if I can do it, anyone can do it. I am a full-time college senior, a part-time bank teller, and a wife. (my husband is watching the movie Anaconda in the background as I type this, BTW) I have basically no "time to write". But I loved it so much that I found time, and now I have a shiny new novel to show for it! It needs a ton of revisions of course, before I can query agents, but I HAVE A NOVEL!!! Sorry. I just can't get over saying that I HAVE WRITTEN A FULL LENGTH 65,000 WORD NOVEL. *cackles with joy*

Now it's time for me to disappear into the revision cave. 

BUT I HAVE A NOVEL! (Hee hee this will never get old)

SWEETLY review

Today I finished two wonderful books: Sweetly by Jackson Pearce, and The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Both were wonderful in their own, unique ways (obviously they were totally different, one being a YA about werewolves and candy, and the other about racial complexities in 1960's Mississippi, but I loved them both). Today was a good day for me, since I usually don't finish more than one book in a day. But I was torn between wanting to finish them both ASAP, so I spent the past week going back and forth between the two, and both made me cry. I only cry when I really love something. This review is about Sweetly since it is a newer, less-read book, and I want to get the word out about how enchanting it is-- yes, that's right, I said ENCHANTING.

Jackson Pearce, the author of Sweetly, is the author of two other published books, As You Wish and Sisters Red. The latter is the first book in her fairy tale retelling series. Sweetly is not a sequel of Sisters Red, but a companion novel. There are some of the same elements in the two books that tie them to the same world, but you are fine if you haven't read one before the other. 

Sweetly is an imaginative retelling of the fable, Hansel and Gretel. Gretchen and Ansel are brother and sister whose family was torn to shreds the day that Gretchen's twin sister vanished in the forest behind their house while the trio was searching for the "witch" that lurked in the trees. The young siblings ran for the lives as they were chased by someone with yellow eyes, only to find when they got back home that Abigail, Gretchen's twin, was gone. 

After both of their parents eventually succumbed to the grief of the loss, teenaged Gretchen and Ansel find themselves searching for a new life on the opposite side of America, in an attempt to start over on the coast of North Carolina. Their Jeep breaks down in the small town of Live Oak, and Ansel takes a job as Sophia Kelley's handyman so he can pay for the repairs. 

Sophia is a young, beautiful woman who took over her father's chocolatier after he was brutally killed by wild animals. Gretchen and Ansel both soon become enamored with her, and they stay in Live Oak a little longer than originally intended. They move in with Sophia, who quickly becomes like a sister to the emotionally battered Gretchen. But Gretchin begins to wonder about the secrets Sophia is keeping from her after finding a hidden picture of Sophia and her unmentioned sister. Why would she not tell Gretchen about her missing sister when Gretchen herself had confided the long buried mystery of her own vanished twin sister?

Not to mention that almost every person in Live Oak blames Sophia for the eight girls that have gone missing after attending her annual chocolate festival. And then there are the sea shells that keep appearing on the front porch, which send Sophia into panic every time a new one shows up. Gretchen knows there is something strange going on, but her brother is falling in love with Sophia and she is just so darn charming that Gretchen can't help but love her too.

How Writing A Book Is Like Falling Down

I am clumsy. I don't mean I bump into things every now and then, or drop things here and there. I am full-blown, Bella Swan clumsy. I laughed when I first read Twilight and saw the description of Bella's frequent injuries and mishaps. I was sure that Stephenie Meyer had been studying me when creating the character. Too bad I don't have a sparkly, hot guy watching me while I sleep, though (insert awkward pause, here). But I fall down and run into walls and trip and slip and drop things and let office chairs almost break my leg while sitting in them A LOT. Plus I'm fair skinned, so my bruises show up like spotlights in a country field at midnight. 

Anyway, I have been writing a book for the past two years. I can't quite get the ending right, but I am pretty much DONE with the book (well, the first draft, anyway). I have rewritten this thing at least four times, and I finally have gotten it where I want it to be. (You are probably wondering why in the heck I am using clumsiness as a metaphor for writing, but I'm getting there, I promise).

While writing this book, which happens to be my first novel, by the way, I have hit so many bumps along the way. I have wanted to write a novel since I was senior in high school, when I wrote my first children's book. Writing the children's book was hard (because it had to rhyme) but I wrote the first draft in about 5 hours, and the revisions only took about a week. That was nothing compared to writing this novel. I think my revisions will go a little smoother, but this first draft has just about KILLED me-- like the time I slipped and fell down this waterfall:

 AHA! I told you I would get there eventually! (And yes, that really did happen, but I walked away with only a few scratches and a REALLY nasty/cool bruise on my hipbone. I don't recommend trying to take a pretty photo on the slippery rocks of a waterfall, btw.)

I have walked along in my life falling and tripping and bruising until it became a routine thing for me. People knew when I was coming to watch out for me because we might both end up on the ground with a lump on the head, and not even know how it happened in the first place. This is what my writing has been like: a routine, falling-down-and-unable-to-get-up situation. I knew what I wanted to do, but I couldn't quite get there without ending up sprawled out on the floor with a new injury. 

The first draft was terribly sad. The main character's ex-boyfriend killed himself, all of her best friends, and tried to kill her, but she survived. She walked around in life sad and refusing to talk, but started seeing a boy in her dreams that eased her pain a little. I re-read and re-read this version of Wicked Illusions and tried to find a way to make it happier, but it depressed me. So I started over.

The second draft was told from a boy's POV instead of a girl's. The plot was basically the same except murder spree didn't happen to the boy, it happened to his cousin and he started dreaming of a girl who eased his pain. It was a little less depressing since he wasn't completely catatonic like the MC in the first draft, but it was still too sad, and too hard for me to write this particular story from a boy's POV. So I got up off the floor and started over again.

The third draft was a little closer to how Wicked Illusions is now, but still very different. I won't go into too much detail about it, but the plot was basically non-existent, and it was kind of boring and pointless. BUT I'd created this neat little creepy town that I really loved. And that was enough to spark a little nugget of a story and move on and start over AGAIN.

The fourth draft is what I am working on now, and it is better than ever. It still needs a lot of work, but it definitely has more potential than any of the other drafts.

But every time I started over and wrote a new draft, it was like falling down face first on a concrete floor. Pain and blood and bruising that left little marks on my skin (i.e. my ego) that left me crying and embarrassed. I didn't want to get up and let everybody see what a mess I'd made of myself. But the thing is, you HAVE TO GET UP. You can't just lay there in a pile shame and humility and let everyone point and laugh. 

Even if you make some awful mistakes and think that you can't drag yourself out of that hole you've just fallen into, you have to persevere and claw your way out. No mistake is permanent-- in writing, anyway. You can always hit the delete button and write something ten times better than before, just as you can pull yourself off of the floor, smooth your hair, say, "I meant to do that", then walk away dignified. 

Even if you hurt yourself (and it WILL hurt) along the way, put on a fresh bandage and keep going. Because falling down only teaches you to avoid that crack in the floor the next time you walk by it.

In case my metaphor isn't clear, because I tend to ramble sometimes: If your first draft sucks like mine did, delete delete delete until you get it right. You can do it! It just takes a lot of practice. Gracefulness must be earned in many aspects of life, like writing-- and walking, for people like me and Bella Swan.

Flying Squirrels

Whoa, it's been more than two months since I've posted a blog! I have been spending all my free time trying to finish the first draft of my novel before school starts back in a few weeks. I am happy to say that I am down to the last 10,000 words or so, and I am ITCHING to get this thing done. So many people have basically laughed in my face when I told them that I wanted to be an author, and I want to prove them WRONG. Like one day, I went to the doctor for a stomach virus, and as he poked and prodded my abdomen, he asked what I was going to school for. I told him creative writing because I am going to be a novelist. (I have stopped saying "want to be a novelist" and have switched to "going to be a novelist". Because, you know, I just AM) Anyway, this doctor chuckled at my mention of writing books for a living, and said, "So what are you planning to do when that doesn't work out?"

I am completely aware that becoming a successful novelist is rare, and that it is a long, grueling, make-you-wanna-pluck-out-your-eyeballs process to write a book and have it sold to a publisher. And I'm also aware that even if a book does sell, it might not hit it off with the general public. The only people that may buy it in stores are my mom, sister, and few friends. But I'm okay with that. Writing is what I love. And do you think I am going to invest years of time and sweat and tears into something that I haven't researched??? Probably not. Hey doctor, did anybody laugh at you and ask you what you were going to do when med school didn't work out? Probably not. So back off and give me some anti-nausea medicine, already. 

Anyway, I know I've said it in my posts before that you shouldn't let other people negatively influence your dream, no matter what it is, I will say it again: DON'T FALTER. Especially if you tell people that you are going to do something crazy like write books or become a singer or cure cancer or eat the world's largest meatball, people are going to roll their eyes and laugh at you like you are a silly little dreamer with no sense of reality. But that's because the majority of the population are like lemmings. They follow what the person beside them does and try not to stand out any way that might make them seem different. But guess what? You ARE different. You ARE special. Make that person feel like they aren't cool for being different instead of the other way around. 

I so didn't mean for this post to become so long. It was meant to be a fun story about my experiences with flying squirrels (yes, experienceS. They follow me), but my frustration with the world for being mean to creative people spilled out a little, and it's hard to stop it once it starts. So after the page break, I will leave you with some funny stories. :-) (I'm telling you, my life is weirdo. Craziness stalks me)