Fishing for Answers
February 8, 2010
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Somewhere along the way, Christianity started to get a bad rap.
Maybe it was the sixties, that decade of decadence when everything was questioned and turned upside down. Or maybe it was earlier with the Enlightenment. Either way, the faith that built our country and comforted its people through wars and depressions and natural disasters is now not only doubted, but increasingly attacked. Even in my little part of America.
That’s what happened to me recently. Sort of. I say that because the man who played the attacker wasn’t really the person I thought he was. Not that it mattered. But what I learned that day was an important lesson for me. In these times, it isn’t enough to simply believe. You have to know why you believe and be ready to defend it, too.
To read the story, hop on over to katdish’s blog. And if you just so happen to visit a particular little restaurant in a particular little Virginia town, I’d like to suggest the fish.
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The Art of Rejection
February 5, 2010
“This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address’. Just keep looking for the right address.” – Barbara Kingsolver
Writers compare rejection notices like veterans compare war wounds. And that’s appropriate, I think. The two are very similar, evidences of battles not necessarily won or lost or even stalemated, but simply fought. Both begin as a bitter pain that seems unendurable but, with hope and God and perseverance, may become points of pride later.
See this? we say. Got that one three years ago. Hurt like hell, too. Doesn’t really bother me much anymore though, except when it rains.
For the past dozen years or so I’ve kept my rejections in a file folder that’s shoved into the bottom of an old wooden chest in a corner of my office. The chest is both latched and locked, and there are approximately thirty pounds of books stacked on top.
I suppose there is some psychological explanation as to why I keep that folder as far away and inaccessible as possible. I’ve thought about it. The truth is that I still can’t bear to read some of them and still can’t throw away any of them, and both for the same reason—I fear I will lose a little bit of myself in the process.
However.
Last night I took those thirty pounds of books off my chest, unlocked and unlatched it, and dug out my folder. For the simple reason that there are times in a person’s life when he must pause in his forward movement just to see how far down the path he’s come.
I counted fifty-seven. Fifty-seven letters and emails that chronicled a writer who began as a veritable literary idiot then progressed to a rank amateur and then hardened veteran in need of a miracle. There they were, all of them. A picture of my dreams.
Every writer knows rejections come in three different classes. There are the standard form-letter ones, the more personal ones, and, if you’re especially fortunate, ones upon which an actual living human has scrawled a few actual words with an actual pen.
I had a lot of the first, some of the second, and a few of the third.
Some were blunt. I found one in the stack that was simply a return of my query with “No Thanx” scrawled at the top.
There was lot of “We’re sorry, but this book does not fit our publishing interests.” A testament to my lack of proper research.
One of the handwritten comments said, “You are an excellent writer, but unfortunately our calendar for the year is full.” That one got me through another couple months of No Thank yous.
But then I got this one from a newspaper editor: “I cannot in good faith accept this query. To be honest, you’re just not a good writer.”
That one? That one killed me. I quit writing for about three months after reading that.
Some said I was too country. Others that I wasn’t country enough. Some said my words were too simple and my thoughts too erratic, and others said my thoughts were too simple and my words too erratic.
I wasn’t experienced enough.
My platform was lacking.
And on. And on. And on.
F.X. Toole, whose short story Million Dollar Baby became the movie of the same name, gave up writing for boxing when he was a relatively young man. A broken jaw, he said, hurt less than a rejection.
I understand what he meant by that.
And I also understand that the above quote by Barbara Kingsolver sounds wonderful in theory but very, very hard in application. Because it doesn’t matter how hard we try to convince ourselves otherwise, we’ll always fight the temptation to see a rejection as not simply a pass on our book, but a pass on our life.
Go to your local bookstore and you’ll see entire shelves dedicated to the art of getting published. And while many of those books are worthy of attention, the secret is much simpler. Much better.
Write your book. Make it as good as it can be.
And after that, send your queries.
And then, after all that, do one more thing. The most important thing. The one thing you must do no matter how many rejections you get and no matter how discouraged you become.
Always try one more time.
***
And speaking of trying one more time…
Congratulations to Amy Sorrells for getting “The Call” from Rachelle Gardner of WordServe Literary. I’m honored to be in such good company.
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Having a Say
February 3, 2010
photo by Ann Voskamp
My children were convinced that the snowstorm last week was their doing. No doubt about it. And as that snow resulted in school closing, they were also convinced that every teacher and student in the county should shower them with praise. They seemed quite smug about the whole thing.
This magical manipulation of nature involved a rather unorthodox and highly secretive ritual performed the night before—they flushed two ice cubes down the toilet. According to the theory, one cube produces approximately two and a half inches of snow. Good for snowballs, but not for closing school. Hence the extra cube. Five inches would certainly do the trick.
I’d never heard of flushing ice cubes down the toilet to guarantee a snow. Tossing the snow shovel into the middle of the front yard always worked when I was a kid. And occasionally still does. Everyone knows it always snows when you can’t find your snow shovel…
I’m over at high calling blogs today, so just go right here to read the rest of this article. And feel free to share what your own snow day rituals were. Because I really had never heard of the flushing-ice-cubes-down-the-toilet thing, and I’d really like a snow day soon…
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Handling the Remote
February 1, 2010
photo by photobucket
For years I enjoyed unfettered access to our television. The one I bought with my own money. I could watch what I wanted when I wanted and for however long I wanted.
But then my daughter was born. And then my son.
Now I must share my television watching with them. Which means sacrificing football games for Spongebob Squarepants and Lost for Phineas and Ferb. Okay, so the second one is really kind of acceptable because I really, really like Phineas and Ferb. But you get the idea.
But even though I had to sacrifice what I wanted for what they wanted at times, I retained my position as the official Handler of the Remote Control in our household. A coveted position, no doubt. And one that’s been challenged of late by my daughter.
To understand why men are so remote control conscious and how that applies to life, please head on over to katdish’s blog. And for heaven’s sake, let your husband/boyfriend/significant male other have this one responsibility. We need it.
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Writing Naked
January 28, 2010
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I took exactly one class in writing. It was about fifteen years ago at the community college and was taught by a real published author whose name I cannot recall. But she was published, and as far as I was concerned that was all the credentials she needed.
The first class turned out to be the most useful. That’s not to say the instruction given in the proceeding eleven weeks of the course wasn’t useful. It was. But that first night alone was worth the money.
The twenty or so people in the class formed a semi-circle around the professor, who stood in behind a wooden podium that was much more intimidating than she. We sat at attention, notebooks ready, eager to have our heads filled with the hidden secrets of literary success.
“Tell me,” she said, “what does one need to write?”
The more outgoing among the class were quick with suggestions:
“Time.”
“Perseverance.”
“Skill.”
“Connections.” (That one was met with a nervous chuckle from the rest of the class.)
“Practice.”
Each was met with an approving nod and so was written down by everyone, myself included. But that really wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
“Those are good suggestions,” she said, “but you’re leaving the most important aspect out. Anyone?”
No one.
“Courage,” she said.
I didn’t really understand that and snickered under my breath. Courage? Soldiers needed courage. Cops needed courage. EMTs and stunt men and bullfighters. But writers? Sitting on your butt and typing on a keyboard did not take courage.
“There are some who might disagree with that,” she said—and to this day I swear she looked at me when she said it—“and I understand. You disagree because you’re writing with your clothes on. By the time you leave here, you’ll be writing naked.”
I’ll admit I almost walked out then. I’d heard about kooky writing classes given by kooky professors who did some pretty strange things in the name of “art.” I was afraid if I stuck around I’d end up dressed in a blue tracksuit with a cup of Kool-Aid in my hand because a comet was passing by to take me to heaven.
I stayed in my seat on the whim she was speaking metaphorically.
“There is no greater fear than to face a blank page,” she said. “It mocks and threatens. It challenges you. Give it power, and it will eat you alive. Face it clothed, and you will fail. The only way to beat the blank page is to attack it naked.”
Twelve of the twenty students raised their hands.
“Wait, wait,” she said, moving her hands in a downward motion. “No, I’m not speaking literally. But I’m not joking, either. Let me ask you something else. Why do people write?”
More hands in the air, which she chose to ignore.
“People write because they must. Because there is a story inside them that is meant to be shared with the world. But having that story inside you doesn’t make you a writer. How you tell that story does. And you tell it through honesty.”
She told us to put our pens down and just listen.
“Writers fail because they come to the page fully clothed. They adorn themselves with fanciful plots and layer themselves with complicated character development. They use flowery prose and words you have to look up in the dictionary. They do this not to impress their readers, but to keep their readers at arm’s length. They’re afraid. Afraid to bare their souls and inject themselves into their work. For that they are cowards.
“Don’t simply tell me that faith saves you, tell me how it almost failed you, too. Don’t tell me about love, speak of your passion. Don’t tell me you’re hurt, let me see your heart breaking. I don’t want to see your talent on the page, I want to see your blood. Dare to be naked before your readers. Because that is writing, and everything else is worthless crap.”
I’ll always remember that. In fact, written on an index card taped to my lamp are these two words—Be Naked. Because she was right, that’s what writing is all about. Fiction or non, poetry or devotional, funny or serious, it doesn’t matter. Our calling is still the same:
To bare ourselves so we may be the mirror the world holds to itself.
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I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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