THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY BREAKDOWN--An American Revolution

You remember the movie THE TRUMAN SHOW?

What we thought was the horizon was only a wall camouflaged by the publishers, part of the magical cage we all chose to live in because we were taught it was the only way to be happy, fulfilled writers. Well, someone found the door in the sky, and the writers are all escaping.

The agents, planted among the cast to keep the writers distracted, don't have many left to work with. But there are some. Does this mean it would be a great time to get an agent's attention? Probably. An editor's attention? Probably.

What you need to know is, the games are live.

There are two of them.
Which game are you going to play? Personally, L.L. Muir is playing them both. But first, I'm going for the bow and arrows! Proof here.
It doesn't really matter as long as you know the rules and payoffs for both.
But be careful about what you sign; you may have more leverage than you thought. You might be the only actor left on the lot. But you'll never know if you're not keeping up.

Unlike The Hunger Games, you won't be risking your life if you take some time to view the pile, look at your options, seize your best opportunities.

The CURE for PROFESSIONAL JEALOUSY

Sick of the jealous feeling, I began looking for a cure and I think I've got it. And I think it worked!

Late last night I learned of my friend's major, debut, three-book, YA, sold-at-auction between four houses, enough to retire from her day job, pub-house with the BEST covers DEAL. Her name is CJ Redwine.

I was so thrilled she sold, since she was a Golden Heart Finalist in 2008 and I believe it was not the first book her agent tried to sell for her. It was just her turn, you know? And she really is a mad genius.

I really expected the envy-riverbanks to overflow, but they didn't.

I woke up this morning and realized why I'm okay.
And no, it's not the Rapture/Fail thing.

For the past couple of days, I've been paying a little more attention to what's happening around me. Scary, uncharacteristic of me, I know. But I pushed back all thoughts of other writers, the fame and fortune thing, and just asked myself what my personal definition of success would be. How much fame and fortune could I handle without it having an adverse affect on the life I want with my family. How much would huge success take me away from them?

Let me admit, right here and now, that I totally want the fame and fortune thing--that hasn't changed. But no matter how fun it might be to live in the shoes of Stephanie Meyer or the Beautiful Creatures Chicks, I really don't want to mess up my family or trade them in for a smaller more manageable crowd. (We are now ten, with two daughter in laws on the way.) I can't just pack them in a Winnebago and drag them around with me.

So I'm listing my goals, in order, in a very 'one step at a time' 'totally against my nature' way. I'm already able to write full time. I've got an agent. Now I've got to get a deal too. Will it be a CJ Redwine deal? No. But I think I'm going to be so happy to be sold, it won't matter. For once in my life, I'll be grateful instead of greedy.

At least, that's the plan.
What's your plan?

Agent Soup

Most of you know I have an agent. She's Cori Deyoe of 3 Seas Literary. If you can find an agent who is as perfect for you as Cori is for me, marry her--ish.

Here are the basics you want in that marriage:
Agent should love the author's writing.
Agent should love the author's writing so much that said agent is determined to find that author a home for all that author's sellable work.
Phone calls between author and agent should leave both parties higher than kites about said author's career.

That's it from where I stand. Just three things. Love, love, and a pie in the sky. I'm just waiting on that pie to fall from said sky and land cherry-side up on my desk...

JUST CALL ME KATIE (MACALISTER)

I signed with an agent ten months ago, and today I sent her manuscript number five.

Today I sent her genre number five. (And I wonder if Katie MacAlister started this way.)

So I guess, if there was ever a local case study on what happens when you don't stick to one genre, I'm the guinea pig. I shall know, in a couple of years, whether or not the plan paid off.

Only there wasn't really a plan. I'm not truly schizo. I don't have ADD. I just had a story to tell, and it happened to be in a new genre...five times.

But I look at it this way. I had five fishing poles, five lures. I could drop them all off of one boat, or I could drop them each off a different boat. Since none of us really know where the fishing is good these days, I took option number two. I'm fishing in five different waters. We'll see which ponds have fish for my bait and which do not.

Simple. I'm letting the fish pick me. Only they can't pick me unless I have a line in the water, now can they?

Drop your lines, people, while there are still fish to be caught. Who knows when physical authentic fishing will no longer be an option? Who knows when we'll have to trade that thrill of life jerking on our pole for something...dare I say...electronic.

For those of you who are curious, the five genres were, in order, Time Travel, YA Paranormal, Scottish Historical Romance, Middle Grade, and Picture Books. My next project may, indeed, end up being Speculative Adult Fiction. Not kidding.

Piss or Get Off The Pot--Seriously

I'll be gentle for those readers just joining this blog...

If you wish you were a dancer, do you tell people you're a dancer, hoping that someday you can prove you weren't lying?
No.

If you wish you could be a rock star, do you tell people you are a rock star and hope, by some flick of a wand, you will suddenly become one?
No.

Then why would you tell anyone you are a writer if you do not write? Writing is the key. Actually hitting those keys on a regular (or regularly sporadic) basis will do.

Let me give an example.

I was enrolled in a screenwriting class a few years ago. We all decided we would write screenplays and enter them into a major contest. We all cranked out what we thought was a brilliant attempt, which was probably complete dark sticky piles of ****. We entered and got lovely loser letters with a raised little Oscar on the stationery. It was very exciting.

Some of us were all hanging out in an office during a Sundance Event being held downstairs, in the art gallery, when our professer walked in. A very popular movie producer walked in behind him, and everyone scrambled to get out of their way. I didn't recognize the guy, so I stayed where I was. Then a great thing happened that I will always remember.

The professer introduced me. "Lesli, this is So and So. So and So, this is Lesli Lytle, a writer."

It wasn't that I got to shake the guy's hand and he treated me well. It wasn't that we made small talk about Robert Redford. The thrilling part was being called a writer.

After Mr. Big left, I thanked the professer for calling me a writer and said he'd really given me a thrill. He frowned and said, "I wasn't pretending you were a writer; you are a writer. You don't have to have a Guild card to be a writer. You have to write."

I've introduced myself as a writer ever since.

So.
Are you a rock star?
Are you a writer?

So, if you are a writer, are you selling your material yourself? How's that going for you?
What about an agent? If you're not trying to sell yourself to magazines or publishing houses, you must be trying to find an agent to do it for you.
No?
WHY THE HELL NOT?

You don't think your product is ready? When will it be? You don't know? Then you'd better be finding out. Find someone to read your baby. More importantly, when you find someone willing to take the time to read a chapter or two, ACTUALLY HOLD OUT YOUR BABY AND LET SOMEONE TAKE IT.

It's not going to be your only baby, surely. And if it stinks, you don't have to spend the rest of your life feeding it and trying to make it a pretty baby. You get to start over.

Here's some great motivation for you to aggressively seek an agent:

Pretend I can tell the future. For you. Just for you.
What if I tell you that you will find an agent only after you have received 30 rejection letters/emails?

What if I tell you that you will be published only after you have written four complete novels?

Here's the promise:
After you have queried 30 agents, and after you have completed 4 novels, you will have a really good grasp on what you need to improve in order to land an agent. Finding a publisher is the agent's business.

And when I say four novels, I don't mean absolutely pristine, polished-like-a-brass-doorknob finished. I mean finished. It doesn't have to be the Holy Bible, or Lord of the Rings, or Pride and Prejudice. It has to be you.

Four books and 30 emails. The only way to fail is to give up--and you know it. That's why you say you are a writer, to deny that you have given up. If indeed you have given up, I say, piss or get off the pot. Admit it and make your life easier.

If you haven't given up, then you'd better get your query letter ready and a list of agents. Make sure your first three chapters are as good as you can get them, and give yourself a time limit to get that done. (As in a number of days, not weeks.) When time is up, you have to stop and say "good enough".

I want to hear about it.

(By the way, I got my agent with my second book, but by the time I signed, I had four books finished and thirty rejections in the can.)

Competing with The Shelf

When is the last time you went to the bookstore? Have you considered setting aside a block of time to go and immerse yourself in your genre? To study The Shelf? Who's publishing, agenting, or designing the covers you love? (Perhaps you should plan an outing...while there are still brick-and-mortars to visit.)

Do you have a story that might inspire an amazing cover that would look both original and competitive?

Have you realized that publishing is now a competition?

I know. I know. It's all about writing a great book.
Yes. Writing is about writing. Obviously.

But this is not about writing. It's about publishing.
Take off that Writing Hat, or Editing Hat, or Marketing Hat, and dig in your closet for something new. Something edgy. You need a Publishing Hat.

"Now, hold on a minute," some of you say. "It's not my job to worry about that. I need only write a great book, find an agent, and let my New York Editor worry about the publishing part."

Go ahead. Write a great book. That SHOULD land you an agent, if you've been paying attention to the do's and don'ts. But I've got a friend who has done all that, even had a big agent love her entire story, but not be able to offer representation because she couldn't sell it. Anywhere.

You wanna know why? Go look at The Shelf. Go see what's already been done, what's on the best-seller list, what kinds of things publishers are willing to take a chance on. Pick up a book. Take a whole minute and find out what the selling point was, the hook, the mind-blowing original idea that made each one stand out. Nothing? Take a peek at the writing. Anything there?

No? Pick up another. Is this your genre? If it is, you'd better pay attention. Can you put the book of your heart in a different package? Can you see it there, on The Shelf, among the others? Can you see someone picking yours over the one next to it? If not, what can you do about it?

If you're starting with a new book--especially if you're starting a new book, go see what you're competing against. Get off your dusty High Horse and admit that the industry has changed. Everyone in your genre is your competition if you both end up on The Shelf. Everyone.*

*In my next post, I'll discuss how to create your own gang.

Hah!

TRYING TO TRY

I'd been trying all month to start a new book. All month.
Okay, I'll admit I'd been trying to try.

I'd thought about it often. I'd been bored a couple of times and wandered into my office, wondering what I should be doing, then realizing what that something was. I'd even shut the door and intended to send children away if they came in to whine for something, but none of them came. And with such little effort needed, it should have been easy to start a new story.

But I didn't. If it was going to be that easy, I could start it again in a day or two. But now it's turned into a month or two. NOT. GOOD.

So, what I did was this:
First, I made it a goal to finish the first half of a new book by the end of this new month. Then I took my office apart--with the distinct goal of putting it back together again by the end of the weekend--and rearranged my Feng and my Shui. At least that goal was reached.

Whatever the directional flow of wind (feng) and water (shui) that accompanied the writing of my last work has been drastically changed.
While seated at my desk, I'm facing Southwest, for heaven's sake. The doorway is located at 7:00, BEHIND ME . There is no water fountain , but the breeze in my 50 foot trees can be heard and seen to my right .

Things I should have taken care of, or organized long ago, are now stacked in nice piles upon a bench under the window. My three awards are dusted and hung above the closet, and the framed cork boards are up on the wall after waiting patiently in a corner for over a year. The perfect chair is now in the perfect corner--an impossible feat, I assure you. The 18th Century Italian cabinet lurkes at my back, which may or may not inspire some gothic overtones in "the new book". And a copy of that contract I just signed with my first agent sits near my left elbow to remind me that I have at least one fan for whom I will write this story. It's not just for me anymore.

That's right, Geppetto, I'm almost a real boy now. I got no strings to hold me down, to make me fret or make me frown. My cricket's name is Cori, and I'm headed out of the house. I've cashed in my wish-upon-a-star, and now I've got to earn my little pink nose. Only difference between me and Pinnochio is: I've GOT to tell a real whopper of a story to earn mine.

Here's hoping for a mind-blower.
L

No Country For Casual Writers

Wanna be a casual writer?

Wanna write when your muse takes your hand and gently guides you to a pen and paper because the breeze tickling your sheer drapes has kissed her cheek and brought her out of her deep sleep and she's ready to dictate the lovely dream she's been having?

Do you want to write when the stars are aligned at the same time your family leaves you alone in the house unexpectedly?

In ambitious moments do you make a writing schedule and celebrate when you hit your goal a couple of days out of the month? Or even spend more time blogging or emailing about your writing than you actually spend on the manuscript itself?

Then you are a casual writer. Nothing wrong with that. You probably enjoy your writing more than most; it is a gift, not a chore.

For those of you less casual about your writing, I don't know if you've noticed, but the writing industry has turned into a GAUNTLET. It's no longer a row of desks spread out in the middle of a field like archery targets where we stand back and try to lob our babies from afar, hoping the desk it lands on, or bumps into, is the desk of someone who will appreciate said baby and if they dont, we'll pick it up, dust it off, and lob it at the next desk.

The new GAUNTLET is a damned busy public transit stop in Asia with thousands lined up waiting for the next train, to shoot their bodies toward the doors as soon as they crack open regardless of the people who are getting off and making room for more. With enough effort, after all, the agressive new group can push them out the other side of the train.

And these gentle human beings are anything but. While they wait for that train, they've either got their heads down, nudging their way forward, looking for familiar faces with whom they might gang up and weild more power, or they're trying to thin the crowd. "I hear the next stop has short lines...why don't you try it?"

Sorry to say, that if you're trying to get on this train, you should bring thugs with you (fellow writers) and embrace the gang mentality (writer conferences). At least you'll have a better shot of survival when the excitement gets people pushed onto the tracks. Friends, if they haven't been turned by the smell of blood in the air (angels), can at least pull you back up on the platform.

And once you're on the train, you'll have to fight like mad to get away from those doors before they open again. Grab any handle and hang on for your life. And if your work stinks, there are trap doors that will dump you out between the tracks. For pity's sake, DON'T STINK! You want some editor or agent to take one peek at the manuscript under your arm, think you smell like money, and offer you a seat next to him or her.

Screw the soft breeze. It's a rough wind that accompanies the publishing train and you don't want your nightgown blown around like a doomed ship's sail pulling you toward those sharp iron wheels. The only legacy you'll leave behind is a youtube video of that stupid surprise on your face, just as you're going under.

Have I thinned the crowd a little?
No?
Good for you. See you at the station.

Ainsley, the world traveller