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.)
Showing posts with label be brave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label be brave. Show all posts
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sunday, October 31, 2010
PILE ON, BABY
I'm running a 500k, kinda. It's a NANO times ten.
The finish line is 500,000 words by midnight, October 31, 2011.
Who wants to play?!
Rules:
1. Every word you write counts, weather or not it is edited out. Even if it's on the page for a second, it counts. If you write a freaking blog post, it counts. If you write a long email, it counts.
The first point, Newanda, is to make writing as much a part of your day as breathing. The second point is to have a pile of manuscripts to show for it. Imagine! A PILE!
2.If you make it to half a mil, you get to buy yourself whatever you want. It's a RULE!
You may copy the widget to the right. (I suggest not leaving it too visible. Watching time slipping away is a little unnerving.)
THE AFTER-PARTY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION...TIMES TEN!
The finish line is 500,000 words by midnight, October 31, 2011.
Who wants to play?!
Rules:
1. Every word you write counts, weather or not it is edited out. Even if it's on the page for a second, it counts. If you write a freaking blog post, it counts. If you write a long email, it counts.
The first point, Newanda, is to make writing as much a part of your day as breathing. The second point is to have a pile of manuscripts to show for it. Imagine! A PILE!
2.If you make it to half a mil, you get to buy yourself whatever you want. It's a RULE!
You may copy the widget to the right. (I suggest not leaving it too visible. Watching time slipping away is a little unnerving.)
THE AFTER-PARTY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION...TIMES TEN!
Friday, October 15, 2010
Time-Sucks and String Theory
I need a freaking nap.
Not that kind of nap.
I need a deep-space regenerative nap. I need a new, fully charged battery that is four versions more powerful than the one I came with.
My writing life is about to start anew. I've backed off some time-suck-loops--who'm I kidding? I backed off them all! I sat down and made a business plan for the near future, and a funny thing happened...but I'll get to that in a minute.
I shouldn't really be surprised. I've tested this string theory thing before and had it pay off. It was a mild test; I dressed for success. In a workplace with no public traffic, where my coworkers wear their pajamas if they choose to, I decided one day that I would dress for success, that even though I pushed papers for a private company, I'd dress as if I were a successful author. It worked the very first day; I started getting requests for full manuscripts. And listen to this--in addition to feeling like a writer, I started writing like a writer.
So, now I've tested the string again, doing everything I mentioned at the beginning, and something happened. I had a plan, I had a tentative schedule, I made appointments, I sent a few bold emails, and prepared myself to be a successful writer. And yes, the VERY NEXT DAY, something incredibly hopeful happened, although completely unrelated to the adjustment I'd made in my career plan. My agent got a request for a full manuscript she'd sent out on submission a month or so ago. And it was a BIG publisher that could very well unfold the world for me.
No, I won't hear anything for a few months I'm sure. But the point is, Newanda, that a change in attitude, a change in the focus of energy, really seems to do something to my universe. Everything, it seems, begins to shake a little, maybe vibrate. Maybe any movement makes a ripple in our private cosmos, and a big fish may rise to the surface to see what the devil is going on.
So, get out your little chemistry sets, your goal sheets, or that notebook you bought for recording your aspirations. Touch your toes, change your perspective (I like to drive up on the mountainside and look down on my little community). It can be anything, but do whatever it takes to come fully alert.
Now that you're alert, make a bold plan. The bolder, the better. Something you can actually control, though, like dressing for success, or making an opportunity for yourself. Then sit forward (not back) and see what happens.
This is the important part: come back and tell me all about it!
Not that kind of nap.
I need a deep-space regenerative nap. I need a new, fully charged battery that is four versions more powerful than the one I came with.
My writing life is about to start anew. I've backed off some time-suck-loops--who'm I kidding? I backed off them all! I sat down and made a business plan for the near future, and a funny thing happened...but I'll get to that in a minute.
I shouldn't really be surprised. I've tested this string theory thing before and had it pay off. It was a mild test; I dressed for success. In a workplace with no public traffic, where my coworkers wear their pajamas if they choose to, I decided one day that I would dress for success, that even though I pushed papers for a private company, I'd dress as if I were a successful author. It worked the very first day; I started getting requests for full manuscripts. And listen to this--in addition to feeling like a writer, I started writing like a writer.
So, now I've tested the string again, doing everything I mentioned at the beginning, and something happened. I had a plan, I had a tentative schedule, I made appointments, I sent a few bold emails, and prepared myself to be a successful writer. And yes, the VERY NEXT DAY, something incredibly hopeful happened, although completely unrelated to the adjustment I'd made in my career plan. My agent got a request for a full manuscript she'd sent out on submission a month or so ago. And it was a BIG publisher that could very well unfold the world for me.
No, I won't hear anything for a few months I'm sure. But the point is, Newanda, that a change in attitude, a change in the focus of energy, really seems to do something to my universe. Everything, it seems, begins to shake a little, maybe vibrate. Maybe any movement makes a ripple in our private cosmos, and a big fish may rise to the surface to see what the devil is going on.
So, get out your little chemistry sets, your goal sheets, or that notebook you bought for recording your aspirations. Touch your toes, change your perspective (I like to drive up on the mountainside and look down on my little community). It can be anything, but do whatever it takes to come fully alert.
Now that you're alert, make a bold plan. The bolder, the better. Something you can actually control, though, like dressing for success, or making an opportunity for yourself. Then sit forward (not back) and see what happens.
This is the important part: come back and tell me all about it!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
HAVE I LOST A HUNDRED POUNDS?
I sure FEEL like I've lost a hundred pounds.
On April 15th I signed with a literary agent, and now I'm warring with some pretty bizarre feelings nearly a week later.
I've taken a can opener and pried the "aggressive writer" hat off my head. I've notified everyone with my query, partial, or full that all of my works have found representation. And BOY, wasn't that unreal, UNdoing all that work, then getting lovely notes from people who suddenly saw me differently.
I guess it's kind of like losing a whole lot of weight--people are happy to look me in the eye.
Is it unfair for people to avoid eye contact with overweight people? Of course it is. But is there anything, realistically, that can be done about it? I'd say, not short of jumping on the table and dancing around until they look at you.
My point, Nuwanda, is that unpublished writers are fat. Well, we're kind of invisible in the same way as those of us who take up a bit more space in the world. I've been dancing and singing on this table for quite a while now, and The Call came just in time. My arms were getting tired from waving. My voice was getting hoarse, and the taps on my shoes were no longer tapping, so much as dragging.
So I'm climbing down off the table, with the help of my new agent, Cori. The platform is all yours, and hopefully I won't be back to try and bump you off for another try.
Sing loud. Dance pretty. And good luck!
Lesli
On April 15th I signed with a literary agent, and now I'm warring with some pretty bizarre feelings nearly a week later.
I've taken a can opener and pried the "aggressive writer" hat off my head. I've notified everyone with my query, partial, or full that all of my works have found representation. And BOY, wasn't that unreal, UNdoing all that work, then getting lovely notes from people who suddenly saw me differently.
I guess it's kind of like losing a whole lot of weight--people are happy to look me in the eye.
Is it unfair for people to avoid eye contact with overweight people? Of course it is. But is there anything, realistically, that can be done about it? I'd say, not short of jumping on the table and dancing around until they look at you.
My point, Nuwanda, is that unpublished writers are fat. Well, we're kind of invisible in the same way as those of us who take up a bit more space in the world. I've been dancing and singing on this table for quite a while now, and The Call came just in time. My arms were getting tired from waving. My voice was getting hoarse, and the taps on my shoes were no longer tapping, so much as dragging.
So I'm climbing down off the table, with the help of my new agent, Cori. The platform is all yours, and hopefully I won't be back to try and bump you off for another try.
Sing loud. Dance pretty. And good luck!
Lesli
Friday, January 8, 2010
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
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
Friday, December 19, 2008
Reflecting Forward
A rare quiet moment to reflect...forward.
2008 is still hovering around us, like Old Father Time circling the drain, waiting for his replacement so he can move on. I wish, however, he would linger just a bit longer that I might catch my breath and share a quiet moment with him before he goes.
2009 is waiting in the velvet curtains for his turn in front of the crowd and my thoughts race, as his might race, to the possibilities whispering in those 365 days sitting on the edges of their seats.
I want to be prepared. I want to know my lines, not play improv. I want to be braced for the music. I don't want to miss a minute.
And so I set a goal, a lofty goal, like a grand floral arrangement in a four-foot- tall fluted vase placed carefully, but nervously on a narrow pedestal. It is time to let go, to see if it will stay put, to see if it holds its place throughout the performance.
My goal is not some tussy-mussy of daisies and baby's breath arranged in a sturdy low bowl and placed in the center of a 60 inch table. It is wild branches with heavy berries that pull at their perch so they might wreak havoc with the white carpet below. It is a delicate blossom worth an untold fortune dangling at an unnatural height screaming "I will not go silent into that good night!"
Take a risk. As you look into your own future, do you imagine being impressed with something safe and staid? Or do you see yourself performing a bit of shock and awe of your own?
Ainsley
2008 is still hovering around us, like Old Father Time circling the drain, waiting for his replacement so he can move on. I wish, however, he would linger just a bit longer that I might catch my breath and share a quiet moment with him before he goes.
2009 is waiting in the velvet curtains for his turn in front of the crowd and my thoughts race, as his might race, to the possibilities whispering in those 365 days sitting on the edges of their seats.
I want to be prepared. I want to know my lines, not play improv. I want to be braced for the music. I don't want to miss a minute.
And so I set a goal, a lofty goal, like a grand floral arrangement in a four-foot- tall fluted vase placed carefully, but nervously on a narrow pedestal. It is time to let go, to see if it will stay put, to see if it holds its place throughout the performance.
My goal is not some tussy-mussy of daisies and baby's breath arranged in a sturdy low bowl and placed in the center of a 60 inch table. It is wild branches with heavy berries that pull at their perch so they might wreak havoc with the white carpet below. It is a delicate blossom worth an untold fortune dangling at an unnatural height screaming "I will not go silent into that good night!"
Take a risk. As you look into your own future, do you imagine being impressed with something safe and staid? Or do you see yourself performing a bit of shock and awe of your own?
Ainsley
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