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

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

Work, Damn You

Tell me, are you happy being a writer?

Are you, by chance, in it for the opportunity to tell people you are a writer and thereby appear mysterious and intriguing to them?

Do you imagine great writers are found the same way great actors are found, stopped by some movie director in a coffee shop who forces his or her card into said actor's palm with super-exclusive cell phone numbers scribbled on the back and claims said actor is just what he needs for the movie he's starting and please drop the boring life and be on location by 6 am the next morning?

Is an editor haunting your town with the 2010 version of Manuscript Detector hidden in the back of a utility van, holding oversized earphones to her head, waiting for that 'ping' that will tell her that somewhere in your house is the Cinderella of all writers just waitiing to be discovered, locked up in the attic with only a pen and paper to keep her company and no singing mice in sight, and therefore forced to write amazing stories of literary genius for a little escapism?

Really?

I'm telling you now that if you are Cinderella look around.
Harder.
Those singing mice are somewhere. And the story about you is much more interesting (which is not saying much) than the story you wrote and you should stick with playing princess and leave the writing to the people who...

WANT IT BAD ENOUGH TO WORK REALLY HARD AND THEN POUND THE VIRTUAL PAVEMENT TO MAKE PUBLICATION HAPPEN!

To those of you whose talents have been discovered by an agent or editor while sipping your Starbucks and typing with one finger, or discovered because Aunt Serina knew someone who knew someone who owed her a favor, the rest of us have a message for you.

Miss on you, Pister.

Remember: Luck without Work is DUMB luck.
Work rewarded with Luck is Karma.

And to my friends who have recently been so rewarded with agent contracts, I dance the Evan Almighty Dance in your honor. Don't watch, it's not pretty.

Ainsley