Hello, it's me, Lorelei, writer, and bus driver.
I realize I've been neglecting my blog, but that's life.
I've finally got some time to myself, to write as I need to, take walks, etc. This I've needed for a while. We tend to get caught up in the world at large. Work, and daily things that need to get done. I've opted to work only 2 days, and be freed up to work on getting the book published. Yes. Self-published.
Yesterday I was glad to go for a walk in the park (which we manage, and is next to us), and found that my knees held up pretty good. I walked through the fluff of dandelions, took in Spring, the way it used to be--although it has been rather cooler than normal, but I say, if I can wear jeans and be comfortable, then I don't care.
I've worked so very hard on writing, reading everything I could to help me, all forms of writing, and even the writer's magazines (which go along with all the silly notions that writing has rules to follow, and every published author I've ever read ignores said rules. I won't go into them here). I do not have 20 more years to wait for someone to discover me. I may not even have 10. I'm tired of waiting to hold a book with a title, and my name on it. My dreams of publishing has gone through its phases after three decades, with only very little to show. I've always wanted to be a novelist. Why this is such a difficult aspiration, I don't understand.
It no longer matters. With P.O.D. anyone can publish their book--whether it's terrible, or good, or great. All you need is the good old dollar--lots of them--and go on line, and you can find dozens of them. You just have to be careful, look around to see if anyone has complaints about ones you're interested in, and if you feel safe to go with them, go for it.
Since we were getting this so called "stimulus package" and my husband and I came to the conclusion that this was the only way we would see something I wrote in print, we just decided to set aside a good portion of it to go toward it. Hey, it's money from the government. Why not look at it like winnings in a lottery, or something?
And today I went out and spent $100, on shopping, food and such. I figured it was my duty to stimulate the local economy, and so Barns & Nobel got some, Borders got a little, Wal-Mart, of course got some, as did a number of other places I visited. It was fun, I'll admit. I don't get to blow money like that on a daily, or even a monthly basis. I did shop until I was bored, tired and just wanted to get the hell out of the noise and traffic and come home to peace and quiet of the country.
I read something just yesterday, I think. I get this newsletter from a pair of writers. It's called Write Free--if you're a writer and are interested in getting your mind cleared, it's a nice place to check out. It helped me just sort of relax and let go when I read this piece by Jordan Rosenfeld basically said that if we can let go our urgency, desperation, and longing when going after what we want--I think that goes for anything, including writing. Doing so will help to open us up to attracting what we want in life. This is actually something I'd learned a long time ago. It's considered "white magic". You think about those things you need and want. But the hard part is letting go of those emotions that say "I've got to have this or that".
I'd always had the longing, desire, and yes, even feelings of urgency drowning out everything else, including life itself. Just living. I think--no, I know--it's because having a book published has been a life-long pursuit. I thought it would have been gained more easily, and sooner than this.
I'm turning 54 this year. The waiting is about over. Yes, this is a self-publishing venture. Yes, I will pay to have my book printed/published--something I'd said many years ago I would not do. But the idea that no one besides myself and maybe a hand full of people would ever get to read my book Spell of the Black Unicorn just hung around my neck like a noose. I felt it tighten with every year that went by, and each and ever rejection I got. Why don't they like it? Are they stupid?
Well, I'm going to be busy this summer getting Black Unicorn ready for Infinity. I even have my own drawing for the front cover they will use--at no extra charge--and, yes, I can draw, after all I majored in art. Art was my first love. But now it's writing.
So, as I sit here tapping this out for whoever reads this, I bid you good tidings.
By the way, while at the bookstore, drinking down the very strong mocha latte, I found myself a new author. Keri Arthur of Melbourne, Australia. She's won lots of awards. Full Moon Rising about a half vampire, half werewolf, looks promising.
I also picked up Karen Chance's Touch the Dark, and that looks pretty good too--I read a portion of it on line. Her web-site is awesome!
Well, I hope you all get your stimulus packages, and go stimulate something.
Ta.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
All Writers Were Once New
There is a saying that all music was once new.
This is true.
All writing was also once new.
But I'll go one further. All writers were once new.
Who knows when the next King, Rowling--or whoever your favorite author is--will come along and knock down the conventional doors of writing?
So, with this in mind, I write on. And blog when I can.
I wanted to sort of review some of the books I've read this past winter.
Lately I've been really into Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse books. These are fun to read--a blend of fantasy, romance, and mystery. Charlaine isn't the only one doing these types of books, but for me, these are the ones I personally like, out of any of the other writer's I've read.
Harris' last book All Together Dead, I thought had been her best, in as far as bringing all her elements together--the mystery,the danger, the romance--creating a romantic cliffhanger for her heroine over which man she'll choose. I can't wait until her next book, but I really can't afford a hardbound book. So, I'll have to bide my time and wait until a year from now, when it should be out in paperback.
Basically, her vampires have come out of the closet, as they say, because of the new "synthetic" blood developed by the Japanese. This enables the vampires to blend into society, and be accepted (as far as they can be).
The sometimes funny things that happen along the way, and the different characters that she introduces in every story, is what gives these stories their magic, and keeps the reader interested.
This was her seventh book, her eighth one is due out next month.
I was curious about Laurell K. Hamilton, and unfortunately I didn't know she wrote porno (erotica in writing terms, but a manager of a bookstore said flat out that it's unabashed porno, and I had to agree). Thus, this is all I'm saying about the one I tried to read, Incubus Dreams, but I truly became sick of the multiple menage a trois, throughout, and what I was told was an interesting premise in the very beginning turned into an ugly beast. Her character doesn't do any vampire hunting, as far as I can see. Most of her time is spent on bathroom, bedroom, office floors, in a bed occasionally, on a desk once, and the back seat of a Jeep. Well, I'll be honest. Every now and then she was on top. But it was always with two men. If this is your fantasy, be my guest, check her out in the fantasy section. You have a who array to choose from. I personally don't care to have nightmares about sex, thank you. So, I put it down and couldn't finish it.
I then went to the other end of the scale, chose Lynsay Sands' Vampire, Interrupted, and found it very tame compared to Hamilton. It is a romance, and thus nothing really happens at all. As in all romances, the basic plot is easy (easy to figure out who's going to go to bed with whom), and so, I became easily bored, sleepy, and couldn't finish it in a week, as I do any of the Harris' Dead books. This kept me in reading material until All Together Dead went into paperback.
The one thing I didn't like about Sands' vampire explanation was that their ancestors came from Atlantis, thus were advanced scientifically, and used something called "nano" technology, and bioengineering, and to stay alive forever they feed on blood, I guess, to become "immortals". This part for me was okay. But her other premises just weren't in the vampire mode, such as women (vampires) aparently can give birth at any age, and in this book, they were able to go out into the sun. So, why did they need to do things at night? I haven't a clue. I couldn't get their being able to attain blood (in plastic bags, like you find in blood banks, hospitals, etc.). It was a total turn off reading about them sucking blood from the plastic bags.
Sands' books are probably okay, if you don't get into the usual vampire fantasy thing. If you want to read romance with a vampire or two in it as the main characters, but you want more of a romance-read, Sands gets my vote.
Personally, I like the whole fantasy creation, and true vampires who are somewhat evil, or at least bite during sex. I don't know why, but the mild erotic eliment of this is just pushing the envelope just enough to be naughty but not something that gives me nightmares.
As far as the Dead books by Harris, she has her Sookie character dating vampires as well as Weres. It makes for a good mix that isn't boring at least, her characters feel real. She doesn't try to gross you out in crutial points (it's why I quit reading King. That was pure horror, and I fell away from it years ago).
Okay, that's all for me. I'm looking forward to checking out a different writer, one that Harris mentioned in her blog the other day. Karen Chance. Touch The Dark, is her first book. I just want to read it, because her main character is a clairvoyant, as is my character I'm writing about in Were There's Blood. I need to make sure I'm not copying an idea. But mainly to see what my other copetition is doing.
Happy Spring!
This is true.
All writing was also once new.
But I'll go one further. All writers were once new.
Who knows when the next King, Rowling--or whoever your favorite author is--will come along and knock down the conventional doors of writing?
So, with this in mind, I write on. And blog when I can.
I wanted to sort of review some of the books I've read this past winter.
Lately I've been really into Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse books. These are fun to read--a blend of fantasy, romance, and mystery. Charlaine isn't the only one doing these types of books, but for me, these are the ones I personally like, out of any of the other writer's I've read.
Harris' last book All Together Dead, I thought had been her best, in as far as bringing all her elements together--the mystery,the danger, the romance--creating a romantic cliffhanger for her heroine over which man she'll choose. I can't wait until her next book, but I really can't afford a hardbound book. So, I'll have to bide my time and wait until a year from now, when it should be out in paperback.
Basically, her vampires have come out of the closet, as they say, because of the new "synthetic" blood developed by the Japanese. This enables the vampires to blend into society, and be accepted (as far as they can be).
The sometimes funny things that happen along the way, and the different characters that she introduces in every story, is what gives these stories their magic, and keeps the reader interested.
This was her seventh book, her eighth one is due out next month.
I was curious about Laurell K. Hamilton, and unfortunately I didn't know she wrote porno (erotica in writing terms, but a manager of a bookstore said flat out that it's unabashed porno, and I had to agree). Thus, this is all I'm saying about the one I tried to read, Incubus Dreams, but I truly became sick of the multiple menage a trois, throughout, and what I was told was an interesting premise in the very beginning turned into an ugly beast. Her character doesn't do any vampire hunting, as far as I can see. Most of her time is spent on bathroom, bedroom, office floors, in a bed occasionally, on a desk once, and the back seat of a Jeep. Well, I'll be honest. Every now and then she was on top. But it was always with two men. If this is your fantasy, be my guest, check her out in the fantasy section. You have a who array to choose from. I personally don't care to have nightmares about sex, thank you. So, I put it down and couldn't finish it.
I then went to the other end of the scale, chose Lynsay Sands' Vampire, Interrupted, and found it very tame compared to Hamilton. It is a romance, and thus nothing really happens at all. As in all romances, the basic plot is easy (easy to figure out who's going to go to bed with whom), and so, I became easily bored, sleepy, and couldn't finish it in a week, as I do any of the Harris' Dead books. This kept me in reading material until All Together Dead went into paperback.
The one thing I didn't like about Sands' vampire explanation was that their ancestors came from Atlantis, thus were advanced scientifically, and used something called "nano" technology, and bioengineering, and to stay alive forever they feed on blood, I guess, to become "immortals". This part for me was okay. But her other premises just weren't in the vampire mode, such as women (vampires) aparently can give birth at any age, and in this book, they were able to go out into the sun. So, why did they need to do things at night? I haven't a clue. I couldn't get their being able to attain blood (in plastic bags, like you find in blood banks, hospitals, etc.). It was a total turn off reading about them sucking blood from the plastic bags.
Sands' books are probably okay, if you don't get into the usual vampire fantasy thing. If you want to read romance with a vampire or two in it as the main characters, but you want more of a romance-read, Sands gets my vote.
Personally, I like the whole fantasy creation, and true vampires who are somewhat evil, or at least bite during sex. I don't know why, but the mild erotic eliment of this is just pushing the envelope just enough to be naughty but not something that gives me nightmares.
As far as the Dead books by Harris, she has her Sookie character dating vampires as well as Weres. It makes for a good mix that isn't boring at least, her characters feel real. She doesn't try to gross you out in crutial points (it's why I quit reading King. That was pure horror, and I fell away from it years ago).
Okay, that's all for me. I'm looking forward to checking out a different writer, one that Harris mentioned in her blog the other day. Karen Chance. Touch The Dark, is her first book. I just want to read it, because her main character is a clairvoyant, as is my character I'm writing about in Were There's Blood. I need to make sure I'm not copying an idea. But mainly to see what my other copetition is doing.
Happy Spring!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I WRITE THEREFORE I AM
Hello. I've been busy.
For those of you who have yet to read my blog, and don't know it (other than the very title of this post), I am writer . . . hear me roar. Or squeak. Whichever.
I've been busy, of course, with my latest book--Were There's Blood--and working (more or less) full time. It has also been very cold, here in northern Illinois, most of the time, and heating my office has been a challenge, since I live in a 107 year old farm house, without insulation, and my office just happens to be the far western fringe of the main house (almost in Bismark, but I'm willing to bet it's closer to Siberia). With tall ceilings, may I say. Why did people have 10 foot ceilings when they were only five and a half-feet tall? That's the question of the day. How do you get to the cobwebs? How do you paint, or change the lightbulbs without having to find/buy a 15 foot ladder???
Just got my latest Writer's Digest. I recommend it for any writer. Subscribe to this and/or The Writer, and you will be able to self-educate yourself. That is my tip of the day--or of the month, since I can't get in here as often as I would like.
This issue (June 2008) has 101 best websites for writers. I spent the last couple of days hi-lighting the ones I want to visit. I'll never have time to see them all, until I retire, I think. But a few will get a peruse, when I get some time, and I'm not so damned tired. I may want to see some of the freelancer ones, since it would be nice to see if I can't get a job writing. I'll write for coffee (most flavors) and chocolate, but since I can buy those things, I'd rather have a little cash, instead.
Writers are a different animal, believe me. A true writer never stops writing. This I can say with full authority. If you are a true writer, you write while you are doing anything else, like doing dishes, walking (esp. walking), doing laundry (my husband does the laundry so I can write), you can even write while asleep. Ah. This I can do. Which is annoying as hell because you really don't feel like getting up, finding your reading glasses, and the pen and paper you left by your bed-side. I do have a recorder. But I also have a bed partner. If I start talking, he would hear it and think I'm talking in my sleep and kick me. If only you could just record all those ideas, dialogues, scenes that spin around up there through some electronic device that you can hook up to your brain, then, well, you'd just have it made. That's what I want for Christmas, this year. The electronic thingamajig that records your every thought, and you just plug it into your computer and it comes up on screen--complete with pictures. Wow. I don't know if I've just invented this, but maybe I should get the patent, and maybe I'll get rich that way. You think?
I once read that Rod Sterling had written his stories from his dreams (if you've ever seen Twilight Zone, you'd understand why the weirdness), and I believe also Lovecraft, did the same, but I can't say this for sure, (and I'm not looking this up, since it would take hours of digging), however both men had on-going dreams. That is they could get up from a dream, go do whatever, and go back to sleep, and return to the dream, sort of like reading a book, or watching a video. In fact I think one of them could go back to the same dream the very next night. Cool. And I'm envious. My husband claims to have done this on occasion.
Okay. Since I have only so many hours in my day to devote to writing, this was my first stop. I hope you enjoy my blog. Eventually I will get some pictures, and make this blog more interesting. I'll have more time to play with this in a little over a month from now, since I'm taking some time off this summer to WRITE!
For those of you who have yet to read my blog, and don't know it (other than the very title of this post), I am writer . . . hear me roar. Or squeak. Whichever.
I've been busy, of course, with my latest book--Were There's Blood--and working (more or less) full time. It has also been very cold, here in northern Illinois, most of the time, and heating my office has been a challenge, since I live in a 107 year old farm house, without insulation, and my office just happens to be the far western fringe of the main house (almost in Bismark, but I'm willing to bet it's closer to Siberia). With tall ceilings, may I say. Why did people have 10 foot ceilings when they were only five and a half-feet tall? That's the question of the day. How do you get to the cobwebs? How do you paint, or change the lightbulbs without having to find/buy a 15 foot ladder???
Just got my latest Writer's Digest. I recommend it for any writer. Subscribe to this and/or The Writer, and you will be able to self-educate yourself. That is my tip of the day--or of the month, since I can't get in here as often as I would like.
This issue (June 2008) has 101 best websites for writers. I spent the last couple of days hi-lighting the ones I want to visit. I'll never have time to see them all, until I retire, I think. But a few will get a peruse, when I get some time, and I'm not so damned tired. I may want to see some of the freelancer ones, since it would be nice to see if I can't get a job writing. I'll write for coffee (most flavors) and chocolate, but since I can buy those things, I'd rather have a little cash, instead.
Writers are a different animal, believe me. A true writer never stops writing. This I can say with full authority. If you are a true writer, you write while you are doing anything else, like doing dishes, walking (esp. walking), doing laundry (my husband does the laundry so I can write), you can even write while asleep. Ah. This I can do. Which is annoying as hell because you really don't feel like getting up, finding your reading glasses, and the pen and paper you left by your bed-side. I do have a recorder. But I also have a bed partner. If I start talking, he would hear it and think I'm talking in my sleep and kick me. If only you could just record all those ideas, dialogues, scenes that spin around up there through some electronic device that you can hook up to your brain, then, well, you'd just have it made. That's what I want for Christmas, this year. The electronic thingamajig that records your every thought, and you just plug it into your computer and it comes up on screen--complete with pictures. Wow. I don't know if I've just invented this, but maybe I should get the patent, and maybe I'll get rich that way. You think?
I once read that Rod Sterling had written his stories from his dreams (if you've ever seen Twilight Zone, you'd understand why the weirdness), and I believe also Lovecraft, did the same, but I can't say this for sure, (and I'm not looking this up, since it would take hours of digging), however both men had on-going dreams. That is they could get up from a dream, go do whatever, and go back to sleep, and return to the dream, sort of like reading a book, or watching a video. In fact I think one of them could go back to the same dream the very next night. Cool. And I'm envious. My husband claims to have done this on occasion.
Okay. Since I have only so many hours in my day to devote to writing, this was my first stop. I hope you enjoy my blog. Eventually I will get some pictures, and make this blog more interesting. I'll have more time to play with this in a little over a month from now, since I'm taking some time off this summer to WRITE!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Query Letters--and Bad Breath
It's been a while since I've posted, but I've been busy writing--which is what a writer does, okay? In between driving the stupid bus, I get very little free time, but this week I'm off (spring break) (what spring??).
Aside from working on my newest novel Were There's Blood, I've been working up my courage to send out Spell of the Black Unicorn--again. I've collected seven rejections, so far--those are from '07 & '06. Some of the rejections are just rejections. The best/nicest one as yet was from Jabberwocky. They said they were delighted to receive my query, and they gave it careful attention, but "alas . . . the query was not quit intriguing enough to inspire me to offer representation . . ." yada yada. I've been rejected I don't know how many times over the years. That one didn't sting quite as much as the usual "we're not interested" or the one stamped on my query letter, because I guess I don't merit an actual rejection letter: "I'm afraid your material doesn't suit our current needs and/or interests." Written below was that his client list was "quite full".
I doesn't really matter how nicely or poorly they reject you, you still feel like slitting your wrists, sticking your head in an oven, or watch carefully for the next biggest honking meteorite hurtling toward earth so as to get it all over with.
It hurts. Terribly. They know this, and I know they must. But it still hurts because you've put years into the work. I actually do five drafts before I'm finished and then I read it over maybe a dozen times--this doesn't count how many times a writer may change anything, which may be a few words to whole chapters--and you still want to change something every time you go through it. I don't know why. I put on the editor's cap, and I can't help but want to mess with things.
The hours I spend I try to spend them in the best way possible. I'd rather just write. I hate the business end, because--well, look at it this way. An artist--whether he makes music, or paints/draws/sculpts--wants to spend time doing what he/she does best and loves best. Who wants to spend hours trying to come up with a brilliant one-paged letter that will get the attention of an agent? Who does this? Only writers are expected to cram the whole idea of their 400-page (or more) novel into a few strong sentences which is supposed to give the agent head spins, or maybe an orgasm--I'm not quite sure which--and jump up and down excitedly and say, "Oh, my God! I have to get this author, she's just brilliant. I've never read a better query letter in all my life."
No artist, no musician has to go through all this crud in order to attract attention. Their art is either visual, or can be heard. With paintings, you look at it and you either like it or you don't. A musician, you listen and either their wonderful, or they stink. They just go on one of those shows on TV, and, if they loose, they've had a lot of exposure. Try doing that with a novel. Unless it's made into a visual media first, you haven't a chance, babe.
Writing is visual, and also time consuming to evaluate. That is why you send in only a query letter usually (or maybe a chapter or two), which I've still to come across the magical verbiage which will make an agent just jump right out of their seat and beg you to see the whole manuscript. You also get only one chance to make an impression.
So, that's where I am--again--since I'm just not going to go through the self-publishing thing. I think every one of them are scams, and they'll get money from you some how, and then it's up to you to go out and sell yourself. Not for me, thanks.
I sent one of my query letters off to an agent this week, and plan to send another one soon. This is like playing the lottery, folks. You know your dollar is gone the moment you hand it over. You know the odds, and yet you keep on playing. Boy, how stupid. I don't play the lottery, mainly because I'm already doing so with my writing.
The one big difference now, than back in '07--and before that--is that I can actually go to these agent's sites and see exactly how they want it sent. Some are pretty picky. The pickiest is--well, I'm not going to name anyone here, but they actually didn't want it in Times Roman, but in something else. Which would mean a person would have to go and change the font, and re-print it all. Fortunately, they didn't take the type of fiction I write. (Wiping my brow now.)
Another agent boasted they weren't as jaded or cynical as many hard core agents. Well, you know I beg to differ. If you're an agent, you almost have to be a little jaded or cynical, these days. It comes with the territory. Maybe they're not quite so cynical, but I know that I'll get a nice rejection, all the same. "Sorry, not for us" (you stupid clod).
Another agent says in the very first sentence that they are very anxious to see new work.
Okay. This is either a type-o, or they are very nervous about seeing new work. The right word should have been eager. Unless this is a test to see how many of us writers actually notice this, and you know many of us will. But how many of us will actually point this out to them? How do you do it without pissing them off? (Eh, yeah, uh, didn't you mean eager instead of anxious? You guys are a bunch of--)
One thing I hate is mind games in this, my chosen field.
Before I leave this, and post it, I want to add, I'd read an article in Writer's Digest written by an agent who had an assortment of examples of "bad" query letters. Some were pretty wild, and I could see why no one would even consider them, let alone send them anything but a rejection. But my favorite was from some writer who more or less sounded like me--things I'd only put into my personal journal, and no where else. They basically couldn't understand why, after having countless essays and poems published, they couldn't make money as a writer (I had to presume getting a book published, and my heart went out to them immediately). They asked if it was because of no contacts, or they didn't go to Harvard, or if they were too old. But the last line was a killer. I loved it. "Is it my breath?" they said.
(Yes, my dear, your breath is so bad, it was carried on the very piece of paper you sent through the mail.)
And then they asked, "Am I cursed?"
Well, of course you are! Just as I am. For some reason we writers have the writing bug, and the only thing that makes us happy is to write. We can happily sit and write and never let anyone but our friends and families see any of it, and never go through the pain, misery and self-abuse we go through with every rejection we get. This is our lot in life. But some of us just want to have recognition, and if it works out, you might have a nice little income for the rest of your life. Those are the lucky ones. The ones who some how, some way knew exactly how to word their query letters (and don't waste your money on books that tell you how to do it, I've got several of them, and they didn't work for me).
As I close this little chapter I want you to look at those happy, smiling faces of authors on the back of their books--they are the lucky ones. Just remember that, my bad-breathed friends.
Aside from working on my newest novel Were There's Blood, I've been working up my courage to send out Spell of the Black Unicorn--again. I've collected seven rejections, so far--those are from '07 & '06. Some of the rejections are just rejections. The best/nicest one as yet was from Jabberwocky. They said they were delighted to receive my query, and they gave it careful attention, but "alas . . . the query was not quit intriguing enough to inspire me to offer representation . . ." yada yada. I've been rejected I don't know how many times over the years. That one didn't sting quite as much as the usual "we're not interested" or the one stamped on my query letter, because I guess I don't merit an actual rejection letter: "I'm afraid your material doesn't suit our current needs and/or interests." Written below was that his client list was "quite full".
I doesn't really matter how nicely or poorly they reject you, you still feel like slitting your wrists, sticking your head in an oven, or watch carefully for the next biggest honking meteorite hurtling toward earth so as to get it all over with.
It hurts. Terribly. They know this, and I know they must. But it still hurts because you've put years into the work. I actually do five drafts before I'm finished and then I read it over maybe a dozen times--this doesn't count how many times a writer may change anything, which may be a few words to whole chapters--and you still want to change something every time you go through it. I don't know why. I put on the editor's cap, and I can't help but want to mess with things.
The hours I spend I try to spend them in the best way possible. I'd rather just write. I hate the business end, because--well, look at it this way. An artist--whether he makes music, or paints/draws/sculpts--wants to spend time doing what he/she does best and loves best. Who wants to spend hours trying to come up with a brilliant one-paged letter that will get the attention of an agent? Who does this? Only writers are expected to cram the whole idea of their 400-page (or more) novel into a few strong sentences which is supposed to give the agent head spins, or maybe an orgasm--I'm not quite sure which--and jump up and down excitedly and say, "Oh, my God! I have to get this author, she's just brilliant. I've never read a better query letter in all my life."
No artist, no musician has to go through all this crud in order to attract attention. Their art is either visual, or can be heard. With paintings, you look at it and you either like it or you don't. A musician, you listen and either their wonderful, or they stink. They just go on one of those shows on TV, and, if they loose, they've had a lot of exposure. Try doing that with a novel. Unless it's made into a visual media first, you haven't a chance, babe.
Writing is visual, and also time consuming to evaluate. That is why you send in only a query letter usually (or maybe a chapter or two), which I've still to come across the magical verbiage which will make an agent just jump right out of their seat and beg you to see the whole manuscript. You also get only one chance to make an impression.
So, that's where I am--again--since I'm just not going to go through the self-publishing thing. I think every one of them are scams, and they'll get money from you some how, and then it's up to you to go out and sell yourself. Not for me, thanks.
I sent one of my query letters off to an agent this week, and plan to send another one soon. This is like playing the lottery, folks. You know your dollar is gone the moment you hand it over. You know the odds, and yet you keep on playing. Boy, how stupid. I don't play the lottery, mainly because I'm already doing so with my writing.
The one big difference now, than back in '07--and before that--is that I can actually go to these agent's sites and see exactly how they want it sent. Some are pretty picky. The pickiest is--well, I'm not going to name anyone here, but they actually didn't want it in Times Roman, but in something else. Which would mean a person would have to go and change the font, and re-print it all. Fortunately, they didn't take the type of fiction I write. (Wiping my brow now.)
Another agent boasted they weren't as jaded or cynical as many hard core agents. Well, you know I beg to differ. If you're an agent, you almost have to be a little jaded or cynical, these days. It comes with the territory. Maybe they're not quite so cynical, but I know that I'll get a nice rejection, all the same. "Sorry, not for us" (you stupid clod).
Another agent says in the very first sentence that they are very anxious to see new work.
Okay. This is either a type-o, or they are very nervous about seeing new work. The right word should have been eager. Unless this is a test to see how many of us writers actually notice this, and you know many of us will. But how many of us will actually point this out to them? How do you do it without pissing them off? (Eh, yeah, uh, didn't you mean eager instead of anxious? You guys are a bunch of--)
One thing I hate is mind games in this, my chosen field.
Before I leave this, and post it, I want to add, I'd read an article in Writer's Digest written by an agent who had an assortment of examples of "bad" query letters. Some were pretty wild, and I could see why no one would even consider them, let alone send them anything but a rejection. But my favorite was from some writer who more or less sounded like me--things I'd only put into my personal journal, and no where else. They basically couldn't understand why, after having countless essays and poems published, they couldn't make money as a writer (I had to presume getting a book published, and my heart went out to them immediately). They asked if it was because of no contacts, or they didn't go to Harvard, or if they were too old. But the last line was a killer. I loved it. "Is it my breath?" they said.
(Yes, my dear, your breath is so bad, it was carried on the very piece of paper you sent through the mail.)
And then they asked, "Am I cursed?"
Well, of course you are! Just as I am. For some reason we writers have the writing bug, and the only thing that makes us happy is to write. We can happily sit and write and never let anyone but our friends and families see any of it, and never go through the pain, misery and self-abuse we go through with every rejection we get. This is our lot in life. But some of us just want to have recognition, and if it works out, you might have a nice little income for the rest of your life. Those are the lucky ones. The ones who some how, some way knew exactly how to word their query letters (and don't waste your money on books that tell you how to do it, I've got several of them, and they didn't work for me).
As I close this little chapter I want you to look at those happy, smiling faces of authors on the back of their books--they are the lucky ones. Just remember that, my bad-breathed friends.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Soliloquy
poem
This morning's coffee
reveals no remorse
for deeds done
the night before
1-25-98
I'd written this poem and entered it here because it just seemed to be a good starting point.
Having been a writer now for--let us just say a long time--I've collected my own writing in various little hand written books (asside from my diaries--or the more chick word, now adays is Journal, pardon me). The following blogs--lest anything horrible happens in my small world again--will be taken directly from my own unpublished works: "Soliloquy" and "Something Nebulous Within"
SOLILOQUY
by
Lorelei Bell
Robbins give their last soliloquys for the day . . . their individual voices pumping the air in rythmic sound. --6/12/84
ON DREAMS/WISHES
4-3-2002
If a person dreams or makes a wish, but the dream or wish never comes to pass, what happens to it?
Does it dissolve?
Or does it go into a holding place waiting for just the right moment?
Or does it go to someone else who's desire is more?
Can a dream always be yours, and no one else's? Is it yours exclusively, no one else can have it, or steal it, at least until it comes true for the person who wished it?
Everyone should have dreams, hopes, wishes, goals and desires. It's what life is made of.
We shouldn't be afraid to dream, for fear that they will never be realized. To not dream, or have hope is to become dead inside.
We need something to build on, move toward, think upon when we're doing meanial tasks (like at work-ha, ha). We need something to look forward to, to grasp for, no matter how small or large; no matter how insignificant it might seem, or fantastic.
Ode to Spring
April 27, 1996
6a.m. Sunrise today was an array of pink-purple clouds with turquoise slits. The intense golden orange disk poked its huge head above the horizon.
The bird's songs intensified, strumming the air with their voices, flying back and forth as though realizing they'd not seen this phenomina (sunrise) in a while.
June 2, 1996
We woke to bird songs and a sunrise. The magic of the full moon certainly took care of the deluge we were having. We saw it . . . like an eerie white disk in the west sky this a.m. Clear skies for now.
ONE NIGHT IN THE TENT ALONE
June 27, 1994
So, I spent the night--for first time in years--outside in a tent alone! (Dennis went inside, unable to sleep) It was sort of exciting, a little scarry, because I knew there were raccoons and skunks. But I was safe enough.
I went in only once (bathroom). A Gibbous moon was just coming up over the grove to trees on the east corner of our plot of ground. It was a strangely pale-orange color, and cast deep shadows across the due-blanketed grass.
I lay on my back waiting to hear the age-old sound of the coyote. I did, finally. One lone yip. No return yips. No follow-up chorous that usually comes in after a while in the middle of the morning.
Then, shortly after--maybe a moment or two--I heard this snapping pop,pop,pop! in the distance.
A .22.
I sat up at once. Then slowly unzipped the tent door and looked out into the night. I expected to see headlights, or something. I think it had to be about 1 or 2 a.m. Who would be out at this hour with a .22?
I never heard the sound again.
Nor did I hear the lone coyote. I wondered if I would ever hear it again.
Married to My Best Friend
April 27, 1994
Some women may need women friends--I mean to go do things with, like shopping, or whatever. But you see, Dennis and I share all interests. Besides, I don't have much interest in going off with a buch of cackling women to hear their complaints about their husbands, or hear about their children's achievements, or just women's stuff. Thank you, I get a good dose of that at work.
I'm married to my best friend and whenever I hear a bunch of these women who constantly complain about their husbands, I just want to cover my ears and run away. It makes me wonder why they got married to begin with and if it's that bad, why do they stay?
They can make fun of me all they want (I know they must behind my back, or in front of it). I don't care. I think they're jealous of my relationship with Dennis. We don't leave the other at home and go off with friends, or do things apart.
In fact there was only one night we spent apart--I was in the hospital. Neither one of us could sleep. He'd had wine to try and get to sleep, and they gave me some drugs--didn't work.
The Dreamer and the Lit-Major
I keep on day-dreaming what it might be like for me after I get on the road as "the author" instead of "the writer". I try to imagine how people might react to me as an author.
I had a drop of it last Friday. This young woman came up to the house--I thought she was lost, but she was selling children's books. She had a cute British accent and I had to chuckle as she said she'd show me what she was trying to sell so as to prove she wasn't an ax-murderer.
I replied, sort of flippantly, "You don't have the look, believe me, I'd know since I'm a writer."
She stopped dead and looked at me with amazed silence.
Before she dropped to her knees to worship me, I cautioned her, "Don't get too excited, I'm not published, yet."
She was still flabberghasted to be able to stand in my shadow, explaining she was a lit-major.
Coool. What conversations we could have, I thought.
But the moment was gone. Over. Like a rainbow or a shiny bubble, it burst. POP!
But, I could now say I know the feeling of telling someone I don't know, or who doesn't know me, that I write. I got to watch her jaw drop, eyes become wide with aw. And then I got to see that look of genuine adoration and run away respect just vanish. The whole of what I'd said was defeated, deleted, denied.
I may as well never have said it at all.
Friday, February 15, 2008
MURDER AT NIU BY SHOOTER IN CLASS ROOM
AT 3:00 PM FEBRUARY 14th A YOUNG MAN STEPPED INTO A LARGE CLASSROOM ON NIU CAMPUS AND SHOT INTO A CROWD OF POSSIBLY 120 PEOPLE.
22 CASUALTIES -- 5 DEAD
As of last word there were 22 casualties. Five dead, one being the shooter. The shooter was a graduate student of NIU in the spring of '07, but not a student since. He was believed to have been a student elsewhere.
My husband and I drive the Huskie buses for NIU, taking students to and from classes. They're all young enough to be our children. Our shift had eneded at 2pm. We were just up the road, on Annie Glidden, maybe about a mile or two, shopping when this happened. We were loading groceries into our vehicle. I noticed that the wind had calmed down some. In the distant background we could hear sirens. That's not so unusual, so we thought nothing of it. We even passed a county police unit on Rt 23, on our way home.
We got home, still ignorant of what had just transpired in an area where we've pulled our buses up, let off students who go to classes in this area. Cole Hall, where the shooting occurred is maybe a two minute walk from where we drop off.
I had turned on the TV a little early for news, and the local stations were there panning the area from above, so it didn't look familiar. But slowly, I became aware of the fact that what I was looking at was NIU campus in DeKalb, showing the bus turnaround near Revis Hall and all the other halls, and Cole Hall is just behind Revis.
My husband and I were in shock, watching this as the news unfolded. First only eight people were shot, then it went up to 17, and then 18, and during a news confrence Dr. Peters, president of NIU, said there were 22 casualties, and five were dead, including the gunman.
Cole Hall holds two large class room, and can hold over 100 people. Students had gathered for their class at 3pm. One girl said she had almost not come to class because she wasn't feeling good, but because they would get credit, she and her friend came, but instead of sitting in the front, like they always do, they sat in the back.
About a hundred people had gathered when the lone gunman burst through a door, up on stage, behind the podium. The teacher stared. Everyone stared. One student said that he thought that maybe it was a play, you don't see someone walking out on stage with a shot gun. One described this and the aftermath as surreal.
Dressed in a black coat, dark pants and some sort of cap, he was armed with a shot gun, and two pistols--one being a Glock. There were reports from witnesses that after shooting, he had begun reloading while people wer crawling or duck-walking out, scrambling to get out. There was such a rush to get out, some people were injured in this way.
For now, as I write this at 3am on Friday morning, the 15th, I'm still trying to come to terms with this. It's wierd how things hit you. All the while it was on the local stations--they never left the story, except for a break--it didn't hit me. Then, when Charles Gibson came on national news and told about it in the opening, I just began to cry. I'm not sure, I guess seeing it, and knowing that everyone knows that this happened so close to where I live and work, it just didn't seem real until then.
DeKalb used to be the quiet place where nothing happened. As my husband, Dennis, put it its just a town in the middle of a corn field. Not a whole lot happened here. Not any more.
Back in December, someone had scrawled on the bathroom wall in one of the residences, causing the campus to go into shut-down mode, and all the news media arrived then. No one is saying that this incident had anything to do with that one. Many speculated that that incident had been a hoax, that it was someone wanting out of taking an exam.
Possibly. Perhaps we'll never know, since that person has since melted into the woodwork. Maybe the shooter took that message into consideration, since he came within an area mentioned on that wall.
We became complacent. We, as people, are trusting. It's too bad that we have to be on guard. But one would have thought that since 911, we would be more vigilant. How could someone walk around campus with a shot gun? The coat which he wore is not described. Possibly it was long enough to hide the gun.
I don't understand--do any of us?--how someone can be so lost, so angry, and so determined to go shoot into a crowd and then take their own life. One witness said the man had no expression on his face. That was a lost soul. Obviously, he was set to go, but had to take some people with him. There is no reason. You can't make sence of why or what goes through a mind that has gotten on this one-way track, and just can't get off, and it's heading for the train wreck.
As a writer, I used to write horror. I haven't been able to write it, or even read it bacause I felt there was just too much horror in the world--and that was before 911. But the tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde makes me ponder the duality of man's soul and his inner animal, or beast. It hides in all of us. Sure, we all have bad days. Bad things happen to us, maybe at our own hand because we get lazy, or stupid, or complacant, or just make bad choices. Think about it when you get into your car and open up your cell phone and not turn on those lights, and don't pay attention. Think about it. Don't be lax into thinking nothing can happen to you. It can. It does.
But I'm not talking about that mild form of letting the mind go slack. I'm talking about the mind just going into another realm altogether. Anger feeds on anger. We can't just step off it once we're on that train. No matter the cause, anger doesn't win. Shooting people and then pointing the gun at yourself doesn't get you anything except to put people in terror and horror and get on national news. If you want attention do something good. Do something wonderful! If life is that bad, find treatment. Talk to someone. A friend. A stranger. There are people out there to help you. All it takes is a phone call. Humans have a mind, they should be able to think through their passions, but for some reason passion is too strong. Emotions have always won out over using logic. We are not a perfect being, no matter who you pray to, what religion you claim, or who you vote for. You are the only one that can help you. God gave us talents, gave us a mind, and it is too bad that people get lost in all the hoopla--whatever it is, if you follow a religion that tells you you must kill those that don't agree with you--that is not a religion it is a falsehood. If you think you can't live any more, or you have a big gripe, ask for help. NOW!
22 CASUALTIES -- 5 DEAD
As of last word there were 22 casualties. Five dead, one being the shooter. The shooter was a graduate student of NIU in the spring of '07, but not a student since. He was believed to have been a student elsewhere.
My husband and I drive the Huskie buses for NIU, taking students to and from classes. They're all young enough to be our children. Our shift had eneded at 2pm. We were just up the road, on Annie Glidden, maybe about a mile or two, shopping when this happened. We were loading groceries into our vehicle. I noticed that the wind had calmed down some. In the distant background we could hear sirens. That's not so unusual, so we thought nothing of it. We even passed a county police unit on Rt 23, on our way home.
We got home, still ignorant of what had just transpired in an area where we've pulled our buses up, let off students who go to classes in this area. Cole Hall, where the shooting occurred is maybe a two minute walk from where we drop off.
I had turned on the TV a little early for news, and the local stations were there panning the area from above, so it didn't look familiar. But slowly, I became aware of the fact that what I was looking at was NIU campus in DeKalb, showing the bus turnaround near Revis Hall and all the other halls, and Cole Hall is just behind Revis.
My husband and I were in shock, watching this as the news unfolded. First only eight people were shot, then it went up to 17, and then 18, and during a news confrence Dr. Peters, president of NIU, said there were 22 casualties, and five were dead, including the gunman.
Cole Hall holds two large class room, and can hold over 100 people. Students had gathered for their class at 3pm. One girl said she had almost not come to class because she wasn't feeling good, but because they would get credit, she and her friend came, but instead of sitting in the front, like they always do, they sat in the back.
About a hundred people had gathered when the lone gunman burst through a door, up on stage, behind the podium. The teacher stared. Everyone stared. One student said that he thought that maybe it was a play, you don't see someone walking out on stage with a shot gun. One described this and the aftermath as surreal.
Dressed in a black coat, dark pants and some sort of cap, he was armed with a shot gun, and two pistols--one being a Glock. There were reports from witnesses that after shooting, he had begun reloading while people wer crawling or duck-walking out, scrambling to get out. There was such a rush to get out, some people were injured in this way.
For now, as I write this at 3am on Friday morning, the 15th, I'm still trying to come to terms with this. It's wierd how things hit you. All the while it was on the local stations--they never left the story, except for a break--it didn't hit me. Then, when Charles Gibson came on national news and told about it in the opening, I just began to cry. I'm not sure, I guess seeing it, and knowing that everyone knows that this happened so close to where I live and work, it just didn't seem real until then.
DeKalb used to be the quiet place where nothing happened. As my husband, Dennis, put it its just a town in the middle of a corn field. Not a whole lot happened here. Not any more.
Back in December, someone had scrawled on the bathroom wall in one of the residences, causing the campus to go into shut-down mode, and all the news media arrived then. No one is saying that this incident had anything to do with that one. Many speculated that that incident had been a hoax, that it was someone wanting out of taking an exam.
Possibly. Perhaps we'll never know, since that person has since melted into the woodwork. Maybe the shooter took that message into consideration, since he came within an area mentioned on that wall.
We became complacent. We, as people, are trusting. It's too bad that we have to be on guard. But one would have thought that since 911, we would be more vigilant. How could someone walk around campus with a shot gun? The coat which he wore is not described. Possibly it was long enough to hide the gun.
I don't understand--do any of us?--how someone can be so lost, so angry, and so determined to go shoot into a crowd and then take their own life. One witness said the man had no expression on his face. That was a lost soul. Obviously, he was set to go, but had to take some people with him. There is no reason. You can't make sence of why or what goes through a mind that has gotten on this one-way track, and just can't get off, and it's heading for the train wreck.
As a writer, I used to write horror. I haven't been able to write it, or even read it bacause I felt there was just too much horror in the world--and that was before 911. But the tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde makes me ponder the duality of man's soul and his inner animal, or beast. It hides in all of us. Sure, we all have bad days. Bad things happen to us, maybe at our own hand because we get lazy, or stupid, or complacant, or just make bad choices. Think about it when you get into your car and open up your cell phone and not turn on those lights, and don't pay attention. Think about it. Don't be lax into thinking nothing can happen to you. It can. It does.
But I'm not talking about that mild form of letting the mind go slack. I'm talking about the mind just going into another realm altogether. Anger feeds on anger. We can't just step off it once we're on that train. No matter the cause, anger doesn't win. Shooting people and then pointing the gun at yourself doesn't get you anything except to put people in terror and horror and get on national news. If you want attention do something good. Do something wonderful! If life is that bad, find treatment. Talk to someone. A friend. A stranger. There are people out there to help you. All it takes is a phone call. Humans have a mind, they should be able to think through their passions, but for some reason passion is too strong. Emotions have always won out over using logic. We are not a perfect being, no matter who you pray to, what religion you claim, or who you vote for. You are the only one that can help you. God gave us talents, gave us a mind, and it is too bad that people get lost in all the hoopla--whatever it is, if you follow a religion that tells you you must kill those that don't agree with you--that is not a religion it is a falsehood. If you think you can't live any more, or you have a big gripe, ask for help. NOW!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
April 2, 2002 (continuation of Year of the Horse)
HOROSCOPE (VIRGO): " Worried that a dream can't come true? Did a friend say it's unrealistic? Impractical? Poorly planned? You can fix that by doing more planning. Paper is cheep!"
April 3rd
I've begun writing memoirs in a small note book and call it SOLILOQUY.
IN THE NEWS:
ISRAEL HAS CLOSED IN ON BETHLEHEM . . . this was foretold, I understand, by Nostradamus.
And . . . CATHOLIC PRIESTS WHO'VE KNOWINGLY MOLESTED CHILDREN HAVE BEEN FOUND TO STILL BE WORKING IN PRIESTHOOD. (So, what's new? That's been the case down through the ages)
And . . . ALMOST 1/2 OF OUR COASTS ARE SO POLLUTED THAT THEY'RE DEAD (coral reefs). POLLUTION IS COMING FROM CHEMICALS FARMERS USE.
And the beat goes on.
APRIL 5th
Dennis got up a little earlier than me. He said he was sitting in kitchen listening to the radio when this large-winged bird landed on the wire outside the north window above the sink. He turned off the light and stood there looking at an owl. The owl stared big-eyed back at him. Then, he flew away after a long stare down.
Dennis came to get me up, telling me Harry Potter's owl has brought me a message that "someone wants your book!"
It was a cute thing he said, I told him as I rubbed his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
It sure would be nice if it came true.
TODAY'S HOROSCOPE: There it is! The path through the confusion! The chance to score the goal! You can think about it later; you need to act!
HOROSCOPE (VIRGO): " Worried that a dream can't come true? Did a friend say it's unrealistic? Impractical? Poorly planned? You can fix that by doing more planning. Paper is cheep!"
April 3rd
I've begun writing memoirs in a small note book and call it SOLILOQUY.
IN THE NEWS:
ISRAEL HAS CLOSED IN ON BETHLEHEM . . . this was foretold, I understand, by Nostradamus.
And . . . CATHOLIC PRIESTS WHO'VE KNOWINGLY MOLESTED CHILDREN HAVE BEEN FOUND TO STILL BE WORKING IN PRIESTHOOD. (So, what's new? That's been the case down through the ages)
And . . . ALMOST 1/2 OF OUR COASTS ARE SO POLLUTED THAT THEY'RE DEAD (coral reefs). POLLUTION IS COMING FROM CHEMICALS FARMERS USE.
And the beat goes on.
APRIL 5th
Dennis got up a little earlier than me. He said he was sitting in kitchen listening to the radio when this large-winged bird landed on the wire outside the north window above the sink. He turned off the light and stood there looking at an owl. The owl stared big-eyed back at him. Then, he flew away after a long stare down.
Dennis came to get me up, telling me Harry Potter's owl has brought me a message that "someone wants your book!"
It was a cute thing he said, I told him as I rubbed his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
It sure would be nice if it came true.
TODAY'S HOROSCOPE: There it is! The path through the confusion! The chance to score the goal! You can think about it later; you need to act!
SHORT QUIPS
"I really shouldn't sit around waiting for a reply from agent. Like a single girl waiting for the phone to ring on Friday night. It never rings when you want, or expect it to. Prince Charming does not ride up on his steed and whisk you away to live happily ever after." Lorelei Bell
Dennis: "Sell your book so that I won't have to break my back any more."
Lorelei: "So we don't have to live here any more."
Dennis: "Yeah."
Lorelei: "I'm trying."
"The faucet may drip in the kitchen. We may have mice that sometimes gets on the counter; we're invaded by bugs (Asian Beetles, spiders, and other) but this is the best place I've ever lived since my parent's farm." --Dennis April 25th 2002
"And from now on I will strive for more inner faith." --Lorelei
4/19 HOROSCOPE: "You may not get quite as much as you'd like for your recent endeavors, but otherwise, life looks great. Money isn't everything!"
Maybe not, but I sure could use some right about now.
I read an article by Lawrence Block, the other day--it was an old one, but very good and relates very well with a struggling writer. Basically it says that not everyone who tries out for the ball team gets the job.
There are plenty of writers out there who deserve to be published. But here is where the division lies. Those of us who can grit our teeth with every rejection and still go on, despite it all, and keep writing and sending stuff out. Those who can't, don't want to face the grueling up-hill battle, the years of working on the same manuscript trying to interest someone in it. Those who can't wait--and have the money--will take the easy route and self-publish. But do they even break even?
And so I toil long hours in this room I painted orchid--to help creativity--and my husband who encourages me day in and day out because he believes that someday it may pay off.
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