Uggh.

Preparing the agent submission as requested by the agent.

I got a request for synopsis plus three. That's pretty standard.

I freshened up my synopsis. (The agent's web site does not dictate a length for the synopsis, and I opted not to go with either my one page synopsis nor my five page, I edited a new 2.5 page synopsis.)

But I'm striking out on the query.

None of them sound right. I feel extra pressure since I did so uncharacteristically poor at the pitch.

Recap: GLVWG The Write Stuff

It was a fabulous conference today, put on by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group.

My favorite author speakers were Jordan Sonnenblick and Molly Cochran. I also pitched to an agent, and let's just say she was a fabulous speaker and warm person, but I fell down on the job.

I let Étienne and his posse down.

Now, I'm not naming the agent because I know what a mix of factors lead to an agent accepting your manuscript: the right market, the right blend of personalities, that agent has to believe in your prose as much as you do (okay, probably more)... I'm not naming her because if she rejects me, as is statistically likely, I don't want anyone to say she's mean, or a bad person, or stupid.

On the contrary, I'm inclined to believe this person's a saint, because I did a terrible job at my pitch. I salvaged it enough so she requested a synopsis and the first three chapters so she's either a big saint or my ideas have some merit.

But let's talk positive.

What did I learn?

Jordan Sonnenblick mentioned a great technique for checking your character's dialogue. He suggested taking different colors of highlighters and using one color for each main character and highlighting just their dialogue in your book. Why? Because if some one read nothing else but the dialogue would that character's personality/characterization materialize?

Molly Cochran listed techniques to finish your novel. Luckily, I do most of them. But listening to her talk about "writing fast" and "allowing yourself to write [a first draft] badly," I let her pivotal advice sink in. Have a regular writing schedule. Even if it's only 30 minutes per day. Set this schedule based on your own goals and your own priorities regarding writing. Allow yourself to be selfish and write.

That made me realize:
I need to reorganize my priorities in life.
Not just in writing, in everything.

Excited about Macie

Macie Carter's novella came out yesterday? The day before? I've had a strange few days so my time sense is nutty.

Macie is a pen-name for the not-so-innocent author. She's a member of Greater Lehigh Valley Writer's Group and Pocono-Lehigh Romance Writers. And I admire her.

Every time one of my writer friends has a book published, I consider buying it. Many times I don't because the excerpts offered by the publisher commit one of the writing habits that annoy me. Macie's excerpt truly enticed me.

So, I bought it. At $2.50 even unemployed me could indulge. I am so eager to read it, perhaps after I finish my paper for school, or even after my job interview today... before the GLVWG conference.

What attracted me to the excerpt? (Pun intended.) Real life situations. No passive voice. Feelings that I could identify with.

And I'm a harsh critique. So congratulations, Macie! (I almost typed your real name... )

TAMING THE MUSE, available through WILD ROSE PRESS:
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/wilderroses/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=765

The Write Stuff

I'm getting ready for the GLVWG conference The Write Stuff this weekend. I was doing a lot of writing, two chapters over the weekend. And I felt like I was on fire.

Then yesterday I had a falling out with my boss. She made a list of criteria for me to keep my job and I didn't feel I could make it so I left.

Now I'm unemployed.

That's a scary feeling. But it's not worth the constant stress of the job, the job that only paid about $700 a month take-home. I was actually disciplined for being insubordinate on my day off, even though I did everything I was asked to do AND it was my day off.

I mention it because it happened before the conference. I was scheduled to work everyday this week so now I'll have more time. Hopefully I can practice my pitch.

Someone recently said, marketing your writing has always been a crapshoot. You still have the same terrible chances when it comes to the odds of making it, but she felt the uncertain economy had agents looking for the next great thing, instead of the predictable old thing, and maybe give us all a boost.

I don't know.

Stress

As a writer, my craft becomes a release from stress. When I can't cry, I can make them cry. When I can't beat someone up, my bad guys can beat someone up.

I have certain characters that I toy with as a way to relieve stress, some of it ends up as good scenes. Some gets trashed.

Work is really bad right now, the whole situation has me on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Never actually have had a nervous breakdown but in the last few years a certain activity in my life has introduced me to the next level of stress: the panic attack. What's hard about panic attacks, even my mild ones, are the physical reactions that seem to shut your body down.

One of my characters struggles with these. Wonder where he gets it from.

Last night I sat down to do some stress writing. I couldn't decide if I wanted to continue in the current chapter, skip ahead to a happy scene, or write something mean and awful.

None worked out.

Time has not worked out.

So without my writing, I end up popping Ativans and hoping for the best.

My writing lets me expunge my emotions. What does your writing (or reading) do for you?

I made an outline!

Okay, so I've successfully managed to increase the pace of my second novel, Courting Apparitions. I had outlined the entire manuscript earlier, to make sure I didn't miss anything in my revisions as I cut drastically the goings-on.

I have reached Chapter 10, and I don't want to miss any of the details and there's a lot to make sure stays in place.

So, I outline the proposed new manuscript, which chapters were moving where. I started at where I am, outlined three chapters out. Then I started at the end and worked my way back. I continued in this manner until I had two chapters in the middle where nothing happens.

"Luckily," I had forgotten the chapter where the pregnant lady has the baby, which is important since the baby is the focus of action starting with the third-to-last chapter.

But the rearranging is always an interesting exercise. It shows you how on track you are and also allows some creativity in saying "Oh, that deleted scene can go here..."

Troublesome Chapter Nine

I think I finished troublesome chapter nine. It took me a month. Part of that could be blamed on life, since school, work and volunteering have been hectic.

Ironically, yesterday was PLRW and I made my monthly goal to finish chapter nine. That's what made me go back and read it last night and discover that I had written more and better than I thought. That's always a nice feeling.

My next immediate task should be to work on my pitch for the GLVWG conference (The Write Stuff) which is less than 2 weeks away...

I need to freshen my approach and rebuild my enthusiasm. No matter what we're doing-- whether writing or something else-- we all reach that point where we need to freshen and rebuild.

So, let's see...

I write sexy paranormal chick lit where the bad guys make are bad and so are the good girls.

In the first book of my series, supermodel Adelaide Pitney has to protect her feminine power-- the same power that made her a superstar--from a 400-year-old witch who wants to use her latent elemental magick and blood rituals to bend the universe to his will.

Okay... next draft:
Angel Ackerman writes sexy paranormal chick lit set in the high fashion industry. Her bad guys stay bad, her heroines wear high heels. in her first book, supermodel Adelaide Pitney has to protect her feminine power-- the same power that made her a superstar--from a 400-year-old witch who wants to use her latent elemental magick and blood rituals to bend the universe to his will.

Wondering if I fixed it

Here is the next draft of the problem scene from yesterday:

Helen Pitney, in her plaid nightgown, walked along the bar, her hand trailing the surface. Her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Her scratchy footfalls were the only interruption to the awkward silence. Gerald hunched nearby, his hand grasping the wine bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“When did she learn about wines?” Gerald asked.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn about wines,” Zélie said.
Étienne approached the bar, reaching for the bottle from Gerald so he could have a second glass. Gerald passed it and his breathing, heavy with emotional uncertainty, filled the kitchen. Étienne poured the wine, only partially aware of the alcohol filling the cup. He focused instead on Gerald’s detached stare. Étienne righted the wine bottle, returning it to the bar. He lifted his glass, talking a half-step toward his wife, when he paused and rested his hand on Gerald’s shoulder. Gerald’s eyes met Étienne’s and while they said nothing, the sadness in the air made the fruity notes smell sickeningly sweet. He deserted the wine on the counter. Jules swept across the room and dumped the contents of the glass in the sink.
“My pumpkin and the wine,” Gerald said. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

Those 2D secondary characters

So I presented a chapter to my critique group. It was a revised version of a chapter they had already seen and they, in a round-about fashion, pointed out that a very important character was flat.

Some people said he lacked emotion and implied that there was a lack of transition between parts of the scene.

But the real problem was that he was a two-dimensional character.

Gerald. He's middle-aged and portly. In the first book, he has two mentions: 1. Étienne remembers running into Gerald and his two daughters in the airport in 1989. Literally, it's one sentence. And 2. Gerald calls his daughter on a Sunday morning to see how she's doing.

This is the conversation:

Then, [Adelaide] heard it: muffled electronic music from her dry cleaning pile. When she got closer to the dirty clothes, she recognized "Jack and Diane." She dug toward yesterday’s slacks and retrieved the ringing cellular.
"Hello," she said, wondering if it were her mom or her dad.
"Hey, Pumpkin," her dad replied. "How’s my girl? You didn’t answer your phone [in your New York apartment]. You get away for the weekend?"
"Yeah," Adelaide replied. "I had a date."
"Oh, no, Pumpkin. Who is it this time?"
"He’s a photographer, Dad."
"Not another fruit…"
"Daddy!"
"I don’t want to hear anymore. Whatever happened to Thad?"
"Tom, Dad."
"I liked him. He played rugby, didn’t he?"
"Yeah, Dad. That was Tom."
"Never saw a rugby game. But he seemed..." her father’s voice trailed.
"Manly, Dad?" she suggested. "Have you heard from Jay?"
"She likes it in Germany. She likes the school."
Of course Janine likes the school, she’s the bookish one, Adelaide thought. Her sister, the Fulbright Scholar. Everyone referred to Adelaide as the pretty one long before Étienne.
"Okay, Helen… Your mother wants to talk to you," Dad said.

So, now I'm in the next book in the series. Adelaide has committed suicide and Gerald has just heard her voice in the bathroom. Étienne, Zélie and Adelaide's mother have also heard the voice.

This is how the conversation in the kitchen, about ten minutes after hearing the voice, started:

Helen Pitney [Adelaide's mom], in her plaid flannel nightgown, walked beside the breakfast bar, her hand trailing the surface as her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Gerald sat on the other side, hunched over his wine. Étienne emptied his glass as Gerald reached for the bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said, raising the glass.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied. “Since we are thinking of her...”
“I like eiswein,” Gerald said. “Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. That’s not the same. Germany does not flash-freeze. Nature does it.”
“This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie rose from the overstuffed chair.
“What’s going on?” she asked.

Can you see how even in such small scenes, Gerald has a personality in the first one but he's nothing in the second? This is Gerald's last scene. In my mind, I made him disposable and never bothered making him real because I know he'll be out of the book within the next ten pages...

So I tried again...

“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide? Bought such a fine eiswein?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn a thing or two about wines,” Zélie said.
“I would not have guessed, about my Adelaide and the wine,” Gerald said, lifting his glass as if studying the color of its contents. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

It still lacks any emotion. This man's daughter just committed suicide. Even though it's Étienne's POV, Étienne would notice this man's state. I haven't fixed it yet, but this is my progress:

Helen Pitney, in her plaid nightgown, walked along the bar, her hand trailing the surface. Her moccasin slippers shuffled against the slate. Her scratchy footfalls were the only interruption to the awkward silence. Gerald hunched nearby, his hand grasping the wine bottle. Zélie adjusted her robe. Helen commenced another lap. Jules’ eyes sought direction from Étienne, but Étienne wasn’t sure whether he should dismiss the chef or tell him to do something.
“This is the first time you’ve served ice wine,” Gerald Pitney said.
“Your daughter bought it,” Étienne replied.
“Adelaide?” Gerald said.
“Oui,” Étienne confirmed.
“When did she learn about wines?” Gerald asked.
“You don’t spent a decade with Étienne d’Amille and not learn about wines,” Zélie said.
Étienne approached the bar, reaching for the bottle from Gerald so he could have a second glass. Gerald passed it, and as he did, his breathing filled the kitchen with the heavy sound of a man struggling with his composure. Étienne poured the wine, only partially aware of the alcohol filling the cup. He focused instead on Gerald’s detached stare.
“My pumpkin and the wine,” Gerald said. “I like eiswein. Other countries flash-freeze the grapes. In Germany, nature does it. Did you know that?”
“Mais oui. This bottle is from the Saturday harvest,” Étienne replied.
Zélie braced her arms against the overstuffed chair and pushed herself to standing.
“Oh, for the love of heaven. What’s going on?” she asked. “Are we here to have a wine tasting or did we hear something in that bathroom?”

Hopefully, I'll feel more inspired another day.

Grand Lessons from Camus

There's a character in Albert Camus' The Plague that struggles with his desire to write. A secondary character, at least through parts one and two that I finished reading today, Joseph Grand is a poor, low-level civil servant who joins the sanitary squads after the plague infects his town.

This comes in direct conflict with his desire to work on his manuscript, but he feels it is necessary. He feels citizens have to do something against this menace.

The story he has composed thus far is merely a sentence about a woman on horseback. Throughout the novel, he dickers with that sentence obsessively but the plague forces him to push it from his mind.

“He made honest efforts not to think about his ‘horsewoman,’ and concentrate on what he had to do.”

At the end of the section part of the novel, Grand's opening sentence is this:

"One fine morning in May a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the flower-strewn avenues of the Bois de Boulogne."

The author promptly complains about the number of S sounds in that sentence. In the novel, he changes the opening phrase, the description of the horse, the adjective regarding the woman and even the bit about the flowers.

But he never writes beyond that sentence. He shares the sentence and each minute change with his peers in the novel, but never does he progress.

Camus tells us that Grand is the type of man who struggles with the meaning of words, but Grand is not alone in this. How many of us struggle in a similar fashion? How many of us cling to a sentence?

The power of smell

One of the reasons I like the end of the day is collapsing in bed. Even if nothing happens in bed but sleep, I love the familiar texture of the sheets, the sense of relief as you put your body down, and the smell.

There's nothing better than the smell of clean sheets, but the smell of "gently-used" sheets can be comforting. I don't mean anything raunchy, but your partner's pillow tends to smell like that person, or maybe you smell the perfume you wore the day before still left behind.

Last night before going to bed, I imagined the scene in my third book (now remember, I'm working on book two) where one of the main characters disappears without a trace. I contemplated what his wife must have felt when faced with their bed at night.

And this is what I wrote:

"She rolled to his side of the bed, her face buried in his pillow, wallowing in the familiar scent of him that seemed so distant since his disappearance. Fruity yet heavy with jasmine like his Chanel cologne, she clamped her eyes tight as she tried to remember the name... Her eyes ached despite closing them. Two weeks, she thought, two weeks without word of him and everything had disintegrated.

She finally understood how it hurt to be “left.”

She finally understood why he resented her for doing it to him all those years ago.

She flipped onto her side, the heady cologne smell fading and mixing with the aroma of his body, not the pure saltiness of sweat and the muskiness that accompanies it, but the lingering something masculine... because she had wrapped herself in their sheets after all... that something not quite male or female that hung in the room after...

The heat exploded in her face. How could a woman her age blush at the thought... The warmth spread through her body and she hugged her legs to her chest to ignore it.

Our bed smells like us, she thought, like sex."

So what does love smell like to you?

Writing, writing everywhere

So, my daughter won the reading contest at school. Today, in addition to Read Across America and the reading-related events for Dr. Seuss's birthday, her school is hosting a children's nonfiction author. The top reader in each grade level got to attend a pizza party with the author. My daughter, who read about 1500 minutes in February, earned a spot at that party.

I am beyond proud. She told me she was going to win that contest. She set a goal and she did it.

Speaking of goals, I am slowing meeting mine. I'm writing today (since someone had to go to school early for the lunch). I've probably spent an hour writing, and I'm editing/smoothing over a difficult chapter. Since my writing time lately has meant a sentence here or there, even an hour seems like a wild success.

A writer I know mentioned that she keeps a monthly spreadsheet of her daily word counts. At first I dismissed this as crazy, but then my curiosity piqued. How productive am I? If I made such a spreadsheet it would need several categories: fiction (by story?), press releases for work, writing blog, food blog, homework, journal.

How productive am I? How much do I really write?