Writerly things...

...because I'm all give.

Well, not really - but I'm happy to share! (Unless we're talking about men or chocolate. Then I'm all, "Mine, mine, mine!!!") Mmmm, men or chocolate. Hmmm...men covered in chocolate? Oh dear, I feel a swoon coming on. Wait, what was I gonna say...? Oh yeah - in today's blog I'll share some stuff I've found useful as a writer.

There are loads of books about writing and how to go about it and whatnot. My fave so far is Fearless Creating: A Step-by-Step Guide To Starting and Completing Your Work of Art by Eric Maisel. Among other things, Maisel writes about "belligerent commitment" to your craft, be it writing, music making, painting, whatever. You just *do* whatever the hell it is you've gotta do. Do it, do it now, already!!!!! That's oversimplifying the matter, somewhat, which doesn't make it wrong, if you see what I'm sayin'. And for some funny (and highly profane - you've been warned) advice on writing, try Robert Brockway's How to Become an Author, in 5 Incredibly Difficult Steps or Chuck Wendig's 25 Things Writers Should Start Doing (ASAFP).

For writing prompts, I've got The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood (a gift from a former boss, bless her heart) and The Writer's Block by Jason Rekulak, both of which contain (in addition to textual prompts) gorgeous and/or evocative pictures which, if you're visually oriented like me, you may find pretty nifty. I've turned to them many times when I've felt sluggish or stuck, using a prompt for either a simple exercise or as the catalyst for a scene I couldn't get through.

Got a beautiful, sensitive hero or a brave, ballsy heroine and don't know what to name him or her? (Or it?) You could check out Popular Baby Names for free, courtesy of Social Security Administration. Or you could try The Baby Name Wizard: A Magical Method for Finding the Perfect Name for Your Baby by Laura Wattenberg. Neither will tell you name meanings, but the latter does other groovy things, like categorizing names by style and giving you names related/similar to a name you may be considering (useful for naming siblings). I think my favorite section is where Wattenberg lists names from the "Surfer 60s." (Strangely, for a goth, I've really been jonesing for the beach and its ginchy Gidget culture...what's up with that?) (Don't worry, I'll explain in a forthcoming bloggy-blog.) (OK, maybe you should worry, a little.)

I've used agentquery.com to hunt - ahem - research agents and querytracker.net for the same, which also has info on publishers. Another site I've relied on for agent info is Absolute Write Water Cooler, a fantastic forum in which other aspiring authors have posted about their experiences in submitting queries. And a cool site for researching markets and tracking submissions for magazines and short stories is Duotrope.

Want to blog but aren't sure how to get started? Robert Lee Brewer's Blogging Tips for Writers helped me out a lot. (But you can't blame the poor man for what I write, or even for the fact that I do write; it's totally not his fault.)

So how about all youse creative guys out there - what stuff's helped/amused/inspired you?

Intuition...?

...or just more smartassery?

I'm sure those of you with teens can relate - sometimes, one's child develops such skill with the latter that it's difficult to discern whether:

A) your child's being serious, and if so
B) the gravitas should be trusted.

In particular, I reference my son, Balthazar, and his ready dismissal of the (very few) men to have interested me romantically since his dad and I split up, lo so many years ago. Oh, he knew there'd been a dude after his dad, but he was about 3 at the time, so who knows what a child that age can really grasp of such matters. But there'd been a long drought since that fella and it was in The Kid's earlier teens that other contenders nearly entered the ring, so to speak.

I commute into Manhattan for work and, a while back, there'd been this guy on the train who eyeballed me with some frequency. He didn't make any moves to reach out to me, just stared and let me catch him staring a few times, you know how it goes. Well, there was something about him, an intensity to his gaze, that appealed, and I was not averse to an overture, should it have come. Then one night, as The Kid and I walked past our town's train trestle, we both happened to look up at the steps leading down from it, casually noting the descending commuters, and there he was! Our eyes met and held for a few heated seconds, then Balthy and I kept walking. I slowed my pace at some point so the guy could pass us and was gratified to see him looking back at us periodically. The Kid noticed him and commented on the fact that he sorta resembled one of our neighbors. I agreed, mentioned seeing him on the train once in a while, and that was the end of that.

UNTIL I boarded a homeward-bound train one night and saw him seated at a window seat, with the middle and aisle seats next to him free. I had my chance - it was now or never! (Or so some twisted little voice in my head assured me.) I took the aisle seat. He looked up, saw me, and an electric moment of mutual awareness passed.

This is the point in the story where things should've taken a delightful turn for the woof! They kinda didn't. He tried, several times, to engage me in conversation. But my natural timidity with men (go on, laugh, disbelieve me, but it's true - I get stupidly tongue-tied and blushy when an object of my interest approaches) didn't allow for the burgeoning of rapport (or anything else, for that matter). Too, the timbre of his voice put me off, for some reason, and I just couldn't relax into the moment. I was interested but antsy, and I couldn't figure why, but I couldn't shake my uneasiness and did nothing to encourage him. Still, he gamely tried to chat me up, valiant man. We disembarked at our stop, walked together for a bit, then parted ways.

When I got home, I ached to share the experience with someone, though I didn't think I was so pathetic as to need to gush to my son. In fact, I was.

Me: You remember that guy from the other night?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy we saw at the train station?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy you said looks like our neighbor?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: We chatted on the train tonight. I think he likes me.

The Kid: (Smirks.)

Me: What?

The Kid: (Smirks and shakes his head.)

Me: What??? (I glare at his continued smirkage.) Well, what do you think of him?

The Kid: He looks like a murderer.

Me: WHAT?!

The Kid: He looks like a psychopath, Mom. So what's for dinner?

And that really was the end of that. Oh, I saw the guy a few more times. Once, he passed by me and tapped me on the arm, scaring the ever-loving crap outta me, but my son's words echoed in my mind and kept me from welcoming further advances. Maybe a few months later, I stopped seeing him around altogether.

Now, I've no way of knowing if The Kid was sharing real concern with me or just being a snot, but what he said seemed to support my unidentifiable discomfort during my brief interaction with the guy, so I chose to believe Balthy had some sixth sense and might just be looking out for me, after all. However, about a year later, I had cause to question his purported altruism.

On Facebook, a male friend of a friend sent me a friend request. The corresponding message read, "I like your hair and eyes." I told Balthazar about this and asked him if he thought I should befriend this dude.

The Kid: No, Mom. He obviously wants to rape you and feed you to a wood chipper.

He had no reason, at all, to suggest such a thing (except maybe he'd caught the tail end of Fargo recently), still he glibly harshed my buzz.

Me (sharply): You don't ever want me to date again, do you?

The Kid: No, I want you to stay lonely. Forever.

Me: Why?

The Kid: It works for me.

Of course.

Mind you, I accepted the friend request and later wound up un-friending (De-Facing!) the dude, on account of his weird rants (and truly alarming misspellings and appalling grammar). So, possibly, The Kid's Spidey-senses did actually pick up some vibes to which this chick's ears are not attuned.

Possibly.

It's Not You...

...it's me, me, me!

Or so read the rejection letters (well, e-mails) from some of the literary agents I've been querying since late November 2011. I've queried 27 agents about my mythological romance novel so far and have heard back from 9 of them.

Getting any response at all is great, as it provides closure. Bear in mind that agents are hit with dozens, even hundreds, of unsolicited queries in any given week and they don't get paid to read them. Because of the sheer volume/time-suck of processing queries, some agents employ the "No response indicates I'm unable to offer representation" tactic, which isn't so kewl for the writer who's sitting on pins and needles, hoping against hope that something magical will happen. So, at least to my way of thinking, some news is better than none.

Still, bad response or no response, the kewlest thing of all would be to receive an e-mail asking to read my dang book! (Soon followed by an offer of representation, then a publishing deal, a big fat advance check and - what the hell, since I'm dreaming - a box of Lindt Hazelnut Truffles.) But, alas, to date I've received neither a bite, nor even a nibble - ain't nobody chompin' on my bait! (This is not a euphemism.)

They're all very polite, the rejections, starting with the standard, "Thank you for your query," (which I now hate, as a "but!" inevitably looms) (huh huh...looming "but!") and wrapping up with their best wishes for my success with the novel, which is kind enough. For the curious, and in the spirit of sharing with any aspiring authors who may be reading (and completely without malice and especially without desiring to open agents up to ridicule stemming from outrage on writers' behalf...behalves? Oh, you know what I mean, sheesh.), I present below some snippets (unidentified) from the responses I've received.

Short & Semi-Sweet:

"Unfortunately, this is not something I'm able to consider pursuing."

"...while yours [my query] isn't exactly what I am looking for, I would certainly encourage you to keep trying."

It's Not You, It's Me (a.k.a. Le Ouch!):

"With regret, though, I'm afraid the material didn't draw me in as much as I had hoped."

"I'm just not enthusiastic enough about the concept of your story to feel that I'd be the right agent for the project."

Somewhat Encouraging (I think): 

"...I'm sorry to say that the project just isn't a perfect fit with my current needs. This has less to do with your strengths as a writer and more to do with my goals as an agent and the trends of the current literary marketplace."

(That one hit me on my birthday for a bit of extra "OW!" But I'm sure the agent couldn't possibly have known it was my birthday.) (Right?)

"Unfortunately, this project doesn't sound right for me, but should you not find representation for it, I would be very happy to look at a different one in the future."

So, you know. It can bring a body down. But there's no point in obsessing over these - it's nothing personal (at least, I'm determined to believe it's nothing personal until someone tells me to please, for the love of all that's holy, STOP WRITING, ALREADY!!!). I totally geddit - agents gotta really dig a book to pursue it, 'cause they only earn coin from it when they're passionately driven to sell it. Je comprends bien. And je will keep at it. I've still got 18 queries out and about another 16 agents to try. The oft repeated advice is to query as widely as you can. Generally, it's best to query agents who've sold (and so, presumably like) the kind of thing you write. For example, I won't send a query for my sexy romance to an agent who's interested in cozy mysteries. And if I get through 40-ish agents and find no joy, well, then...it might be the wild wild west of Indie publishing for me - because I believe in this project and I'm gonna keep pushing it till I just can't push no more.

Dark Romance #2 ~ Anne Rice's "The Witching Hour"

***Thar be SPOILERS below!***

Brainstorming ideas for my "Dark Romances" blog series, I remembered an Anne Rice book I'd read back in the 90s, The Witching Hour. The tale was fuzzy in my mind but I recalled feeling a bit of woof from it so I thought I'd give it another read.

Be advised: this dark bit of foxy ghost-story ain't for the faint of heart. First, one might find the very idea of spectral sexing deplorable, in which case I strongly urge you to step away from this blog post, put the book out of your mind, and go read something more lighthearted or wholesome, like, say...hmmm. Actually, I got nothin' for ya, not being a big fan of things "wholesome," although I did adore the "Little House" books, which I'm not sure I'd categorize as altogether "lighthearted."

But I digress.

Still with me? Brave soul; I congratulate you on your open-mindedness (or morbid curiosity - either way, kudos). Now comes the second caution - nightmarish nookie may not turn you off but the incest in this book just might. And I don't mean a singular occurrence but repeated instances of it, over generations, in one particular family. Yuck, right? Yeah, that grossed me out (though not enough to make me quit reading it, apparently). At least it was all between consenting adults (presumably) and the action's not spelled out for the reader, so...Well, it's there, a LOT, in this book, and if that's your deal breaker, there's always Laura.

OK, so the basic premise of The Witching Hour is that this...entity is called into shape (can't rightly say "existence" as, much like constant craving, the thing seems to have always been) by a "simpleton" of a "cunning woman/witch" back in 17th Century Scotland. (God knows how the gal managed it, since she warn't all that bright, but there it is.) Suzanne hollers him into some kinda form and, 'cause she thinks it's so cute how, even though he hasn't a proper body, he can manipulate the weather and make the winds lash the tree branches around and whatnot, she calls him Lasher (which was pretty clever, for her). Well, he sure is grateful to her, and isn't she a doll, and doesn't he just adore her and shower her with gold and jewels and avenge her in the sight of her enemies? Sure he does. Which, unfortunately, brings on the witch accusations and she's burnt at the stake, which bums Lasher out so much that he raises unholy hell, wind-wise. (I reckon that calling down some rain would've proved more helpful to poor Suzanne, but hey, what do I know?) Eventually, Lasher looks on the bright side - he's still got Suzanne's luscious daughter, Deborah. And later, Deb's daughter, Charlotte. Then her daughter, and so on, and so on.

There're heaps more to the story, apart from the aforementioned squicky incest - there's a long-standing secret society, the Talamasca, that studies this family of Mayfair Witches, among other weirdnesses. There's hunky contractor Michael Curry, a San Franciscan transplant from New Orleans who drowns and envisions the call to a quest during the short time he's dead. He's brought back to life and, check it out, he can now "see" things when he touches people, and stuff. And there's Rowan, the dauntingly pretty blonde doc who just happens to be sailing her ship on the Pacific at dusk when poor Michael goes under and, luckily*, just manages to rescue him.

But wait - there's more! There's a Gothic mansion! There's New Orleans! There's Mardi Gras! Though I have to be honest - as rich and engrossing a read as The Witching Hour is, if not for Lasher, I probably wouldn't have gone back to it.

The dark romance of it all: Lasher. Woof! Homespook is tall, dark, and broody, just how I like 'em. Plus, we learn through Rowan that he's got a Scottish accent. (Hawt.) He loves him his Mayfair Witches, and his dedication to bringing them riches, joy, and *ahem* pleasure makes my toes curl. OK, sure, the dude's got an agenda and, unlike Langella's Dracula, he's not forthcoming with the gals as to what he's angling after really. But his readiness - nay, his eagerness to "love" them, his attentiveness, and his unswerving loyalty to them all just makes me melt. Even science-ruled Dr. Rowan (Mayfair, in case you hadn't already guessed) can't resist his creepy comeliness (even after she learns all about his sordid past with all her great-greats!!!!!).

When I finished this second read, as difficult as the ending was to get through (and by difficult I mean heart-breaking, effed-up, and gruesome), I deflated, knowing I'd have to wait till I could get to a bookstore to pick up the next book in the series (it's the 1st of a trilogy, y'all!). And though I do cringe at the possibility of more funky merging of the branches on this family tree, I can't not go back. Lasher awaits.

*Luckily? Yeah, right!

Prompts...

A while back, on the message board of an author whose works I heart, I'd posted (under another online persona) some ideas for writing prompts I'd had. Because it was my birthday yesterday (and, apart from mourning the continued loss of my youth, I received a rejection letter from an agent as well - le ouch) I thought I'd leave myself free for drunken revelry by giving myself permission to re-post the prompts here. I call them "writing prompts" but I reckon they could spark the juice flow for just about any type of creative endeavor. Or, you know, maybe they'll just be things that make you go, "Hmmm..."

*       *       *       *       *

I picked up a copy of "The Village Voice" some time ago and scanned the back page ads while I stepped outside for a smoke. The ads defied categorization and ran from "Learn How to Bartend!" to "Penile * Vaginal * Anal Wart Treatment." A number of them arrested my attention and I thought they'd make for interesting writing prompts (in other words - pick an ad and write the story of what happened to warrant the ad or what happens after it's posted, that kinda thing). YMMV†, but if you're feeling stuck on a current project it might make for a fun exercise...(or, if these don't grab ya, check out your local papers for ads that do).

(I changed phone numbers and most names, just cuz I felt I ought to).

****************************

Hotel Vigilant‡
Single Men's Residence
$140 weekly. (212) 555 - 5555

****************************

To Ethel Jane Eden Bellows
Please tell your security to stop their assault.
I thank you very much.

****************************

C Train Thursday 6/24
We both entered at the same station,
I got off at Jay St/Borough Hall.
Please call me (212) 555 - 5555

****************************

A personal message for Leonardo Dicaprio
Your biological father is alive,
living in Queens & loves you very much.
Would like to meet you to have my DNA tested
to give you final proof.
My name is Harry Cain Ingalls.
Please contact 646.555.5555

****************************

SUE - THE - DOCTOR!!!
Law Offices of T. Lark Meyers
55 - 55 Broadway Blvd. Queens, NY 55555

****************************

†Your Mileage May Vary

‡The Vigilant is for realz.

Non sequiturs…

I mentioned in a previous post that my son, the not-so-little-anymore Balthazar, likes to put me through my mental paces with his rapier-like wit (which is patently unkind, as I am aged and worn-down and defeated by life). Over the years I’ve made note of these ninja-like sallies, to serve as evidence of my mental deterioration and the provocation of same when I face a board of nice young men in their clean white coats.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate his sass (well, ok; I often don’t, as he’s yet to learn when to save it for when I’m not soul-crushed after yet another miserable day out in the world). It’s that he comes at me with these bizarre non sequiturs which defy my ability to retaliate in kind. For example, one day, as The Kid and I made our way home from Sunday brunch -

The Kid: Mom, you got any connections in the industry?

Me: Which industry?

The Kid: The music industry.

Me: Not that I know of.

The Kid: Does my dad?

Me: I dunno. Ask him.

The Kid: Don't wanna ask him.

Me: Why not?

The Kid: 'Cause then he'll know my dark secret.

Me (waiting for it): What's your dark secret?

The Kid: Freezer burn.

See what I mean? But do ya see what I mean??? Wait, here's another one -

The Kid: Hey, Mom, who do you think would win in a fight; Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr.?

Me (clueless, but playing along): Martin Luther King, Jr.?

The Kid (with a sneer): Why, 'cause he's black?

Or -

The Kid (in a stage whisper and with a mighty glare): I wish you’d just stop doing all those illegal drugs, Mom, they’re tearing our family apart.

And he said the last two things, like, in public! Loudly!!! (For the record, peeps, I totally don't do drugs. Although I'm seriously considering starting...friggin' Kid.)

But possibly the best one, to date, was after we ordered dinner at our favorite local burger joint:

The Kid (leaning forward with a grin): So, Mom…what would you say if I told you I wanted to join the Church of Satan?

What I probably should've said was, "Honey, they can't handle you."

Surviving...

Recently, while I dug through the old folders at the bottom of a closet for my divorce paperwork (who knew Balthazar/The Kid's college applications would ask for the exact month and year in which I broke the ties that bound me? Not I.), I came across an old notebook in which I'd done some fictional scribbling (that is to say, I scribbled some fiction, not that I'm lying about having scribbled in it). I pulled the notebook out from the rubble and leafed through it, sort of smiling as I read my notes, and remembered how dreadful things were at that point in my life.

At the time, Balthazar's dad and I had long since split up and The Kid and I were sharing the bedroom I'd once shared with my sister when we were kids, at my parents' place. Space was tight and money was tighter. I'd completed a gig by mid-June of that year, worked part-time for a while, you know how it is. (I'm reminded by Grandpa's words in the movie The Lost Boys, "Lucy, you're the only woman I ever knew that didn't improve her situation by getting divorced.") (Word.)

Anyway, I'd become involved in a Long Distance Romance (LDR) with a European dude I'd "met" online (we were both avid X-Philes). At some point I got a crappy full-time job, which eased some of my financial concerns but didn't get me any closer to Mr. Wonderful. (And anyway, our romance was doomed, as I couldn't see myself taking little Balthy that far away from his dad, and Mr. Wonderful, it turned out, wasn't prepared to pull up stakes to be with me.)

Our star-crossed LDR dragged on till the following summer/early fall, when it finally imploded in a flurry of pissy e-mails. A month after that, I was laid off from the crappy job. (Oh, snap!) I can sort of grimace about it all now, but at the time, it was le major suck. But damned if I didn't rally - I began writing. Perhaps I did it to escape from the God-awfulness I lived (in fact, I'm sure of it). Thinking back to the ruined-me-of-the-past, I get all onion-eyed for her suffering, but I'm also just so damned proud of her pluck. Wallowing in my misery would've been prodigiously easy (and I definitely did, a bit; I'm a good littler wallower), but I also pushed through the ick and applied myself toward a productive end. Yay, me!

But back to the notebook: along with my scribblings, I'd made a list of songs I'd listened to in heavy rotation as I wrote. At the top of the list was a song I haven't heard in ages - "Good to be Alive" by this groovy She-jay (female deejay) who goes by the moniker DJ Rap. As my mind chugged through its memory cache in search of the lyrics, my eyes misted over again. Chanting along with the song (which frequently made no sense to me) somehow got me through those dark days, and I found myself singing the tune repeatedly in the days following my rediscovery.

In the song, DJ Rap sings, "...sometimes I wonder how I survived..." I wonder that about myself. How do we keep going in the face of adversity, suffering, repeated failure, and heartache? Maybe it's stubbornness. Maybe it's naïveté. And maybe it's just...pluck.

Any of youse guys got a tune that kept you from jumping off your own personal ledge in the Before Times? Tell us about it in the Comments field, yo.