Writing The Novel

I'm writing my second novel, as noted in a previous post. I'm averaging more words per day on this one than on the last one. It's a higher per-day average than I've done in anything so far. I ascribe part of it to trying harder to write, write, write every work day. But part of it is that I've gotten better at stifling my interal critic.

I set a kitchen timer for sixty minutes, start it, and begin writing. For the next hour, I write--as non-stop as humanly possible. I don't revise, I don't delete anything and start over. I just write the current scene, transcribing it as simply and explicitly as possible. I try to stay in a "flow" state, trusting my process (or my subconscious, if you will) to be creative and to produce something worthwhile. After all, I have decades of experience at reading and watching fiction. I've soaked up the rules, just the same way I soaked up the English language as a small child, learning by immersion.

Now, like a child learning to speak, practice (and correction) are necessary. But that's what writing every day, and trying to produce workable short stories and novels is: practice. Artists practice. Musicians practice. Actors practice. Athletes practice. World-class examples of each of those spheres practice more than anyone else; they don't practice to get good, then stop. They practice to stay at the top of their game even after they've reached the pinnacle of their professions.

Writing is no different. Every novel, every short story, every scene I write is practice. One of the great things about writing is that you can get paid to practice. Once you've reached minimal level of skill, enough to sell your work, you can continue to practice, and sell the results.

Ideally, I'm doing focused practice, working a specific skill or technique. Whether it's writing convincing dialogue, character voices, plotting, scene description, or some other facet of the writing, I try to focus on one skill or technique and consciously work to use/improve it. In my first novel, I focused on cliffhangers. I tried to end each hour-long writing segment, and each writing day (of several such hour-long writing intervals) on a cliffhanger of sorts. Not necessarily a classic cliffhanger--sometimes I simply stopped in mid-scene, so I could pick up again easily when I started the next writing interval. But I tried to end each scene with a real cliffhanger--a revelation, a threat, or both.

In this novel? Well, I'm not prepared to admit what I'm working on just now. Better not to reveal that until it's done. But there's practice going on.

April Showers Bring May...Novels?

Yes, they do.

At least in my case they do. As one of my goals for this year is to get at least three and preferably four novels written and into circulation, that means one every quarter (for four). And as April begins the second quarter of 2010, I began work on my second novel this month. Unlike my NaNoWriMo effort in November of last year, I'm aiming for 90,000 words rather than a mere 50,000. At an average of 3,000 words daily (Monday thru Friday) it would take 4.5 weeks to reach 90,000 words--or a little over a month. Assuming I don't make quite that many words daily, it should still see me thru by the end of May at the latest.

The current novel effort is science fiction. I read a fascinating article about people who make a living repossessing aircraft--especially big passenger jets. Immediately I began to envision repossessing starships for a living. Like real world aircraft, they're huge, they're very expensive, and people who buy them on time are sometimes going to default on the payments...and then the bank is going to have to foreclose and take them back. That's a job for a pilot, and for the canny folk who have to track down starships the owners don't want to surrender, and who may try various schemes to keep the starship in their possession regardless of the law.

How will the tale turn out? I have no idea. I'm a seat-of-my-pants writer. I began with a vague idea, and now I'm just seeing where it takes me. Ultimately I'll start to see a story emerge and I can craft it more deliberately into a proper story structure. But for now, I'm just along for the ride to see what happens.

Submission! (No, not that kind of submission....)

I mean manuscript submissions. Geez. Get yer minds out of the gutter.

I wrote a novel in November. Then spent February expanding and revising it to publishable length. Then I sent it off to five publishers. I did not send it to an agent. Agents don't buy novels. Editors buy novels. Thus, sending a novel to an agent would violate Heinlein's Rule # 4 for writers (You must send your story to someone who will buy it.)

But...what about the requirement that you have agent before a publisher will look at it? Forget it. It's not true. I've been told this repeatedly by writers who ought to know, and now I have first-hand experience.

I got a rejection letter yesterday. It said:

Thank you for your submission to [Publisher]. Though your material sounds quite interesting, at the present time it does not meet our cuirrent editorial needs.

 As you're unagented, the best way for you to know which publishing house might be interested in your material is to try to acquire a literary agent. The best way to do this is to go to your local library and look for a reference book called THE LITERARY MARKETPLACE, which lists names and addresses of agents and the types of material they're looking to represent.

Thank you again for considering us. We wish you the best of luck with your writing and in placing your manuscript.

Yes, they suggested I get an agent. But look what they told me first. My manuscript does not meet their current editorial needs. Or, in other words, they're not interested. How do they know this? Because they looked at it. They can't not look at it.

"Get an agent" is just boilerplate. An obstacle put in place to weed out the unmotivated and unknowledgeable. Editors have to look at the manuscripts that come in. Why? Suppose the next Stephen King or Nora Roberts (or Stephanie Meyers) sends them a manuscript, and it gets rejected sight unseen, unread and unconsidered, because of the "no unagented manuscripts" policy. Suppose the novel does eventually find a home and becomes the Next Big Thing. The author becomes a household word, rich and successful beyond the dreams of avarice...and mentions publicly that, "Oh yeah, Publisher X rejected me without looking at my manuscript."

The CEO of Publisher X is not going to be happy. And someone is going to lose his job. If he looked at the manuscript and rejected it (for any number of valid reasons), that's different. But turning away what amounts to a license to print money because you didn't go through an agent? To quote Donald Trump, "You're FIRED!"

So they look. They have to look. If they reject you, they'll tell you to get an agent...but if they'd thought your book was worth buying, don't doubt for a moment that they'd have made you an offer. And the lack of an agent would have been meaningless. They won't care. They'll still want to make money by publishing your novel.

Now, maybe you don't agree with me. Maybe you believe that you must have an agent to submit your novel to publishers. By all means, do what you think is best. But I know what I believe, and that's how I'm pursuing my novel sales.

Makin' The Rounds

Just in case you're interested, I blogged this week on Flirty Author Bitches, a group blog of which I am a new member, and did a guest blog post including an excerpt from my most recent publication on The Naughty Girls Next Door.

The Ancient Art of Rejectomancy

I got my first novel rejection today.

A couple of weeks ago, I sent out five novel queries. The package consisted of a cover letter (including a one-paragraph blurb), the first chapter of my novel, and a three-page synopsis of the whole story. I sent the package to five different publishers.

How did I select the publishers? I perused Publisher's Marketplace. Among other things, they produce a daily list of novels sold to publishers, detailing the genre/field, the publishing imprint it was sold to, and the names of the author(s), agent(s), and editor(s) involved. If you're a paying member of the site, you can search the archives. Which I did, looking for the names of editors who had recently purchased novels in the same general genre as mine, then looked for more info on the editor, the imprint and the publishing house that owns the imprint.

I chose five and sent out a package to each of them. Four went out by snail mail, one via email. Unsurprisingly, the email submission was the first to get a reply. It was a rejection. The email said that I had a fascinating premise and that the novel showed promise, but that the writing failed to grab her attention and keep her reading even though she was interested in the plot.

So, when I practice the ancient art of Rejectomancy (scrutinizing rejection letters for clues), what do I learn? Well, first, it wasn't a form rejection. The editor liked the premise and seemed to find the plot interesting enough, which is good. But on the other hand, she didn't find my writing gripping enough to want to keep reading.

I'll try to improve my writing on the next novel. Try to punch it up, and grab the reader by the throat from word one. I'd do that anyhow, of course, but this feedback is something to keep in mind. Still, I'm not going to assume what I've written is no good. There are plenty of published, successful writers I don't read because I just don't care for their style for one reason or another. Nothing wrong with that. Tastes vary.

It may be that this editor just doesn't care for my style. Some other editor might feel differently. And this is, ultimately, only one person's opinion. So I'll consider her words, and keep them in mind as I continue working on my writing, but I'm not going to let one opinion stop me. After all, the next letter I get could just as easily be an acceptance, and I only need one of those.

Rip Cord - Jeanne St. James

RIP CORD is getting great reviews AND was up to #3 on the All Romance Ebooks Top Ten Bestseller list! And is a #1 bestseller at Phaze for December!

From Seriously Reviewed:

"Well, I sat down to read and burned dinner! I couldn’t stop reading. The story is fast. Gil attends his high school reunion. And we all remember how enjoyable that is…not. But with a hot jock like Rip, at least he’ll have someone to stare at during dinner. But wait. This is hot gay erotic romance. So when boy sees hot football star, boy lusts for football star, and holy shit, the football star has game of his own. The sex was raw and brazen, the dialog refreshingly natural and the ending pleasantly simple and satisfying."

Buy link: http://tinyurl.com/phaze-ripcord

Blurb:

Gil Davis had hated high school. Ever the geek, he had no intentions of attending his 10^th year class reunion. The last thing he wants is to relive the taunting and teasing he received during his teenage years. However there is one thing he missed from high school: the star Varsity football player. The one he had a crush on since the first day he laid his eyes on him. But the last thing he expects is the now pro football player to come back to their home town to attend a lame high school reunion. Known as the Bad Boy of the NFL, Ripley “Rip” Cord, not only shows up, but shows up without a date and an eye for Gil.

CHAPTER ONE

           

            Gil Davis couldn’t believe it had been ten years since he’d last walked through these doors. Where had the time gone?

            When the invitation to his class reunion had come, he almost tossed it out, just as he had with the notice of his fifth year reunion.

            He was not into reliving his high school years.

            No way, no how.

            But something on the invitation had caught his eye… this time they were holding it at the school. So instead of immediately pitching it, he had thrown the invitation on his kitchen table. Unfortunately, Katie, his best friend and roommate, found it and hounded him relentlessly until he agreed to RSVP.
            And, of course, Katie insisted on being his date.

            Which thrilled him to no end… Not.

            Now he wasn’t so sure if he wanted to go in.

            He wasn’t sure he was ready for a night of teasing from his former schoolmates.

            Yet, here he stood, just inside the double doors of his old high school staring at the registration table by the gymnasium doors.

            Someone grabbed his elbow. Firmly.

            “You’re not chickening out are you?”

            Gil just shook his head and swallowed hard. “Did you find the restroom all right?”

            “Fine,” Katie said in her little no-nonsense tone. “Let’s go.”

            The harder she tugged on his arm, the more he dug in his heels. He didn’t want to leave his little corner of safety yet. “Hold on.”

            “No, Gil. It’s not going to get any easier. You look fine. We’ve – okay, I’ve worked really hard to get you to this point.” She smoothed the hair back from his eyes. Gil was surprised she hadn’t spat on her fingers first like a hovering mother hen.

The problem was, he was still a nerd at heart.

“Now, get your shit together and let’s go!” She gave his arm one last hard yank and dragged him over to the table.

            Sucking in a breath, he steeled himself for what was to come.

            The two women sitting at the table wore big predatory smiles.

            “Gilbert? Gilbert Davis is that you?” the toothy piranha on the right asked. “I swear I didn’t recognize you without your bottle-bottom glasses and pocket protector.”

            Those glasses were long gone thanks to Katie dragging him years ago to the optometrist for contacts.

            Gil leaned forward to read her name tag. Bonnie (Trusk) Smith.

            Bonnie Trusk. He remembered her. She had been part of the Homecoming Court their senior year.

            And had accidentally run over his foot one day in the parking lot with her Eddie Bauer Explorer. Why? Her excuse had been she hadn’t seen him. Yeah, he had been the invisible man, “invisible” to all of the popular kids.

            “Just Gil,” he corrected her.

            She laughed and waved a hand toward him, clearly dismissing him.

            The other woman, Patti Petroski-Harrison, shoved a “Hello! My name is… Gilbert Davis” sticker at him. “And your hair! It looks…” Gil expected the next word out of her mouth to be “normal.” Her face showed her internal struggle. “Nice.”

He was a geek. He knew it. He had been one ever since he could remember. And his classmates had always teased him about it.

She sized up Katie. “Are you his wife?”

            Katie laughed and patted Gil’s arm. “Oh, no.”

            Gil gave her a quick warning look.

            Katie just gave him a sugary smile and a noisy kiss on the cheek.

            “Well then,” Patti said. “When you go through the doors, Gilbert, there will be a table with place settings. Find your name and that will tell you where you’re seated.”

            “Just Gil,” he corrected again, but by then both women were flashing their beaming smiles at another couple who had come up behind them.

            Katie tugged him to the side to avoid being crushed by the new arrivals’ hugging and squealing. Gil didn’t recognize the newcomers. But then they had probably been a part of the “in” group.

            Gil had been a full-fledged member of the “out” group, but not the “out of the closet” group.

            A woman’s shrill scream shot a bolt of pain through his head.

“Did you hear Rip Cord is going to be here? Can you believe it?” the one called Patti asked, her question ending in a squeal. She looked as if she would bust a vein.

            Gil stumbled back a step from the table, barely avoiding Katie’s toes.

            Holy hell, he never should have agreed to come to this thing. Especially if he’d known Rip would be here.

            Gil had a crush on Rip since high school. Unfortunately, Rip was definitely of the heterosexual persuasion. Being captain of the football team, he’d had every girl in school chasing after him, one way or another.

So he’d admired the well-built, handsome jock from afar. Very afar.

Hearing Rip’s name brought all those old feelings back to the surface.

            All the insecurities.

            Gil certainly had never expected his secret crush to come back to town for a ten-year class reunion. Rip had become way too famous for that.

            Gil grabbed Katie’s arm and, with her squeaky protest, dragged her through the double doors into the gym.

            “Jesus, Gil. What’s going on?” she asked as he pushed her against the wall just inside the doors.

            “Did you hear that?” He struggled not to hyperventilate.

            “What?” Katie peeled the backing off of Gil’s name tag and slapped it onto his chest. Not so gently either.

            “Rip is going to be here.”

            “Rip?” She wrinkled her nose. “What the hell is rip?”
            “Not what. Who!” Gil swallowed hard and blew out a long breath. He realized then he was squeezing her upper arms. Way too hard. He relaxed his fingers.

            “Okay, okay. Calm down. And let up a little more please.”

            He released her and wiped his sweaty palms along his slacks. He never should have worn slacks. Slacks were nerd-wear.

            Why didn’t Katie talk him out of wearing them? He should have worn torn jeans or leather pants or --

            “So is Rip a band? I would’ve thought they just would’ve hired a DJ. It’s cheaper.”

            “Wait. What?” Gil shook his head. “First of all, why would they need music?”

            Katie pointed a finger upwards. “Hear that, nerd-o? Music. You know, it creates atmosphere and gives you something to dance to.”

            “Dance?” Gil swallowed hard. He cocked his head. He did hear music. He hadn’t noticed it because he’d been too panicked about Rip being there. “Okay, just don’t ask me to dance.”

            “No can do, Gilly. We will be dancing. I didn’t come along to be a wallflower.”

            “Katie, you know I can’t dance,” he hissed inches from her face.

            She had the nerve to laugh. As if his lack of rhythm was something to laugh about. His coordination left something to be desired. Gil considered it a handicap – maybe not one recognized by the government. But no one should make fun of the handicapped!

            Gil frowned. “I didn’t see anything on the invitation about dancing.”

            Katie sighed. “Gilly, don’t worry, we’ll fake it.”

            “Don’t call me Gilly here. It’s bad enough people will be calling me Gilbert.”

            “Okay, Gil. So if Rip isn’t a band then who or what is it?”

            A low murmur throughout the room behind him caused Gil to look up. Coming through the doors…

            Gil pressed a hand to the wall to steady himself. His legs had suddenly lost all strength.

            Coming through the doors was…

            “Him,” was all Gil could get past the lump in his throat.

Ssssssh! Novelist at Work!

In November of last year, I gritted my teeth and jumped into National Novel Writing Month with both feet. It was my first attempt at a novel, and I wrote it in eighteen days. All fifty thousand words of it, which is the goal of NaNoWriMo. It was an interesting, informative, sometimes frightening experience.

I worked without a net. I've never been able to plot out a story beforehand, though God knows I've tried .It just doesn't work for me. So I worked out a very general idea for the story, then on November 1st I sat down and started writing. Within a day or two I'd changed the names of my characters (and thereby their personalities) because what I'd started with wasn't working. Fortunately, that was a quick and easy search-and-replace task. I also changed the setting of the first scene, but only in the sense that I made a note to myself to change it upon revision and thereafter wrote as if I'd written it that way all along.*

Some days I thought I doing pretty well. Some days I thought I was writing crap. But I kept plugging along because, after all, it doesn't have to be good. It just has to be 50,000 words long. I placated my Ego (which wanted to spare me itself the pain of failure and rejection by giving up ahead of time) with that mantra. Some days were a struggle, but I did it. I wrote a 50,000 word novel and I finished it in eighteen days.

Then I promptly saved it and swore that it would never see the light of day again. I was convinced that it was awful. It was my first attempt at anything longer than a short story. How could it be anything but awful?

But my writing gurus, Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Katherine Rusch, have repeatedly told me (and anyone else who'll listen) that a writer is not the best judge of his own work, and especially while he's writing it. They have over a hundred novels and hundreds of short stories published between them, and they still wrestle with that tiny voice that says "this is crap." It's such a common and predictable reaction, usually coming about a third of the way into the novel, that when one of them tells the other that the latest novel isn't working and they may have to start over, the other asks, "How far into it are you?" At which point, the other turns and goes back into his or her office to continue writing.

So I thought, I really ought to listen to them. Plus, my spouse (and trusted first reader) gently nudged me to reconsider. So I grudgingly pulled it up on the monitor and started reading it again in January. And it wasn't half bad. In fact, some of it I liked a lot. So I let my spouse read it, and got a rave review.

Okay, Spouse also had a few criticisms. I couldn't argue with them, either. So I decided, what the hell, I'll polish it up and send it out. Let some actual editors tell me if they thought it was worth buying or not.**

There was a problem, though. The minimum length for a publishable novel (with rare exceptions) is 70,000 words, but my novel was only 50,000 words long. So I had to revise and extend it, as Congressmen so often do their speeches in the Congressional Record. I've spent the last month or so doing just that.

It was slow, tedious work. In part, that was because my Ego gibbered and capered and jumped up and down, screeching and flinging poo, in a Herculean attempt to make me give up. Change is scary and difficult, even when it might be a good change. Writing and revising (and ultimately trying to sell) a novel meant changing my self-image. It meant thinking of myself as a novelist. It meant risking rejection (almost certainly repeated rejection, even if the novel eventually sells). My Ego hates that, so it tried hard to stop me, clinging to my ankle and crying piteously as I dragged myself (and my Ego) toward the finish line.

Some days, I confess, it succeeded. On other days, forcing myself to ignore that voice was difficult. On rare days, I successfully throttled it and managed to write several thousand words. But I'd set a goal of getting the novel finished and out the door by the end of February.

And today I finished the revisions. The novel weighs in at about 72,000 words. Shorter than I'd have liked, but as long as it's gonna get. This evening I scoured Publishers Marketplace for editors and publishers to whom I could send it, looking for editors who'd bought books in the same genre. I have a list of five I intend to start with.

Tomorrow...I'm taking the day off to celebrate finishing the novel. Friday, I'll write the cover letters and the synopsis, and get everything ready to mail. Saturday, the queries will go into the mail. I'm going to meet my deadline, and I'm very pleased by that. In March, I'm planning to work on some short stories, but in the not too distant future, I'll be starting another novel. My goal for this year is to have at least three novels written and circulating. More would be better, but three is the absolute minimum.

Look at me. I'm a novelist!


*A technique I learned from the Book In A Month workbook, and one I highly recommend.

**Robert Heinlein's fourth and fifth rules for writers:
4. You must mail your story to someone who will buy it.
5. You must keep it in the mail until someone buys it.