Marriage Counseling For Authors and Agents

You are either completely sheltered or measurelessly brilliant if you have not been following, on some level, the goings-on known as Queryfail and Agentfail. The former took place on Twitter; the latter in the comment box of a blog.

No, I'm not posting links. If you are insatiably curious, look them up (they're all over the Net, and have even made their way into the UK Guardian).

Here's the nutshell version: Queryfail was a forum for agents to point out ridiculous errors in queries that garnered an immediate rejection. Agentfail was a forum for writers to voice their complaints about agently behavior.

The latter quickly deteriorated into vitriolic bitterness the likes of which no agent deserves to see.

So. Here's what I see: The problem, methinks, lies in the word "fail." Use of the word is almost de rigueur online when one is referring to anything that falls short, doesn't meet expectations, or is downright wrong. I've seen some belly-laugh-inducing photos on the Fail web site, after all.

But think about it. "Fail" denotes, well, failure. As in, it can't get any worse. Once you've failed at something, you can't "unfail."

Writers don't need to hear that kind of language. And, frankly, neither do agents.

So let's turn to Marriage Counseling 101 for a bit of wisdom, shall we? When confronting a spouse with behavior that makes us unhappy (or furious, as the case may be), a good counselor will instruct us to use "I" sentences; that is, begin the sentence with "I" instead of the more accusatory "you."

For instance:

"You always come home late when I need the car and it screws up my entire evening."

I don't think there's a spouse on the planet who will respond favorably to the above sentence. However, a simple rephrasing makes all the difference:

"I feel frustrated when you come home late when I have plans that evening."

Now stop snickering. It sounds much nicer, and you know it.

(Disclaimer: Authoress is in no way implying that she invariably speaks to Mr. Authoress in the prescribed manner.)

Another example:

"You never pay attention to me when I'm trying to tell you something important!"

Improved version:

"I feel ignored when you don't listen carefully while I'm talking."

Now let's apply this to authors and agents.

The query-deluged agent might say, "I feel annoyed when writers don't pay attention to the guidelines on my web site."

The disgruntled writer might say, "I feel frustrated when agents take 12 weeks to reply to an original query letter."

And so on.

Ultimately, this kind of conversation would quickly become stilted. And sound, yanno, stupid. But the point isn't to create conversation; at least not in the author/agent arena. It's to produce a PRODUCTIVE list of so-called "fails" instead of an unproductive, and often downright disrespectful (i.e. Agentfail) list.

If we would only remember to start our sentences with "I."

Let's give it a try.

Use the comment box to express everything that's on your heart concerning the writing/querying/publishing process. Begin your sentences with "I."

You see, I happen to know that I've got an amazing bunch of aspiring authors hanging around this blog. I believe the standard here is higher; the pickins are more prime.

Yep, I feel strongly about this. As you already know.

I'll go further. I believe that many of you will go on to be published. I'll see your books on the shelves; heck, I'll read your books. And it'll feel like sharing in the success of a family member.

So. Share your "I" sentences. Even if you don't have a gripe or sorrow or question. Because "I love chocolate" certainly counts as an "I" sentence, don't you think?

***hugs***

On NaNo-ing and Twittering

Yes, I'm on Twitter now. So if you're a twit, too, please feel free to follow me (link on sidebar). I'm fascinated (and slightly overwhelmed) by the tidbits and soundbites from those whom I'm following. I'd love to follow you, too.

As if none of us has anything better to do.

Fridays are normally my days for asking you about things, but this one can't wait. I want to know how many of you are participating in NaNoWriMo this month.

And that's not all I want to know. I want to know how you do it. How do you make yourself write a certain amount of words each day? How does it turn out being anything close to coherent? Do you begin with an outline? Do you drink two Black Russians and go to town?

What about the finished product? Does it end up being a "real" first draft that you go back to later to fine-tune and polish? Or is it purely an exercise in self-discipline and tenacity?

I really do want to know.

Bouts of Empathy

I'm really feeling it this time -- the constraint of the 250 word excerpt.

Roped in by my own rule.

Mine is Post 26 (for the insatiably curious among you). I've appreciated the feedback and have read through the comments more than once. It's intensely interesting to read the impressions of readers dropped smack-dab into the middle of my story. It's humbling to see a poor word choice or awkward phrase jump out like a naked belly dancer at a Quaker meeting. And it's hard to keep my mouth shut when people say things like, "Why isn't anyone trying to revive Camille?"

Ah, I want to say, but in the next paragraph Kate is going to take her pulse. If only you could keep reading...

And...Everyone is stunned; no one understands, really, what just happened. Kate isn't sure she understands it herself. If only I could explain what, exactly, went on, and why everyone's reacting this way right now. I mean, they all hate Camille, anyway...

You have similar reactions to your own work posted here. I mean...don't you?

Mine is an incomplete WIP -- first draft, unedited, destined for major hacking and slashing. For all I know, the entire scene may end up evaporating. At the very least, it will be overhauled and given a fresh coat of paint. And these words of wisdom from fellow writers will be thrown into the pot.

They're incredibly valuable. Despite the angst of "oh, if only you could read just a bit more..."

So thank you all for your critique. I don't like the word "revolted" either. And I'm glad "supine" got at least one vote! I don't believe in dumbing down for younger readers.

What about you? Are you frustrated that your tension didn't quite come across? Have the critiques helped you to hone in on anything concrete? Or are you longing to share another paragraph or two?

And those who are feeling successful with the tension: What made your excerpt successful? How did you achieve the tension?

If only we could sit around on large, overstuffed chairs, sipping deep mugs of coffee and nibbling on gourmet finger foods. This discussion would surely be the apex of our week!

Let Me Tell You Why I'm Encouraged

We ended up with 45 submissions to this week's Secret Agent contest.

My initial reaction was....hmmm. I really expected us to hit the 75-limit. I checked my gmail account like a frenetic goose all day, making sure the quota hadn't been filled before the 24-hour period ended. And as the day turned into evening, it was clear that that wasn't going to happen.

Then it hit me.

The 45 submissions are highly qualified. These are folks who took it seriously when I said, "Completed novels only." This work has been polished. Some of these entries are edited, improved versions of pages submitted to previous contests. They've been through the grist mill, so to speak.

In other words, I don't have a bunch of silly, green writers on my hands, nervously throwing their manuscripts into the hat in the wild hope of grabbing an agent's attention. No, indeed. I've got serious writers on my hands who know that this contest is an opportunity to put your best foot forth. Serious writers who have already learned to gleen from previous contests (and in-house crits), taking the advice, suggestions, feedback from their fellow authors and using it to craft an even better piece of work.

Remember the other week when I said I wanted Miss Snark's First Victim to become a "premium slush pile" for agents? Well, I think we're on our way. And that's why I'm encouraged this morning.

You all rock. And you're all winners.

(And by the way -- haven't you noticed my photo? I mean, seriously. A gal could get a complex with the thundering silence around here...)

Lettuce Lips

Mr. Authoress and I were enjoying wine and chocolate-coated biscuits by candlelight on the screened in porch. Stirred, no doubt, by the sheer romance of the moment, he leaned close and kissed me.

"MMMMM. You smell like salad."

I pulled back, eyed him. "What?"

"You smell like salad." He kissed me again. "Your lips taste like lettuce."

And there you have it. I'm not going to write YA Fantasy anymore. I'm going to write romance novels. Because how I could live with myself without transcribing this great, real-life material into a story?

Marriage 101

It was a quiet evening for Mr. and Mrs. Authoress, who were sitting together in their living room, one with a lap top (not Mrs. Authoress) and one with a glass of ice water in her hands (not Mr. Authoress).

The glass of ice water slipped from my hands, unannounced, unbidden, as though it couldn't bear the feeling of my palms for another moment. An ice cube skittered across the floor, which brought Mr. Authoress's attention to the forefront.

"What was that?"

"I dropped my water."

"You dropped your water?"

(Why do men repeat things?)

"Yes, I dropped my water!" I began to forage for the missing ice cube while Mr. Authoress got to his feet to inspect the damage.

"Ohhhhhh. It's all over the place!" Really? "You need to clean this up."

That's right, Mr. Authoress. Bark orders at your wife.

I ignored him whilst crawling across the floor to retrieve the errant ice cube.

Mr. Authoress was indignant. "What are you doing?"

"I'm picking up an ice cube."

"Why are you picking up an ice cube? You've got to get this wiped up!"

Struck by the revelation that nobody had ever explained to Mr. Authoress the tendency of ice cubes to melt and create their own little messes, I sputtered a few impatient words of my own (just a few, mind you) and tossed the ice cube into the kitchen sink.

Upon returning to the scene of the crime, I watched in disbelief as Mr. Authoress pulled back the sofa to reveal -- the firmament forbid -- a small pool of water on the hardwood floor. And you know, I was just so grateful that he did it. I mean, it never would have crossed my mind to look under the sofa. I was sitting on it, of course, when I dropped the water. But you know how we women can't seem to think these things through. We need men to bark orders and move furniture for us.

Right?

Not only was I able to clean up the water spill, but we've managed to remain married for another day. Goodness knows where we'd be if I had spilled a glass of Shiraz.

Of course, that's Mr. Authoress's specialty. Spilling red wine, that is. Funny, but I don't recall moving sofas and barking orders when he does it. Even though the ratio of male wines spills to female water spills in our house is about twelve to one.

Not to mention his propensity to leave small electronic equipment in his pants pockets on laundry day, drop his Trio into a sink full of water, and release empty wine glasses onto the bathroom tile (two weeks later and I'm still finding microscopic glass shards).

There you have it. Married life in the Authoress household. Have you taken notes?

A Personal Ego Boost

This is the kind of thing one refrains from posting on one's True Identity blog because, well, people might think one were boasting. (Subjunctive, right? That one sounded weird.)

So this weekend I bumped into some folks I haven't seen in almost ten years. (Nice folks, not the kind of folks you were hoping you'd never see again.)

"I saw you walking by," said Old Friend, "and I said to my wife, 'Hey, that looks like *insert Authoress's real name*." But then I said, 'But she's not old enough to be *insert Authoress's real name*!"

I almost kissed him. This guy is younger than I am. By several years. His wife is younger still. And he thought I was too young to be me.

Too young to be me!

I'm sure the myth was shattered when he got a closer look. But the warm glow wasn't shattered -- not for me. If old friends mistake me for a sipper of the fountain of youth, I'm going to revel in it until my wrinkles are too deep to allow me to play anymore.

So I'm a bit boosted. Stoked, even.

Sometimes it doesn't take much, you know?

Random Thoughts

I'm thinking...

* Wow, why didn't anyone pick up where Merc left off with our little switch-the-genre thing? Her words were written with a crafty smirk -- couldn't you see it? *wink*

* The Publishing World has its own definition of the verb "to publish;" as in, "One of us thought that your work was good enough to pay money for, so we bought the rights and printed a few copies with our name on it." The dictionary and most self-published authors disagree. I find myself wondering how my readers feel about this.

* We'll be doing another crit posting next week. Be thinking along the lines of: a hot blurb!

* If I see one more misuse of "its" and "it's" I'll retire to bedlam.

* Bonus points: From whence cometh the phrase, "I'll retire to bedlam?"