Market or Heart

Yesterday, off the cuff, I posed a question on Twitter for writers:  Do you write from your heart, or do you write for the market?

Not a single person said, unequivocally, "For the market."

Not.  One.

There were some responses that blended heart with market in the way only a seasoned or well-informed writer could express.  But everyone else said, without apology, "MY HEART!"

Truly, that's what we're told when we're starting out.  "Write what you know.  Write what you love.  Don't try to be a trend-chaser.  Don't write for the market, because by the time your story is ready, the market will have changed."

There is wisdom in that.  If we want others to be passionate about our work, then we must be passionate about it.  And how can we be passionate about something we don't love?

And yet...

The market is a very real monster.  It might not want anything to do with what we love.  Even if we write what we love really well.  Even if our critique partners and teen readers and spouses and next-door neighbors and hostile family members and agents all LOVE what we've written.

We might still get chewed up and spat out by a market that isn't friendly to our genre.  Or, more common these days, that is saturated by our genre.

It's called GENRE FATIGUE.  And it stinks.

So, what's a writer to do?  I suppose it depends on what a writer wants.  And that still doesn't make for an easy answer, because if a writer wants to be published, but everything that writer loves and breathes and bleeds for isn't what the market wants...then what?

Should the die-hard adult fantasy writer force himself to crank out a middle grade adventure?

Does a love for paranormal romance need to give way to contemporary YA?

Do those of us who adore dystopian above all things (alas!) turn away from the stories that make our hearts soar?

Must we redefine our hearts in order to become truly publishable?

Or do we press on, following our hearts, writing what resonates with our souls, willing to ride out the market for as long as it takes for our turn in the sun?

Where does art separate from business?  And how?

No, I don't have an answer for you.  Because this is an intensely personal decision each aspiring author must make on his own.

Where do you stand?  What is your dream, and what will you do if your dream's trajectory isn't lining up with your heart?  Will you morph, or will you doggedly cling to what you've always loved best?

As always, I'm all ears.

Success! Success! It Keeps Happening!

Here's another wonderful success story for you, from the author herself:


I was terrified to enter my first Secret Agent contest, submitting the intro to my Ancient Egypt historical fiction in February 2010. I thought it was good, but looking back... not so good. Around the same time, I started querying. 


But the feedback from the agents was all the same.


The writing is good, but it didn't grab me.


I was ready to throw my computer out the window when a writer friend and another agent gave me some stellar (albeit painful) feedback. I revised again and finished just in time to enter the first ever Baker's Dozen contest.


I got a partial bid! Then, a couple months later, another agent made an offer of representation!


A dream come true, right?


Not so much.


Before anyone skewers me, let me tell you I did jump up and down for joy and might have squealed in my classroom a few times. (Fortunately not when there were students around. That would have been awkward.) The offering agent wasn't one I'd actually queried, but instead someone another agent had passed my manuscript to. And while he had a number of sales, they weren't in historical fiction, and his client approach was the opposite of what I was looking for.


But after a year of querying, I so wanted an agent. Fortunately, my amazing writer friend gave me the smack upside the head I needed. (He was very nice about it).  I declined the agent's offer of representation and started a new book, even though I felt like banging my head against the nearest wall.


Fast forward to December 2011. I told myself Book #2 had to be finished for the 2nd Baker's Dozen Auction. I barely got it finished in time, and was accepted to the auction. Yay! Then I started querying, happily surprised at the number of requests coming in.


Then there was a bidding war for my book the day of the auction! Shortly after, I received an amazing email from Marlene Stringer asking for the full, and then came her amazing offer of representation.


And now the best news, hot off the press (or, er... Publisher's Marketplace)!


Stephanie Thornton's THE SECRET HISTORY, in which a theater tart-turned-Constantinople's premier courtesan must decide what's more important: pleasing the emperor who claims to love her or keeping the son he can never know about, to Ellen Edwards of NAL, at auction, in a three-book deal, for publication beginning in 2013, by Marlene Stringer of the Stringer Literary Agency (World English).


4 years. 2 books. Countless bowls of peanut butter chocolate ice cream.


I learned two things along this roller-coaster ride. First, be brave. You've got to put your work out there, even when the very thought makes you want to move to some distant mountaintop where you'll never have to see another human again. This is a great blog to do just that--Authoress runs the absolute best critique contests I've ever seen. And second, never, evergive up, even when you want to curl up and die. Rejection isn't permanent (and I'm pretty sure dying is).


~ Stephanie Thornton

Friday Fricassee

A week of great critiques and happy-ever-after news leaves one smiling, yes?

My smiles have a little more behind them, though.  I'm getting ready to take a Nice Long Break, and ever since I decided to do this, a blanket of peace has settled over my shoulders like an angora shawl.  Warm, soft, nearly weightless.

How I've needed this.

My June vacation is coming up, and, as always, the blog will go dark for a while.  But my personal hiatus is beginning NOW.  Last year I blogged about the Between Times, and asked you how you filled that nebulous time between projects or tasks.  Through your comments and some self-examination, I came to realize that I needed to revel in the lower-stress time of planning a new story or simply waiting to see what's going to appear next on my to-do list.

This year, I need more than that.  I need to simply take a complete break.  Honestly?  Since I've begun writing seriously, I've never allowed myself to do this.  To just...stop.  For a little while.

I can't tell you how many people have said, "Authoress!  You need a break!  Go take one!"  I sort of smiled and ignored them.  Because...MOI? Take a BREAK??

As in...STOP WRITING THINGS?

Well, yes.  Except I do have a bright yellow notebook at hand, in case a new story idea starts niggling at the back of my brain.  But that's a lot different than trying to come up with a new story.  Or slogging through revisions.  Or whatever it is I've felt so compelled to do over the past six weeks or so.

So the blog will run as usual next week, and then my vacation will start.  My revisions-free vacation (yes, I'd actually planned to work on revisions at the shore).  And I will appreciate every warm and sparkly bit of fuzz you choose to send my way.

"Authoress" is depleted and needs to fill herself up again.

That's me.  What about you?  Do you give yourself permission to recharge as needed?  And if you don't...are you thinking really hard about that?  I'm learning a huge lesson right now, and I'm hoping a few of you might learn it along with me.

So you don't have to, yanno, hit rock bottom like I just did.

Share your recharging strategies!  I'll be reading very carefully.

Drop the Needle: Action Scenes (Round 2) #25

TITLE: Liora
GENRE: YA contemporary

Liora is the only Jewish kid in her small town middle school. Earlier today, Evan, her love interest, has shown interest in her for the first time. In this scene, the Creature, her arch nemesis torments her on the bus ride home.

Don’t pay him any attention and he’ll go away. He’ll go away. He’ll go away.

He isn’t going away. He’s sweeping down the aisle towards me, licking his bristly lips.


He slams my backpack on the ground and slides in close. Too close. I huddle closer to the window and stare at it hard. I can’t see Evan any more. I can’t see anything. The Creature’s smoky mouth breathing has steamed it up.

He lifts one arm over my head and rests it on my shoulder. I feel the weight hammering me down down down until I am frozen into the seat.

I open my mouth to protest and swallow a lump of something cold and sour.

His arm is curling around my neck now, twisting my face towards him. There are little rips on the seam under his arm. I stare at them, trying to light them on fire with my eyes.

“How’s my favorite little Jew girl today?” His voice is wet. I want to wipe my ear with my sleeve, but I’m afraid to move.

“Thanks for saving me a seat. You know I can’t go a day without a big whiff of farm air.” He pushes his nose against my ear and sniffs deeply. The bristles on his face scratch my cheek. I want to scream but the lump in my throat is choking me.

“Mmmmmm… bacon!” His body shakes with coarse laughter. The chunky Adam’s apple on his neck strains so hard, I’m afraid it will explode, covering me in his juices.

Drop the Needle: Action Scenes (Round 2) #24

TITLE: Who's the Money's Daddy?
GENRE: Mystery

Sophie has been harassed several times by three punks when she walks her black Lab mix, Boris. The last time, the largest one hit Boris with a stick. Since she lives in a lousy part of town, she knows the cops won't help. She has to handle this herself.

Some things are just meant to happen. Hidden in the night by the black color of my car, I paused at the corner by the taco stand and watched the three punks unloaded good-sized boxes from a rented truck. The largest one, the one who hit Boris, carried them across the road and into the old store.

I turned the corner and started down the street slowly. The big one watched me come as he crossed, figuring he could make it to the other side before I got close. When he was a third of the way, I hit the gas and caught the front edge of his box with my left fender, sending it into orbit and knocking him backwards. I whipped around the next corner and down the side street to idle again by the taco stand. Panicked, two of the punks were picking up brick-sized packages as fast as they could and throwing them into the back of the truck.

Finally the big one was ready to try again. After looking carefully in both directions, he picked up a box and quickly walked across the street. I gave him three trips. Fourth trip, whap! I nailed him again. This time I could hear the yells of anger and, looking back, saw he was sprawled against the truck’s back tire. I pounded on the steering wheel and laughed as I dialed 911 to report a hit-and-run. The cops would come if a pedestrian was down.