Me: ...and I learned that you're not supposed to put adverbs after dialogue tags.
Mom: What?
Me: Like, 'he said'. You're not supposed to put adverbs after something like that.
Dad: So... Like, 'he said run'?
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
The World Will Write For You, If You Pay Attention.
- Craig English
I arrived home from the aforementioned writers conference at 8:28 this evening. I know some of you wanted me to let you know how it went, so I figured I'd give you all a bit of a debriefing.
The conference was spectacular. Living here, with all my friends who have at least semi-stable plans for their lives, it was so nice to be with four hundred other people who have the same crazy aspirations as you do. It was encouraging to listen to Robert Liparulo talk about his success and have Dia Calhoun teaching about how to make your writing better.
I really learned so much. The second day into the conference, I already had a ton of things to fix in my story, and I only have the first chapter done. (And I suppose 'done' is a bad word, since I have to fix it...) I have page after page after page of notes. But, I suppose, the highlight of the trip were the meetings with the agent and editor.
Now, don't get too excited. I haven't signed any million dollar book deals, and I'm still unrepresented. But, I'm fine with that.
My first meeting was with Minju Chang. She was the agent. I introduced myself and launched into my pitch. Halfway through, she stopped me to say she could tell that I've done this before. I hadn't done this before. She asked me a few questions about the basic storyline, my hero, my heroine, etc. She then asked me if I had the first page with me. This is the point where I thank God for my sister who, that morning, had emailed what I have of a manuscript to me so I could print it out at the hotel. So, yes, I did have the first page. I gave it to her and she read it carefully (while I sat in agonizing silence). She then told me that she loved the story idea and that she was very interested in it. She told me that I have a lot of promise and talent, and that her only suggestion was to put a little more backstory in the first few paragraphs to make the main character deeper. She then suggested that I join a writing group to keep my writing tight. Essentially, she's interested and I should definitely send in a query, but I'm not quite there yet. But that's okay, because the story's nowhere near done. So, overall, very good first meeting. And she said hi to me the next day, so I know she remembered me. That's good.
The next day, I had my meeting with Heather Osborn, who is one of the acquiring editors for Tor Fantasy (Brianna, think Herbie Brennan, T.A. Barron, Tanith Lee). The meeting was half and hour long and was supposed to be a group session, but I was the only one who showed up for the first fifteen minutes. So, while that nearly made me throw up with nervousness, it was ultimately better for me to be alone with her. After the introductions were done with, I gave her my pitch as well, and then proceeded to tell her about the story and the main characters. She loved it. She told me that she was very interested and that it would fit right in with what Tor already publishes and that she wanted me to send it in when I'm done. After she wrote my name down, so she would remember me when I sent the manuscript in, she told me not to bother with a query letter and to just send in the first three chapters (or fifty pages) once I'm ready. I was thrilled. (And then one other woman showed up to the meeting, and the conversation turned to our favorite books and such. Not important.)
So, I left the conference with both an agent and an editor who are interested in my writing. One said I have talent, and the other specifically asked for my manuscript. Overall, I'd say that's not bad. In fact, I'm slightly ecstatic. This looks like it's really going to happen. And that's a fantastic feeling.
I'm aware that it'll be a long and hard process, and that there's a good chance that they might even forget me by the time I'm finished with the first book. I was told to expect at least 100 rejections for every 1 acceptance, when I'm starting out. It's going to be tough. As Robert Dugoni put it, "You've got to be a bulldog in this business, kid. You've got to be a bulldog." And he's right, because that's exactly what this is. It's a business. There will come a point where my creativity and talent and artistic ability will have to step aside and make room for the cold, hard business of publishing to cut in. Last year, I would have been disgusted by that. But I've realized that pushing your way to the top doesn't mean sacrificing the art. I just have to be able to compartmentalize it. Writing the story is only half the battle. After that, it's all business. And that's okay with me. I can be a bulldog.
I arrived home from the aforementioned writers conference at 8:28 this evening. I know some of you wanted me to let you know how it went, so I figured I'd give you all a bit of a debriefing.
The conference was spectacular. Living here, with all my friends who have at least semi-stable plans for their lives, it was so nice to be with four hundred other people who have the same crazy aspirations as you do. It was encouraging to listen to Robert Liparulo talk about his success and have Dia Calhoun teaching about how to make your writing better.
I really learned so much. The second day into the conference, I already had a ton of things to fix in my story, and I only have the first chapter done. (And I suppose 'done' is a bad word, since I have to fix it...) I have page after page after page of notes. But, I suppose, the highlight of the trip were the meetings with the agent and editor.
Now, don't get too excited. I haven't signed any million dollar book deals, and I'm still unrepresented. But, I'm fine with that.
My first meeting was with Minju Chang. She was the agent. I introduced myself and launched into my pitch. Halfway through, she stopped me to say she could tell that I've done this before. I hadn't done this before. She asked me a few questions about the basic storyline, my hero, my heroine, etc. She then asked me if I had the first page with me. This is the point where I thank God for my sister who, that morning, had emailed what I have of a manuscript to me so I could print it out at the hotel. So, yes, I did have the first page. I gave it to her and she read it carefully (while I sat in agonizing silence). She then told me that she loved the story idea and that she was very interested in it. She told me that I have a lot of promise and talent, and that her only suggestion was to put a little more backstory in the first few paragraphs to make the main character deeper. She then suggested that I join a writing group to keep my writing tight. Essentially, she's interested and I should definitely send in a query, but I'm not quite there yet. But that's okay, because the story's nowhere near done. So, overall, very good first meeting. And she said hi to me the next day, so I know she remembered me. That's good.
The next day, I had my meeting with Heather Osborn, who is one of the acquiring editors for Tor Fantasy (Brianna, think Herbie Brennan, T.A. Barron, Tanith Lee). The meeting was half and hour long and was supposed to be a group session, but I was the only one who showed up for the first fifteen minutes. So, while that nearly made me throw up with nervousness, it was ultimately better for me to be alone with her. After the introductions were done with, I gave her my pitch as well, and then proceeded to tell her about the story and the main characters. She loved it. She told me that she was very interested and that it would fit right in with what Tor already publishes and that she wanted me to send it in when I'm done. After she wrote my name down, so she would remember me when I sent the manuscript in, she told me not to bother with a query letter and to just send in the first three chapters (or fifty pages) once I'm ready. I was thrilled. (And then one other woman showed up to the meeting, and the conversation turned to our favorite books and such. Not important.)
So, I left the conference with both an agent and an editor who are interested in my writing. One said I have talent, and the other specifically asked for my manuscript. Overall, I'd say that's not bad. In fact, I'm slightly ecstatic. This looks like it's really going to happen. And that's a fantastic feeling.
I'm aware that it'll be a long and hard process, and that there's a good chance that they might even forget me by the time I'm finished with the first book. I was told to expect at least 100 rejections for every 1 acceptance, when I'm starting out. It's going to be tough. As Robert Dugoni put it, "You've got to be a bulldog in this business, kid. You've got to be a bulldog." And he's right, because that's exactly what this is. It's a business. There will come a point where my creativity and talent and artistic ability will have to step aside and make room for the cold, hard business of publishing to cut in. Last year, I would have been disgusted by that. But I've realized that pushing your way to the top doesn't mean sacrificing the art. I just have to be able to compartmentalize it. Writing the story is only half the battle. After that, it's all business. And that's okay with me. I can be a bulldog.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
The Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference.
In a couple weeks, I am going to Seattle, where I will be attending the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference, which is put on by the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association every year.
Now, some of you have heard about this already, but just bear with me.
When my mom signed us up for the conference, she called to confirm some details. She was told that somebody would call her back.
So, a few days later, she got a call from the PNWA. She began talking to this lady about the conference, but the conversation soon turned to my family. My mom told her about our family's history, and her plans to write my grandparents' story (an incredible story that you should definitely ask me about if you don't already know) and that I wanted to be a writer.
The woman on the other end of the conversation said that she was getting goosebumps and was really excited that we were coming, and that she definitely wanted to meet us.
So my mom asked who she was, so that we could find her when we got there. And the woman, as nonchalant as ever, said, "Oh, I'm the president. I'll just be walking around."
The lady who is so excited to meet my family is the freaking president of the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association.
And she's setting up appointments for me with an editor and agent.
I think I nearly threw up when my mom called me and told me the news.
And so now, I'm writing away, furiously trying to put something together worth presenting to somebody who probably eats lunch with Dan Brown and Nora Roberts on a weekly basis.
It's a little unreal, and I'm not entirely sure yet that I'm not actually dreaming. But there you go.
Now, some of you have heard about this already, but just bear with me.
When my mom signed us up for the conference, she called to confirm some details. She was told that somebody would call her back.
So, a few days later, she got a call from the PNWA. She began talking to this lady about the conference, but the conversation soon turned to my family. My mom told her about our family's history, and her plans to write my grandparents' story (an incredible story that you should definitely ask me about if you don't already know) and that I wanted to be a writer.
The woman on the other end of the conversation said that she was getting goosebumps and was really excited that we were coming, and that she definitely wanted to meet us.
So my mom asked who she was, so that we could find her when we got there. And the woman, as nonchalant as ever, said, "Oh, I'm the president. I'll just be walking around."
The lady who is so excited to meet my family is the freaking president of the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association.
And she's setting up appointments for me with an editor and agent.
I think I nearly threw up when my mom called me and told me the news.
And so now, I'm writing away, furiously trying to put something together worth presenting to somebody who probably eats lunch with Dan Brown and Nora Roberts on a weekly basis.
It's a little unreal, and I'm not entirely sure yet that I'm not actually dreaming. But there you go.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
San Francisco
On Saturday, at around 5:30 p.m., I returned home from a week-long missions trip to San Francisco. Most of you who read my blog are my friends, and you already know that, so I don't know why I bothered saying it. But here's the real news:
San Francisco was, easily, the most difficult, exhuasting, draining, and emotional missions trip I have ever been on. Because, after my faith's dry spell of a few months, after completely pulling myself away from any shred of spiritual discipline I had managed before that, I made the stupid mistake of thinking that throwing myself into the trip unprepared would be a good idea.
I thought, again, stupidly, that this trip was what I needed to snap me back into my routine with God. I was wrong.
What I discovered was that I had really taken for granted all of the preparation that James has us do every year before a trip. I discovered that going from nearly no communication with God to a daily devotion, and then singing, and praying, and singing, and praying, and bible lesson time, and singing, and praying, and so on, was a big jump. And, not only was my mind whirling from the sudden activity, but I felt like an imposter. I felt like I didn't belong in that group of people, devotedly connecting with God. Like I didn't belong in San Francisco, showing people the love of a God that I wasn't sure I believed in just weeks before.
It was hard. It was really hard. And, on top of that confusion was the frustration with the organization of my time. I felt, after working all day, every day, in New Orleans and Compton the two years before, that I was doing absolutely nothing. I was unbelievably frustrated with the large amounts of free time, when I felt like I should still be packing food, or listening to a homeless man tell his stories.
Those two things alone made the trip almost unbearably difficult for me. But that was hardly all.
I knew going into the trip that it was going to be an emotional one. Working at a homeless shelter in Vancouver, B.C., was my first missions trip, and it created a soft spot, to say the least, for impoverished people. San Francisco, I knew, would confront me with the same urban city poverty that I dealt with in Vancouver. And I was absolutely right. The people and their situations were absolutely heartbreaking, and my frustration with my own lack of work left me all the more torn between the need I saw and the ability I had to do anything about it.
My first breakdown was Tuesday night. I remember talking to Cassie after group time, and we were both complaining that we thought that we would last, at least, halfway through the week before we had to deal with our emotions. But we didn't. We came to the conclusion that God is inconvenient. We did, however, end up talking to Heather until about one in the morning. And, for me at least, that really helped. I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to jump back into work.
Wednesday, I shed a few tears. But, overall, it was a fairly calm, if cold, evening. I spent a somewhat numb day at work.
But Thursday. Thursday was hard. At the church where I worked in the afternoon and talked with homeless people, I felt that leaving might be simpler than I had anticipated, because I hadn't really deeply connected with anyone. But then I found myself talking one-on-one with Kevin, a man there who was eager to tell anyone his stories. And what struck me was his genuine interest in my life. So many homeless people that you meet are so eager to just have someone listening to them. But Kevin, right off the bat, asked me things about myself.
He asked what grade I was in, and where I was going to college, and what my major was going to be. And then, when I told him I was going to be a Creative Writing major, he launched into a discussion about literature with me. And, any of you who know me know that if you want me to talk, get me started on books. And that's just what he did. Rather than allowing me to simply listen to his stories, he challenged me to engage in conversation with him.
We talked about our favorite authors, American first, and then moved on to other things. I almost envied him when he told me that he used to have a collection of over fifty thousand books, because he was a college professor, he said. What awed me, though, was his content with his current situation. He went from an army man who traveled the world, to a college professor with an enviable collection of books, to a man living on the streets of San Francisco. And he was happy.
He made me promise to send him the first copy of my book once I'm published.
But the expression on his face when Joel came over and told me it was time to leave... He was crestfallen. The night before, Evan and I had had a conversation about how the constant coming and going of people was probably harder on the kids than the adults, because the adults were used to it. The look on Kevin's face when he discovered that I wouldn't be coming back completely threw that theory out the window. And right then, at that moment, it took all the strength I had to not start crying.
As I finally pried myself away, a man, who later introduced himself as "My name is Duane, but if you ever forget that, what's man's best friend? Dog," came over to me, shook my hand, and said "You don't really want to leave, do you? Why don't you just tell them you're staying for awhile." He laughed as he spoke, but his expression was the same as Kevin's.
I nearly lost it. But, for five more minutes, I had to keep it in while Duane insisted that we take a picture with him, and that we come back soon. Even as we were half a block away, walking toward our bus, he yelled out, "Y'all come back now, you hear?"
Thursday night was the worst. During our group time, I completely broke down. I think I cried until I was physically unable to cry any more. And then this sort of hysteric happiness set in, as if my mind was trying so hard to ignore the fact that I was abandoning those people that I suddenly found everything funny. Or maybe that final cry had simply lifted some of the weight, and I was able to laugh for awhile.
What I find unbearably ironic, though, is that Friday, our calm-down day, our tourist day, our happy day, was, aside from Thurday night, the hardest day for me. On top of the fact that I was tired and sore, I knew that, even though I was still in San Francisco, my work was done. It was that awkward, awful feeling, where you feel like you should be doing something, doing more, but that you just can't. And not only did I know that I was simply useless that day, but I missed my story.
That was definitely an odd realization. I might seem like a lunatic from this point on, but I honestly just wanted to go home so that I could write. I don't mean I wanted to come home and blog. I wasn't ready to talk about San Francisco yet, and I was honestly dreading all the questions that I knew would be thrown at me as soon as I stepped out of the van in the church parking lot. I still needed time to process everything that had happened.
But I wanted to come home and write. I'm working on a story. A novel - a trilogy - really. And I really missed writing it. I missed the characters in my silly little book like you miss a real person. I missed being able to sit down, put on my Coldplay, and just let the problems of someone else, in some other world, take me away and absorb my attention.
And with the up and coming Writer's Conference, that some of you know about that that I'll blog about later, less than a month away, I really feel like writing is a very, very important part of my day. And I'm trying to prepare and figure things out, and it's crazy. But on Friday, all I wanted to do was go home and write.
And, as I said earlier, I didn't want to talk, or blog. So much had happened during this trip that I hadn't had time to think it all over yet. I needed time to just let it sink in and register. I missed Kainos the night after we got home. We were supposed to go and tell the people about our trip. And I missed it, partly because I fell asleep, but I think partly because I really didn't want to go and talk to people about my trip yet. I wasn't ready. Even now, it's hard to say everything. I've been writing this post for three days now, and I'm just finishing.
But San Francisco was amazing. And, once I'm hydrated enough to be able to cry again, I probably will. And if you want to ask me about it, I want to tell you. Just give me another day or so. I'm almost there.
San Francisco was, easily, the most difficult, exhuasting, draining, and emotional missions trip I have ever been on. Because, after my faith's dry spell of a few months, after completely pulling myself away from any shred of spiritual discipline I had managed before that, I made the stupid mistake of thinking that throwing myself into the trip unprepared would be a good idea.
I thought, again, stupidly, that this trip was what I needed to snap me back into my routine with God. I was wrong.
What I discovered was that I had really taken for granted all of the preparation that James has us do every year before a trip. I discovered that going from nearly no communication with God to a daily devotion, and then singing, and praying, and singing, and praying, and bible lesson time, and singing, and praying, and so on, was a big jump. And, not only was my mind whirling from the sudden activity, but I felt like an imposter. I felt like I didn't belong in that group of people, devotedly connecting with God. Like I didn't belong in San Francisco, showing people the love of a God that I wasn't sure I believed in just weeks before.
It was hard. It was really hard. And, on top of that confusion was the frustration with the organization of my time. I felt, after working all day, every day, in New Orleans and Compton the two years before, that I was doing absolutely nothing. I was unbelievably frustrated with the large amounts of free time, when I felt like I should still be packing food, or listening to a homeless man tell his stories.
Those two things alone made the trip almost unbearably difficult for me. But that was hardly all.
I knew going into the trip that it was going to be an emotional one. Working at a homeless shelter in Vancouver, B.C., was my first missions trip, and it created a soft spot, to say the least, for impoverished people. San Francisco, I knew, would confront me with the same urban city poverty that I dealt with in Vancouver. And I was absolutely right. The people and their situations were absolutely heartbreaking, and my frustration with my own lack of work left me all the more torn between the need I saw and the ability I had to do anything about it.
My first breakdown was Tuesday night. I remember talking to Cassie after group time, and we were both complaining that we thought that we would last, at least, halfway through the week before we had to deal with our emotions. But we didn't. We came to the conclusion that God is inconvenient. We did, however, end up talking to Heather until about one in the morning. And, for me at least, that really helped. I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to jump back into work.
Wednesday, I shed a few tears. But, overall, it was a fairly calm, if cold, evening. I spent a somewhat numb day at work.
But Thursday. Thursday was hard. At the church where I worked in the afternoon and talked with homeless people, I felt that leaving might be simpler than I had anticipated, because I hadn't really deeply connected with anyone. But then I found myself talking one-on-one with Kevin, a man there who was eager to tell anyone his stories. And what struck me was his genuine interest in my life. So many homeless people that you meet are so eager to just have someone listening to them. But Kevin, right off the bat, asked me things about myself.
He asked what grade I was in, and where I was going to college, and what my major was going to be. And then, when I told him I was going to be a Creative Writing major, he launched into a discussion about literature with me. And, any of you who know me know that if you want me to talk, get me started on books. And that's just what he did. Rather than allowing me to simply listen to his stories, he challenged me to engage in conversation with him.
We talked about our favorite authors, American first, and then moved on to other things. I almost envied him when he told me that he used to have a collection of over fifty thousand books, because he was a college professor, he said. What awed me, though, was his content with his current situation. He went from an army man who traveled the world, to a college professor with an enviable collection of books, to a man living on the streets of San Francisco. And he was happy.
He made me promise to send him the first copy of my book once I'm published.
But the expression on his face when Joel came over and told me it was time to leave... He was crestfallen. The night before, Evan and I had had a conversation about how the constant coming and going of people was probably harder on the kids than the adults, because the adults were used to it. The look on Kevin's face when he discovered that I wouldn't be coming back completely threw that theory out the window. And right then, at that moment, it took all the strength I had to not start crying.
As I finally pried myself away, a man, who later introduced himself as "My name is Duane, but if you ever forget that, what's man's best friend? Dog," came over to me, shook my hand, and said "You don't really want to leave, do you? Why don't you just tell them you're staying for awhile." He laughed as he spoke, but his expression was the same as Kevin's.
I nearly lost it. But, for five more minutes, I had to keep it in while Duane insisted that we take a picture with him, and that we come back soon. Even as we were half a block away, walking toward our bus, he yelled out, "Y'all come back now, you hear?"
Thursday night was the worst. During our group time, I completely broke down. I think I cried until I was physically unable to cry any more. And then this sort of hysteric happiness set in, as if my mind was trying so hard to ignore the fact that I was abandoning those people that I suddenly found everything funny. Or maybe that final cry had simply lifted some of the weight, and I was able to laugh for awhile.
What I find unbearably ironic, though, is that Friday, our calm-down day, our tourist day, our happy day, was, aside from Thurday night, the hardest day for me. On top of the fact that I was tired and sore, I knew that, even though I was still in San Francisco, my work was done. It was that awkward, awful feeling, where you feel like you should be doing something, doing more, but that you just can't. And not only did I know that I was simply useless that day, but I missed my story.
That was definitely an odd realization. I might seem like a lunatic from this point on, but I honestly just wanted to go home so that I could write. I don't mean I wanted to come home and blog. I wasn't ready to talk about San Francisco yet, and I was honestly dreading all the questions that I knew would be thrown at me as soon as I stepped out of the van in the church parking lot. I still needed time to process everything that had happened.
But I wanted to come home and write. I'm working on a story. A novel - a trilogy - really. And I really missed writing it. I missed the characters in my silly little book like you miss a real person. I missed being able to sit down, put on my Coldplay, and just let the problems of someone else, in some other world, take me away and absorb my attention.
And with the up and coming Writer's Conference, that some of you know about that that I'll blog about later, less than a month away, I really feel like writing is a very, very important part of my day. And I'm trying to prepare and figure things out, and it's crazy. But on Friday, all I wanted to do was go home and write.
And, as I said earlier, I didn't want to talk, or blog. So much had happened during this trip that I hadn't had time to think it all over yet. I needed time to just let it sink in and register. I missed Kainos the night after we got home. We were supposed to go and tell the people about our trip. And I missed it, partly because I fell asleep, but I think partly because I really didn't want to go and talk to people about my trip yet. I wasn't ready. Even now, it's hard to say everything. I've been writing this post for three days now, and I'm just finishing.
But San Francisco was amazing. And, once I'm hydrated enough to be able to cry again, I probably will. And if you want to ask me about it, I want to tell you. Just give me another day or so. I'm almost there.
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