Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. Geoffrey Chaucer said that about 600 years ago as part of the prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the first writing we would recognize as English. I believe it. What would life be worth if it weren’t a pilgrimage? Every day. I hope you will join my pilgrimage. I’m writing a book … well, several. Writing is pilgrimage, and I’ll need sustenance along the way. I hope you will follow along, comment, help lead me. C’mon, it will be an adventure …
I read a submission guideline the other day that sliced novelists into ‘beginner’ and ‘experienced’ using the following cleaver: “you may consider your work for the experienced category if it has been critiqued by people other than friends and family.”
I get it. Your wife’s going to tell you it’s great. Family harmony vs. weak characterization … harmony wins, right?
Well, that’s all well and good as a general case. However, my wife Beverly is not a general case. She is an educator of many facets … kids, science outreach, young (we’re talking preschool through elementary), old (adult to ancient). And, in all those facets, writing has been her central organizing idea. Here’s a reminder from her current writing course that rang a bell with me (hehehe):
Over the past couple of months, I’ve attended three conferences (one by Internet) that featured pitches or queries. Friends asked for a summary. The summary grew longer than a blog post, so I made it into a page, here.
The summary covers some of what I learned. The experience proved that the nexus of art and business is anything but clear, but it helped me understand that querying and pitching are much less about writing quality and much more about business. The agent’s operative question, at least at first, is not, “Is this person a fine writer?” or “Is this story/character/plot captivating?” It is, “Will this book sell?” Nothing at all wrong with that, but it helps me write a better query. As one presenter said, a good query letter induces the agent to ask for some/all of the manuscript (where that fine writing resides); the query/pitch is a business proposition.
I just finished going to a pitch conference at The Loft (Minneapolis). As is usual with these events, there were education sessions, often involving panels of agents. In one, the agents discussed how many queries they get. One of the participants allowed as how she gets 4,000 or so annually. Asked how many projects she took on last year, she said, “Seven.”
I put these data out to make people (well, me) feel better about querying and getting no response. The agent in question averred that she reads all the queries. If she gives each one five minutes, she spends 40% of a normal year reading queries.
Technology is disrupting so many modes of communication, and this is surely one. Gone are the days when a query letter needed to be printed out, folded, slipped into an envelope with a SASE (does anyone even recognize that term anymore?). Then, if the agent responded, 9×12 envelope, lots of paper, lots of postage. But now, the barriers to communication have dropped so low that agents are flooded.
Which brings up Rogers’ Rule Nine: The amount of relevant information in the world has been growing at a fairly regular rate, while
total information has been growing exponentially. On the savannah, one additional piece of data probably meant the likelihood of eating and not being eaten increased measurably. There were explosions of relevant information in China and Greece, but still pretty linear. Gutenberg, the damn German, bent the curve, then Mad Ave, then the computer. Now, we spend significant life overhead finding the good stuff.
Back in the day, I would have queried a dozen agents (perhaps sequentially). Now I can query twenty, fifty or one hundred. And every other query writer out there is doing the same thing.
Guess I’d better get to it.
I went to a shiva yesterday for a friend’s mother. It was in the evening. A bit uncertain about dress, I wore a conservative suit and a tie. When I arrived, I realized most of the people were more casually dressed. A bit embarrassed, I mentioned to a friend that I felt overdressed. He said, “Don’t worry about it. You’re never overdressed in a suit.”
And yes, this does relate to writing. Modern punctuation trends seem to be minimalist to the point that one is occasionally confused (as in “Let’s eat Grandma.”). My tepid response to this trend has been to drop the series comma before ‘and.’ The editor says No … stick with the Oxford comma (red, white, and blue). The publisher can always take it out. But one is never overdressed in the Oxford comma.
My critique groups often lean on me for using bigger words than necessary. Particularly people who read and adore Hemingway. My weak defense is accuracy: I want the reader to get an exact picture. The response is, “in well-written work, sixty percent of the reader’s vision is what the author wrote; forty percent is drawn from the reader’s own experience.” Now with several years and more than several rewrites under my belt, I understand.
So who had the twisted sense of humor to give an exact definition of ‘fear of long words’ as hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia?
Ahh, the pitch conference. Three minutes to explain your darling child of a novel to a polite but dubious agent. Three minutes for her to ask probing questions that tear it apart.
I enjoyed most of the Writers Digest pitch conference in St. Paul, Minnesota last Saturday. The classes were more reminders of ideas we writers should always have in our heads than anything new. Mystery writer Kristi Belcamino reminded us to “get in late and leave early” so that you give the reader the essence of an action, rather than all the steps (hearing the knock, walking to the door, turning the knob). Set up a ticking clock. (To know that you have to catch a flight to Istanbul is just information. To know it’s an hour before takeoff and you’re still in the security line raises the stakes.) This is stuff most writers know, but I, for one, tend to bury important things in prose, then have to trim.
I had some hope of discovering how a self-published work of fiction finds readers. For all the good ideas, warnings, and suggestions, there was not much there.
Possibly the best takeaway for me was a session in which first pages of novels were read aloud to six agents, who then indicated when they would stop reading. One of the pages read was from a talented author in my Wednesday critique group. The agents had comments similar to those the critique group had when its members read that first page. Heartening to hear that the group is on point. Also very interesting to hear the agents’ take on what works and what doesn’t. Good writing is necessary, but not sufficient.
In any case, the experience kicked me into yet another rewrite.
A fine Minnesota writer, William Kent Krueger, plans his mystery novels out in detail, I’m told. He is well known for going to a diner each morning and writing. His stories are detailed and coherent, and his prose is clear and finely balanced. His Ordinary Grace won the 2014 Edgar for best novel. Clearly, he knows what he’s doing.
Kent Krueger was one of the founders of one of my Minneapolis critique groups, Crème de la Crime, although he has left the group under the pressure of success.
One of my several conceits when I began writing seriously several years ago was that writing is an organic process. We plant the seed of a character, and the character grows through the story. The story must have an arc, and main characters must grow through the arc. Ahem. Like many of the other conceits, that one is true but not sufficient to justify waiting for inspiration to carry me away on its gassy clouds.
I’m not a person who thrives on having a regular schedule. I feel guilty about that in a number of areas of my life, but I always have excuses: those immediate quotidian issues and tasks … groceries, dentist, car service, getting the books back to the library … seem to jump in front of writing.
I mention all of this because I am realizing how important regular writing is. The more complicated the story, the more important regularity becomes. In my third novel, of which I’ve drafted perhaps a third, the plot has, as they say in the bi’ness world, a lot of moving parts. If I were clever like Krueger, I’d be writing every day, which would keep the plot details in my head at all times and prevent the egregious plot mistakes I’m trying to backflush.
Too late for a true New Year’s resolution, but I hereby resolve to write on a more regular schedule.
My son Edward, a composer, sent me a cryptic note:
Great article about two of my favorite things…. music and Vin Scully.
The article is about the Dodgers’ legendary announcer. Professors at USC’s music school studied why Scully’s lines were so memorable, why so many people remember them verbatim. I’ll hope you watch the video embedded in the article and see why those lines work so well. But, a spoiler: music.
Not surprising, really. A wordless tune is appealing to us in many ways, one of the most important being cadence. Songs lay words over melody and cadence, and a great prose passage pays attention to cadence.
I’ve always thought that great story tellers lean heavily on cadence … we almost hear the music as they speak. A good reason to read one’s work aloud.
John Grisham, thanks for setting me free.
I’m in three writing critique groups. Twenty or so regulars and some great writers. We focus down on plot, character voice, technique. I occasionally worry about over-analyzing everything I read. Like in college when I had that course in music that took Beethoven’s Ninth apart note by note. I still don’t like to listen to it.
So, here I am, worrying about whether it’s okay to name a character who turns out to be minor, whose point of view (pardon me, perspective) I should be in, when I pick up Grisham’s latest, The Whistler.
Damn. He starts the story pretty much the way my own most recent novel starts, which is boooooring, according to a substantial minority of my readers. Chapter 10 has a short paragraph in which we see the world through the eyes of three different characters. A stone no-no.
And, guess what? It doesn’t matter. The story moves nicely. The characters are interesting. The plot is straightforward, but it has me in the palm of its hand. I kept turning the page. Finished at 1:30. In the a.m.
In the hand of a skilled writer, the rules become plastic.
I know I have to cleave closer to the rules than Grisham, but I’m glad to see that writing rules are guidelines, neither prescriptions nor proscriptions. Maybe some day, I’ll get out of the straitjacket.
But I doubt I’ll ever be comfortable listening to Beethoven’s Ninth.
He’s right. Back when I got the idea for my first novel, Fatal Score, I thought there would be a future war in cyberspace. I guessed at the time (2011) that it would start with a bang in 2018. I was wrong.
I was wrong because “war” had, in my mind, a definite beginning. Like Richard crossing the Channel in 1066 or Franz Ferdinand being assassinated in Serbia to start World War I.
The foreword to Fatal Scores says that, in the unspecified not far future in which the story takes place, “the world is not dramatically different, but what the media called Cyberwar I has happened. In the wake of fires, floods, power-grid failures and a small nuclear episode, the United States rushed to develop the most secure (and most expensive) data vault in history. They named it, in bureaucratic mumblespeak, the Interagency Communication Channel. The acronym was thus the unpronounceable IACC, which shortly became ‘Yak’ in popular speech.”
Like lots of events in this new world of ours, the whole notion of war is being torqued by technology. It seems as if Cyberwar I has started, perhaps by our attack on Iran’s centrifuges, perhaps earlier. It heated up in the recent election.
One thing almost certain: it will escalate further.
I need an agent. Double quick.