Text in the City

~ Marla ~ 1 Comment

She’s in New York City, my novel’s protagonist. She’s in his office, likely, or he’s taken her home with him in a taxi and he’s making a drink while she waits by the fire. Then maybe he’ll prop up his feet and wonder why she was “enthusiastically” recommended by one of his clients.

I try not to worry., Phoebe can take care of herself. She’ll stand there, her one eye riveted on the agent, her arms crossed like she means business. She’s wearing those old hightop grandma shoes and her black braids are wound around her head like some ghost from the Old Country.  Maybe he’s a little afraid of her.

“What’s your story?” he’ll mumble to himself, which is the opening she’s been waiting for. She’ll start with that spring afternoon in 1920. I’m sick of hearing about it myself, but she always begins there. She’ll describe how the old horse shied in the storm and the bridge collapsed right at her heels. She’ll tell him what she did – really, what she didn’t do – and how she thinks that changed everything that came after. She’ll talk about Rudy, Will, even Missouri, because that woman always attracts men’s attention.

I’m not too nervous how Phoebe will do. Getting a chance to tell her story clear to the end will be good practice. At least I hope he lets her finish. I hope he’s struck by how she sees the world, how unsentimental she is. How she’s, as she says, “brave as beans.” No one’s probably ever heard the phrase brave as beans in Manhattan until now.

Because I made it up. I mean, Phoebe made it up.

On the edge

~ Marla ~ 3 Comments

In the movie Shrek, my favorite character hits a moment when he’s a donkey-on-the-edge, screeching “I can’t feel my toes!” I’ve been Donkey these last couple weeks, waiting on an email for a name I can pitch my novel to next. What do writers do during times like this? I’m likely to do too much of the following:

  1. Second-Guessing. Which hardly even seems dysfunctional. I mean, revision itself is second-guessing of a sort, so writers are wired for this. But I step easily from revising the manuscript to revising myself.  I still think my novel, My Glass Eye, is damn good, but this past week I questioned whether it had the right author. My fear peaked Thursday night in my class at the Attic, which is chock-full of talented (young, hip, MFA-wielding) writers. 80% of them, after free-writing for only 7 minutes, each produced unique characterizations and complete narrative arcs in response to the prompt: “George was unlike anyone else…”  I’m sure their feedback to each other would have been equally intimidating if only they’d spoken loud enough for me to hear them.
  2. Self-flagellation.  I wish this burned calories! Opportunities abound to beat yourself up if that’s your kinky thing. This past week, my punishing mantra was “I’m Getting Nothing Whatsoever Done!” Eight years ago, as I dashed from meeting to meeting, I felt primly competent each time I showed up on time, at the right place with a prepared agenda. I’ve been slow to unlearn that work style.
  3. Sinking.  If you second-guess and flagellate your neurotransmitters enough, one day you’ll forget why you should get out of bed in the morning. A lot of writers I know struggle with depression, an occupational hazard when your work is turning your soul inside out in relative isolation. It’s the spiritual equivalent of crumbling yourself into a wad and tossing it at the nearest trash can.

But, since I’m blogging about things not to do during an edgy week, I suggest instead:

  • Don’t Give a Damn. I didn’t give up tenure to stress out when dreadlocked, pierced, and tatted 30-somethings don’t think I’ve quite captured an adolescent voice in my first 350 words of novel #2. I spent decades trying to make straight-A’s and decades trying to convince my students real life wasn’t about grades at all. As the only student I have now, I should listen to myself. The test comes on weeks like these.
  • Don’t punch a clock. Once you figure out writing is much different than other work you’ve done (see “salary and benefits”), you can celebrate how much you accomplish even on off-days. Dani Shapiro (Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life, 2013) has pinned on her bulletin board these instructions by poet Jane Kenyon:
    • Protect your time
    • Feed your inner life
    • Avoid too much noise
    • Read good books
    • Be by yourself as often as your can, (but see below*)
    • Walk
    • Take the phone off the hook
    • Work regular hours

3. * Don’t isolate. I learn this over and over, (thanks to you, yes you know who you are.) Those invasive species above (second-guessing, self-flagellating, sinking) wilt in the sunshine of my friends talking, laughing, and eating. And I say this as a rabid introvert.

What sends you to the edge?

What are your invasive emotional weeds?

What have you learned about staying healthy as a writer?

 

 

 

Celebrating rejection

~ Marla ~ 5 Comments

It would be so awkward if I experienced immediate success, I thought yesterday. My blog would be unrealistic and difficult for other writers to relate to. So I have something to celebrate today  –  no awkward success has cursed me!

This morning, the agent I queried Thursday emailed No Thanks in the best possible way: You are a beautiful writer…I encourage you to pitch other agents…I am sure you will find someone…but I didn’t connect with the story in the way that I hoped I would.

A friend of mine has heard that last phrase several times, so perhaps it’s from the Manual of Excellent I-Messages for Nice Agents. Still, this agent responded so quickly and with such kindness I am not discouraged.

I just (!) have to find an agent who does connect, and passionately.  An agent’s job is daunting. No publisher is already daydreaming how much money they’d make if only one of their editors were approached by an agent who has found an author with 71,000 beautiful words describing a half-blind woman’s life in Depression-era Oklahoma.

I remain (brashly?) confident. Go figure. Surely it’s too early for that line in Harry Chapin’s ballad, “Mr. Tanner”: full-time consideration of another endeavor might be in order. So now that I’ve vented here a bit (thank you, Reader), I’ll celebrate. I’ll print off my kind email and tape it on my office wall. Then I’ll curl up and connect with my Kindle and dear dog Jonah, whose adoration, as you can see in the photo above, is immediate, non-commercial, and whole-hearted.

What are your experiences with agents? Do you celebrate rejection often? What has worked for you? Are dogs or cats better with unconditional support?

 

What have I done?!

~ Marla ~ 2 Comments

I just sent the novel’s first ten pages to the agent my consultant (“beta reader”?) recommended. I cannot possibly write a full blog right now; I can barely write full sentences or spelll werds. I can only stare at the computer screen with the same expression you see above on Muriel’s face. I’ve read not to give up until you’ve contacted 70-80 agents, so I promise not to post each time, but we’re off and running, my friends!

Writing the terrarium

~ Marla ~ 6 Comments

While I worked to get The Novel ready for an agent this week,  an autumn drama unfolded outside my office window. Alternating acts of brilliant sun and sparkly showers were staged before a backdrop of Doug Firs and Western Red Cedars. Though I deserve zero credit for how these native trees thrive, I admire their green perennial border towering behind my garden of gold, red, and purple maples, smoke trees, and mahonia bushes.

Writing my novel was similar to gardening with Doug Firs, but drafting a synopsis this week felt like planting a terrarium. Or, as Aladdin said, “Phenomenal cosmic power! Itty bitty living space.”  The web offered much advice on how to boil  my 71,000 words down to entice an agent or editor to read further. First, introduce the premise, setting, and main characters. Next, summarize each important scene. Then revise those summaries so the plot unfolds clearly without gaps. Revise again to highlight the developmental arc of each character. Finally, edit carefully. Avoid vague teasers—it’s not to read like a back-of-the-book blurb. And waste no space on voice, lyrical writing, or metaphor.

Oh dear me. My mind is mostly metaphor. 89%. Everything is like something else in there. Concise is not my gift. My synopsis sucked in all ways and enticed in none. And was way too big for the little glass jar.

About then, I got an email from my consultant asking if I was ready to for an agent—was the manuscript formatted and did I have a paragraph about the book? Could this mean a 500-word lab report on the tortured corpse of my  dissected novel was unnecessary? I’m waiting for that answer, but meanwhile here’s the paragraph I’ve drafted:

In this literary novel, Phoebe, a farm wife and mother of four, wears a glass eye after a haunting childhood accident and fears what might blind-side her across the wide prairies of Oklahoma. When a storm sweeps away a bridge and strands her by a flooded gully, the harrowing rescue of the baby she’d forgotten in the wagon has consequences the family never fully resolve. Her husband Rudy struggles to harmonize his innate optimism with economic failure and betrayal. His brother Will evolves from a manipulative gambler to family martyr. Will’s wife Missouri, fresh from the city brothel, battles for respect and a family of her own. The sections of the story unfold in five different years between 1920 to 1941 as Phoebe tallies her losses and small quiet victories, and learns to press forward with courage.

 

What do you think about this terrarium paragraph? Do any phrases make you want to read more? Do you have any experience with synopsises? Synopses? Or heck, let’s just talk gardening…

Wispy to shiny: My stages of writing

~ Marla ~ 2 Comments

Why, oh why did I not do this properly from the very beginning?! Dehydrating and knotting myself into a wad of neglected muscles, I spent hours this past week re-formatting my manuscript how agents expect. But along with punctuating inconsistently for 3 1/2 years, I also did some things well while writing My Glass Eye.  Are any of my stages similar to what you experience?

  1. Wispy Stage:  Back when the novel was a mere twinkle in my myopic eye, I took classes at The Attic, ( Portland’s “Haven for Writers,” atticinstitute.com) on story structure, scene writing, and character development. The outlines, flow charts, and character studies contained my unformed ideas, like a safe basket where the emerging story could nestle. A vulnerable new novel needs this love and nourishment before getting pelted and dismembered.
  2. Crumbly Stage:  At first, my characters were unlikable cardboard cut-outs doing odd things for no apparent reasons. Tantrums, false starts, and self-doubt abounded (mine, not theirs), but my writing colleagues stirred that mixture weekly with guidance and feedback. We held each other accountable, supported each other’s strengths, and nudged ourselves forward. I wrote all the way to a (very cheesy) ending. And celebrated!
  3. Sturdy Stage:  I realized I wasn’t in total control, woo-woo as that sounds. This story existed Out There Somewhere and just hired me as its scribe. (But the salary sucked!) I began to whack and whittle at it. With new-found confidence and glee, I killed off characters, dug up their secrets, set them at each other’s throats. Now I wanted more feedback, as honest and critical as possible. Writing consistently became easier and (better and better) drafts piled up.
  4. The Lull: Then I lost my way. Our writing group split up. I needed a new teacher. I couldn’t figure out the ending. I became pretty depressed about bad weather, chronic pain, loneliness, national politics, and not writing. Plain ol’ butt in chair would have shortened this stage. Maybe.
  5. Shiny Stage: With a deadline, writing every day again, the novel raced to its finish. (Aided by a vacationing husband who delivered coffee, wine, and meals, then listened to me read aloud the day’s work. No, he’s not for rent.)  My consultant loved the new draft, and suggested I cut 10,000 of my precious 80,000 words. Earlier, that would have derailed me, but the story was clear enough to me now I could spot and lop off extraneous bits with minimum pain. I was surprised how that pruning revealed new and better plot connections and character details.

The next stages will likely bring additional eyestrain, revelations, and wine.  Please comment below how your own writing unfolds and what you expect will come next!

Pinching myself

young girl standing in a wheat field
~ Marla ~ 19 Comments

“Well sure,” I thought, “who doesn’t want to write books? But novelists aren’t people like us.” I was 10, and my friend Cindy had just confessed what she wanted to be when she grew up. Over the next 50 years, I did publish some other stuff myself, and met one or two actual novelists, but I still figured I wasn’t a person like them.

Then, at 55, I left my career behind when my husband’s work brought us to Oregon, and I decided to try to be a writer, of essays maybe, or a memoir, or heck, I might as well tackle a novel. And now I have finished it.

Can I just say that again? I have finished a novel. (Pinch!) And, as they say in Minnesota where I used to live, it’s not too bad. But I haven’t a clue how to get it published.

This blog will tell that story (likely a long, comic, successful, tragic story ) of how and if it gets published. I imagine I’ll learn as much going forward as I’ve already  learned making a new life writing. I’ll share those thoughts here, and I hope you’ll comment about what you know, wish for, and struggle with in your own writing life.

Can we become novelists? Time will tell. But as for growing up, I seriously doubt it will come to that.