I Lo-o-o-ve My Editor

That is, I love her at this moment. An hour from now I may not. But right this minute I love her almost as much—perhaps more than—my own children. Why?

Simple. She pointed out a flaw in a story.

If you haven’t been down this road, you may not immediately grasp how this is a loveable act. Bear with me.

If you follow the blog you know that several months ago I submitted a novel, and have been waiting to hear from the publisher since. The eventual answer was a very nice “No, thank you.” With rejection came insights passed on from acquisitions readers, consisting of several concrete jewels, including this bit: “the opening with descriptions of the landscape didn't grab them at all…”

That’s not earthshaking, is it? Except…the opening wasn’t about the landscape. It was meant to introduce the main character in her current role, illustrating her immediate decision-making process, in which the landscape played a part.

I think I mentioned last post that I’m not terribly analytical when it comes to writing. I can be systematically solution-oriented about every other issue on earth, but I struggle to dissect my own work. My initial response to the above was: “Huh? I can’t change that! That’s where she is; that’s what’s going on!”

So then, of course, I went into my cave, where several unrelated incidents prolonged my stay.

What do you mean, what do I mean, I went into my cave? I have a personal cave, don’t you? Of course you do. Everybody’s got a cave. It’s your haven when life is hard. Your cave is the place—physical or otherwise—where you regroup and mull it over, perhaps while outwardly pursuing mundane affairs, or conversely, neglecting myriad responsibilities while indulging in nonstop Facebook games (er-hmm).

Regardless, I went into my cave. And finally, two weeks later, between rounds of Farkle and voting for my Sorority Life sisters, I had a Eureka Moment.

“Well, duh, Rachel. If the acquisitions readers think they’re reading a landscape description instead of a character description, then you have written the introduction WRONG. You need to rewrite it so that they are drawn into a mercenary captain’s decision as to where her troop should camp, in unfamiliar territory with her possibly vengeful, supposedly immortal husband on their trail.”

Yup, that’s more than landscape description.

So I rewrote the introduction. I don’t know whether I rewrote it enough, but I certainly wrote it with clearer vision and purpose than I possessed the first time—or even through the 5,333rd edit done before the most recent submission.

See, this is why editors are good, people. Even when they tell you things you don't wanna hear. Much as I love my beta readers, they didn’t—maybe couldn’t—express this truth to me. My local writer’s group gave the story first place in their yearly competition. But three sucessive publishers have rejected it. Each gave it apparently serious consideration, which tells me there is something worthwhile in it, if I can just make it shine. Only the last publisher pointed me solidly to the flaws, giving me a better product to market elsewhere.

So, yes. I love my editor. (She is my editor for other works, if she isn’t for the one under discussion.)

You know what? While we’re analyzing, it just hit me that the character’s initial placement in the landscape is also an allegory for her position: caught between two worlds, essentially isolated…

Damn. It’s amazing what a little analysis can yield.

And now, the random question of the day (remember, I don't generate these. I just push a button and answer what comes up.):

When you've got water stuck in your ear, how do you get it out?

Um... tilt your head sideways? Do you even have a day job? No? Not surprised.

Brand Me, Baby

The thing I feared has come to pass. No one is reading this blog, and without readership/feedback/interaction it becomes an online journal where I quietly process my writing adventures. I began with the idea of connecting with readers, but perhaps I’ll get some much-needed self therapy, instead. For writers, insanity is a predisposing factor, exacerbated by the job.

Which introduces today’s post, if in somewhat rambling fashion. (Talkin’ to myself, remember? Who cares how much I ramble? Shut up.) In terms of connecting with readers, newly published authors are advised to establish their author “brand”. Several things here, so hold your breath, kids, we’re goin’ in.

First, “brand” appears to be the current hot marketing buzzword. I friggin’ hate buzzwords. After seven years in the non-profit sector, constantly hassled by state, federal and other funding agencies to use the proper buzzwords in grant and report writing, buzzwords make my skin crawl. What’s wrong with variety? For craps’s sake, people, we’re selling creative command of language! Hmmph.

‘Nother thing. I’m from Texas. Y’all say “brand” around me, and I get visions of being tied up and held down by sweaty, dusty men, wielding red hot irons. Now, I don’t mind the sweaty dusty men, and in some very specific circumstances might even experiment with letting them hold me down and tie me up, but hot irons do nothing for me. I’m sure they’re exciting for some folks, but that association just makes me want to run away, far and fast.

All of which is to say: I am reluctant to be branded. I have commitment issues anyway; why should this differ? I don’t want to be known as a contemporary, historical, paranormal or mainstream author, who does whatever-all-my-stories-in-those-genres-have-in-common, or whose characters have whatever qualities I can’t appear to avoid.

Yes, there is an argument for letting readers know what to expect: likeable characters, great descriptions, angsty villains, snarky heroines, what have you. But when I analyze my craft too deeply it disappears. Really. I suspect that, like me, my writing doesn’t want to be pigeonholed or even relied on to deliver much of anything. When I start trying to define it, it simply goes away. If I concentrate on branding, I’m not writing anymore. If I’m not writing I’m not a writer; if I don’t write I don’t publish. If I’m not published I’m not an author….I’m the looney chick in the corner, mumbling to myself. Somewhat like this blog.

At bottom, I don’t want to let perceptions box me in. I write what I like because I like it, because it calls to me and lives inside my head, demanding release into the world. That’s it. Not because it fits a brand or a definition or anyone else’s idea of what’s popular or hot or “good”. Don’t get me started on “good”.

But if the world insists on a brand, here goes: I write in multiple genres. Most of my stories will feature some form of romance, although not everyone will consider all of them romantic. They generally challenge authority in some form.

There you go. That’s it. I’m bouncing around, thumbing my nose through smudged, rose colored glasses.

Come to think of it, that’s pretty accurate: ADD, commitment issues and internal conflict, through and through.

And the random question for the day:

Do you believe that forks are evolved from spoons?

Nope. Look at the shape. They clearly evolved from fingers. Spoons evolved from palms.

A Writer's Life, Redux

What a mixed up day. It started out horrible, and wound up bearable. My computer cratered this morning, which anyone who follows my Twitter or Facebook heard more than they wanted to about. It took about 3000 words of a new story I was actually beginning to like down with it into the grave. The techies are pessimistic about recovery. Then my breakfast blew up all over the microwave, after which I put together a mish-mash of old computer components to make a halfassed-useable stop-gap system (pardon the typos courtesy of the ancient keyboard). I finally decided to blow off steam by playing an online game, and was absolutely obliterated in it.

And yes, folks, to top it all I'm still whining and still stressing because 1) I didn't place a story I wanted to--I got some good feedback and will try again elsewhere, but it's discouraging. And 2) supposedly placing a different story two weeks ago still hasn't yielded a signed contract or any info re publication dates or for that matter confirmation of placement from the publisher.

In other words, I'm frustrated.

On the other hand: My daughters are nice people. My son is doing well in school. My friends are kind and encouraging. Once I wailed like a baby, some folks in the online game came through to help me. My husband and I got take out for a nice dinner. My dog loves me, and my cat is purring in my lap as I type.

So I guess, all in all, I'll survive. Don't you wish you could quit the day job for a glamorous, creative life like mine?