Here we are getting a bit better. More engaging. Better tone. Much shorter. Better first line, though I have ideas on how to make it even better. This isn't perfect, but it is a leap forward. In this one I feel there is a possibility the reader will believe I can write.
****
Swan Shreve thinks her former middle school secretary has lost her marbles. It's been fifteen years since the last time she saw the old bat and now Mrs. Hamel shows up out of nowhere, announces she's actually a spy for a top secret government secretarial pool, and says she needs Swan's help. Even if it were real, Swan isn't interested. She just got her Ph.D. in English and working as a secretary to an upper level engineer in a weapons company is only temporary until she can find a tenure track position teahching the importance of Aphra Behn to sleeping freshmen. But Mrs. Hamel has more of her marbles (and various other weapons) than Swan realizes. The Strategic Secretarial Services (SSS) is real and when a coworker is murder and the killers come after Swan, she'll need every bit of Mrs. Hamel's help to stay alive.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Query Letter #2
Ok. This one is shorter, which is better. However I apparently still thought the line, "Secretaries know everything," was a good hook. And never let it be said that I let go of a bad phrase when I have convinced myself it is good. I'm far too stubborn for that. It is still quite long though and not really engaging. Not to mention it's never clear who the main character is anyway. (Hard to be engaging when the reader doesn't know who she's supposed to engage with.) And there are a few (many) cliches in here. The bad kind. The lazy writer kind. Yup. All in all, #2 goes in the bin. Here it is, in all it's awful glory.
***
Secretaries know everything. In WWII when the precursor to the CIA, the Office of Strategic Services was created, a top secret sister organization was also started: The Strategic Secretarial Services (SSS). Throughout the Cold War the ladies of the SSS kept America and the world safe. They infiltrated the most dangerous networks, made the most daring rescues, and were an unstoppable force in the intelligence community. Until women's lib. Now all the smart, strong young women want bigger and better careers than being a secretary.
Swan Shreve is a modern, young woman. In the last 6 months she's finished her Ph.D. in American Literature, gotten dumped by her boyfriend and found a job as a secretary to an upper level engineer in a weapons company until her ship--in the form of a tenure track at a nice university--comes in. All she needs to do is survive rude callers and being stalked by the secretary of her old middle school, now retired, who keeps going on about spying. Clearly the woman sniffed a lot of copier fluid. Or so Swan believes until a fellow secretary is gunned down before Swan's eyes.
***
Secretaries know everything. In WWII when the precursor to the CIA, the Office of Strategic Services was created, a top secret sister organization was also started: The Strategic Secretarial Services (SSS). Throughout the Cold War the ladies of the SSS kept America and the world safe. They infiltrated the most dangerous networks, made the most daring rescues, and were an unstoppable force in the intelligence community. Until women's lib. Now all the smart, strong young women want bigger and better careers than being a secretary.
Swan Shreve is a modern, young woman. In the last 6 months she's finished her Ph.D. in American Literature, gotten dumped by her boyfriend and found a job as a secretary to an upper level engineer in a weapons company until her ship--in the form of a tenure track at a nice university--comes in. All she needs to do is survive rude callers and being stalked by the secretary of her old middle school, now retired, who keeps going on about spying. Clearly the woman sniffed a lot of copier fluid. Or so Swan believes until a fellow secretary is gunned down before Swan's eyes.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Query Letter #1
And because I am a glutton for punishment (or maybe it's that I'm a sadist), I am going to post all 6 query letters. So here it is, my first crack at it. #1. Possibly not the worst query letter ever written, but that bar is too low to limbo under. I bet I don't miss it by much though.
The tone is wrong for the book. It is far, far too long. Just this synopsis takes up the whole first page of a one page letter. Oops. Yeah. I suspect it was looking at this mess and realizing there was only so much revision could do that gave me the idea of tossing and starting over several more times.
Query letter #1
We all know secretaries run the world. What we don’t know is there exists a governmental department of secretary spies, the Strategic Secretarial Services, that grew up in World War II and has been saving the world ever since. In my novel, Spies and Secretaries, Swan Shreve is about to learn.
Swan Shreve graduated with a doctorate in American Literature and then hit a wall. Unable to find a decent job at a university because of her focus on Edith Wharton’s ghost stories, not serious enough literature, she finds a job as a secretary and now feels insecure and defeated, still sending out resumes every Tuesday.
Mrs. Hamel and the Strategic Secretarial Services have another problem. Ever since women’s liberation all the good candidates have gone into “better” careers. And while she can still wield a machine gun and crush a larynx with the best of them before going home to bake excellent cookies for her seven grandkids, she knows if they don’t get some new members soon, the SSS will die out and the country will be left with only the CIA to protect them.
However Swan is more inclined to believe Mrs. Hamel is senile than a master spy and refuses to join. When another secretary at her company in assassinated, Swan finds herself helping the SSS discover the mole in their midst and learning that her own self worth doesn’t need to be tied to her job title.
The tone is wrong for the book. It is far, far too long. Just this synopsis takes up the whole first page of a one page letter. Oops. Yeah. I suspect it was looking at this mess and realizing there was only so much revision could do that gave me the idea of tossing and starting over several more times.
Query letter #1
We all know secretaries run the world. What we don’t know is there exists a governmental department of secretary spies, the Strategic Secretarial Services, that grew up in World War II and has been saving the world ever since. In my novel, Spies and Secretaries, Swan Shreve is about to learn.
Swan Shreve graduated with a doctorate in American Literature and then hit a wall. Unable to find a decent job at a university because of her focus on Edith Wharton’s ghost stories, not serious enough literature, she finds a job as a secretary and now feels insecure and defeated, still sending out resumes every Tuesday.
Mrs. Hamel and the Strategic Secretarial Services have another problem. Ever since women’s liberation all the good candidates have gone into “better” careers. And while she can still wield a machine gun and crush a larynx with the best of them before going home to bake excellent cookies for her seven grandkids, she knows if they don’t get some new members soon, the SSS will die out and the country will be left with only the CIA to protect them.
However Swan is more inclined to believe Mrs. Hamel is senile than a master spy and refuses to join. When another secretary at her company in assassinated, Swan finds herself helping the SSS discover the mole in their midst and learning that her own self worth doesn’t need to be tied to her job title.
attempting more coherence tonight
And hoping I will make sense. Maybe.
I went out to lunch with a friend of mine and had him take a look at the latest and greatest of my query letters. He pointed out the ways it wasn't working. This bothered me, because I really thought I had it this time. But despite my pleading, he refused to say it was wonderful and perfect as is. This is why I have him look at my stuff.
So more on writing query letters, because they are essentially writer kryptonite. People can turn out novels that run hundreds and hundreds of pages and then flip about a one page query letter and a two page synopsis, the general industry standards.
I'm starting pretty early with this, mostly because I know that the second I feel completely finished with the book, I won't have the patience to do a good job on the query letter and synopsis. I'll want to start sending it out NOW. So I'm doing this while I have patience.
And since I also know that writing the perfect query letter is writer kryptonite and a writer can become paralyzed at just the thought of doing this task, I have set myself up to write six of them.
Why six? Why not just one and revise it to perfection? Several reasons. 1)When I write something down and then try to revise, I tend to get stuck with the way I wrote it down in the first place. I can't seem to imagine another way to write it. And when it comes to query letters or other things of this nature, the first version will be bad and I'll just be revising bad into mediocre. Where when I start over from scratch, I find other ways of addressing the letter that will be better. Really. Letter 2 was better than 1 and letter 3 was so much better I seem to have forgotten that I meant to write six. I thought I was done. Turns out I need six.
I went out to lunch with a friend of mine and had him take a look at the latest and greatest of my query letters. He pointed out the ways it wasn't working. This bothered me, because I really thought I had it this time. But despite my pleading, he refused to say it was wonderful and perfect as is. This is why I have him look at my stuff.
So more on writing query letters, because they are essentially writer kryptonite. People can turn out novels that run hundreds and hundreds of pages and then flip about a one page query letter and a two page synopsis, the general industry standards.
I'm starting pretty early with this, mostly because I know that the second I feel completely finished with the book, I won't have the patience to do a good job on the query letter and synopsis. I'll want to start sending it out NOW. So I'm doing this while I have patience.
And since I also know that writing the perfect query letter is writer kryptonite and a writer can become paralyzed at just the thought of doing this task, I have set myself up to write six of them.
Why six? Why not just one and revise it to perfection? Several reasons. 1)When I write something down and then try to revise, I tend to get stuck with the way I wrote it down in the first place. I can't seem to imagine another way to write it. And when it comes to query letters or other things of this nature, the first version will be bad and I'll just be revising bad into mediocre. Where when I start over from scratch, I find other ways of addressing the letter that will be better. Really. Letter 2 was better than 1 and letter 3 was so much better I seem to have forgotten that I meant to write six. I thought I was done. Turns out I need six.
And 2) It gets rid of a lot of the anxiety to set out to write a bunch of these rather than just one perfect one. Gives me room to mess up.
Six is a good number for this. After all, it is only one page, so it's not like this takes tons of time. I'm not just sitting down and banging out six in a row. I'm giving myself weeks to do this. I write one. Stare at it. Write another. Compare and contrast. Wrote the third. Showed it to friends. Took some comments. I'm on to number 4. Now I need to tackle the synopsis just as seriously.
More writer kryptonite. I can feel my powers draining.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
blink, blink
I have recently given up cooking. It's that bad. I'm doing 6-8 hours of revising and rewriting a day and when I finally look away from my computer screen it feels as though all my brain has turned to mush and I can't think anymore for the rest of the day. Deciding what to make for dinner is too complex. I'm progressing at a rate of a chapter every other day. I'm a slow writer. This is breakneck speed for me.
I'm glad it's going like this. I think I'm actually within 100 pages of the end of this draft. In the meantime, I'm just glad Andy is willing to make dinner and not make many other demands on me.
This is the first novel that has been worth revising. And the other ones, let's just say I wasn't as serious about them. So I have to wonder if this is what it is going to be like at the end of writing every novel. Will I always hit this pushing phase where I am otherwise useless to the world? The hardest part of writing this novel is really all the time its taken me to learn my own process of writing. I write in the mornings. Usually by hand, but when I get going I type, etc., etc. Each of the failed novels (5 of them) I got a little further along and a little better. This is the first time I've made it this far. I did them all in different ways (for 4 of them I had no outline or idea of where I was going. The only sad thing is that it took me FOUR failed novels to figure out that doesn't work for me. FOUR. Excuse me while I continue banging my head against a wall because I like it) until I finally figured out something that worked.
Now I'm figuring out rewrites. Sure, I've rewritten stories, but this is a tad bit... bigger. My longest short stories top out at 10,000 words. This is already at 90,000. We'll see where it ends up after the revisions. So it is a whole new game. It's taken me almost a year to do the first draft through the third draft. Will it always take that amount of time? Will I get faster at this once I know how this works? Will I ever feel like my brain is functioning again or is the mush thing permanent?
Ok. I'm off to sleep and then get back to work. I have another chapter that needs doing and I'm so very close.
I'm glad it's going like this. I think I'm actually within 100 pages of the end of this draft. In the meantime, I'm just glad Andy is willing to make dinner and not make many other demands on me.
This is the first novel that has been worth revising. And the other ones, let's just say I wasn't as serious about them. So I have to wonder if this is what it is going to be like at the end of writing every novel. Will I always hit this pushing phase where I am otherwise useless to the world? The hardest part of writing this novel is really all the time its taken me to learn my own process of writing. I write in the mornings. Usually by hand, but when I get going I type, etc., etc. Each of the failed novels (5 of them) I got a little further along and a little better. This is the first time I've made it this far. I did them all in different ways (for 4 of them I had no outline or idea of where I was going. The only sad thing is that it took me FOUR failed novels to figure out that doesn't work for me. FOUR. Excuse me while I continue banging my head against a wall because I like it) until I finally figured out something that worked.
Now I'm figuring out rewrites. Sure, I've rewritten stories, but this is a tad bit... bigger. My longest short stories top out at 10,000 words. This is already at 90,000. We'll see where it ends up after the revisions. So it is a whole new game. It's taken me almost a year to do the first draft through the third draft. Will it always take that amount of time? Will I get faster at this once I know how this works? Will I ever feel like my brain is functioning again or is the mush thing permanent?
Ok. I'm off to sleep and then get back to work. I have another chapter that needs doing and I'm so very close.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
weekend roundup
- Agent Janet Reid rebutts the Wall Street Journal article I posted last week.
- Editorial Anonymous has a fabulous post on what to put in the autobiographical portion of the query letter.
- An interesting bit of questions and answers, most up for the first few.
- Various literary terms that may not already be in your vocabulary.
That's all I've got this week. I'm going to go see if the Husker baseball team can pull out a win (already down by 3 in the first inning) and avoid doing the mini-sweetrolls I need to make for coffee hour tomorrow. Procrastination will make my baking better. I'm sure of it.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Here I Am
Apologies for taking so long to introduce myself, but here I am. My name is Lauren, and I'm Leigh Anna's new coblogger. (Is that even a word?) I write fantastic fiction of various sorts, and also work in the production editorial department for a major publishing company, which leads to all sorts of interesting insights as an aspiring writer. I'll do my best to be here regularly, discussing the ins and outs of writing and publishing. I think for today, since it's my first post, I'm just going to say a couple of vague, pertinent things.
First, don't be afraid. Write what you want to write, how you want to write it. It takes time to develop both a good writing habit and a body of solid writing. Be patient with yourself. Don't be afraid of writing junk. Don't be afraid of the blank page before you. Don't be afraid that no one will like your story, or that it will never sell because there are tons of books in that genre already. If you let fear paralyze you, you won't get anywhere.
Second, keep reading. I firmly believe that you cannot be a good writer without being a good reader. You need to know what's out there and what's selling. And, even more importantly, reading books helps you grow as a writer. You'll learn about story arcs, about developing characters, about good descriptive passages, about how to write a hot sex scene, etc., etc., etc.
Third, do your research. I know that if you write genre fiction there's a temptation to just say "Well, I created the world my book takes place in, so I can just make it up however I want." But the truth of the matter is, consistency is important. If you're writing urban fantasy in eighteenth-century London, find a map of the city appropriate to the time period. Look into the slang people used then. Find out what people wore. If your fiction takes place in the now, and has some real people/places/things entwined with your fiction, make sure that whatever you say about those real things is accurate. (I know researching is often not as fun as writing. But trust me. Readers notice when things are askew.)
There we go. A solid trio of things for you to ponder. Have a good weekend, everyone!
First, don't be afraid. Write what you want to write, how you want to write it. It takes time to develop both a good writing habit and a body of solid writing. Be patient with yourself. Don't be afraid of writing junk. Don't be afraid of the blank page before you. Don't be afraid that no one will like your story, or that it will never sell because there are tons of books in that genre already. If you let fear paralyze you, you won't get anywhere.
Second, keep reading. I firmly believe that you cannot be a good writer without being a good reader. You need to know what's out there and what's selling. And, even more importantly, reading books helps you grow as a writer. You'll learn about story arcs, about developing characters, about good descriptive passages, about how to write a hot sex scene, etc., etc., etc.
Third, do your research. I know that if you write genre fiction there's a temptation to just say "Well, I created the world my book takes place in, so I can just make it up however I want." But the truth of the matter is, consistency is important. If you're writing urban fantasy in eighteenth-century London, find a map of the city appropriate to the time period. Look into the slang people used then. Find out what people wore. If your fiction takes place in the now, and has some real people/places/things entwined with your fiction, make sure that whatever you say about those real things is accurate. (I know researching is often not as fun as writing. But trust me. Readers notice when things are askew.)
There we go. A solid trio of things for you to ponder. Have a good weekend, everyone!
Various Things
- I'm now reading Steal Across the Sky by Nancy Kress. I love her. Also reading Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing by Arnie Bernstein. It came in the mail earlier this week. It's wonderful to see the real thing in print.
- Yay Iowa!!! I got married there! Very proud of that part of my midwestern roots.
- Bookends blog has an interesting post on what good things an author can do (from an agent's perspective). I skipped the agentfail thing since most of the writers seemed to be largely griping that a) the agents aren't reading their superb and wonderful queries/submissions fast enough b) they hate the no response means no thing and c) how dare agents publicly Twitter or otherwise admit to having a life and taking a break from work when they should be reading all the wonderful queries and submissions from all the commenters. There may have been something interesting further down, and perhaps if I were an agent, I'd find it all useful. As it is, I decided working on my writing was a better use of my time.
- Finally, FINALLY finished chapter 11!!!!!! (I don't think I have enough exclamation marks there to convey my excitement at this.) It feels really good to feel like I'm moving forward again. Maybe I will finally finish and get to start sending out.
That's all. Want to get this up. There is a beautiful thunderstorm going right now. The mist has floated off the Hudson and the thunder rattles the apartment. So besides the worry that my electricity will go out before I post, I'm really enjoying the show.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
the smell of desperation comes through this blog
I'm new to this blog thing. I've done a few other blogs. I clearly started this one awhile ago, but only recently have I kept up on it, and more importantly, started to read other people's blogs and comment sections. Among the blogs I read are pretty much everything by an agent, editor, or anyone on that end of the publishing business that I can find. Here's something that I've noticed. The desperation isn't just me. I can tell in the comments.
For every encouraging post are a bevy of comments in thanks. For every post mentioning things some idiot did/bad queries/showing up at the office/unreasonable demands on the editor/agent, there are a dozen comments on how the commenter is so much more aware and prepared than that. They know and would never, ever, ever do anything that stupid. Even the occasional comment on how to query the specific agent/editor or mentioning how the particular agent/editor had rejected them but that's okay, they like the blog anyway. I love all these people.
Some people may manage to not be angst ridden at finishing their first novel and trying to get it published. Some people also have perfect pitch, trust funds, and no trouble getting dates too. This has never been me. I'm not the girl who gets discovered by the big time modelling agency in a McDonald's. I'm the one with grease in my hair, standing behind the counter, working my butt off and thinking that I'd be prettier than her if I wasn't in my stupid uniform with grease in my hair, and I lost a little of the weight I've put on lately.
So I'm a little angst ridden. I've been dreaming of this ever since I stopped imagining myself as Meg Murray and started imagining myself as Madeleine L'Engle.
And now here I am, very close to finding out if I can make it in this business, devouring any bit of advice and commentary that anyone can hand out to me, and hoping that if I collect enough tips and tidbits it will slant the deck in my favor. I won't wind up among the 99% who never make it. And part of me, that irrational, optimistic part, is hoping that after the difficulties of learning to write well and writing a novel that the next part will be easy. That someone will come along and discover me. The right person will notice my blog, or perhaps my brilliant and erudite comments in someone else's blog, pop on by, read the bits I have up and decide he or she has clearly found a brilliant and publishable author, and I'll be discovered. Hey, it happened to John Scalzi. Can it happen to me? Please?
Reading other people's comments, I can't help but think that some of them are writing from the same place. Please notice my brilliant thank you to your advice. Please notice that I would not be a troublesome author, but instead, a fabulous one: I'll write only bestselling books; I'll be easy to work with; my manuscripts will always be in on time and require little work to get them ready for print; I will be the coolest, hottest, sexiest, snarkiest, best author you ever worked with. You will love me and I will make you lots of money and bring tons of critcal prestige. Please discover me.
Maybe I'm projecting my crazy thoughts on other people.
But just in case there are a few other people who know better but can't help hoping and then you read that two sentence comment you just spent three hours writing and realize just after you hit the button that you do sound a little more desperate than you intended. Yeah, for you, I'm right there with you.
Now back to work.
For every encouraging post are a bevy of comments in thanks. For every post mentioning things some idiot did/bad queries/showing up at the office/unreasonable demands on the editor/agent, there are a dozen comments on how the commenter is so much more aware and prepared than that. They know and would never, ever, ever do anything that stupid. Even the occasional comment on how to query the specific agent/editor or mentioning how the particular agent/editor had rejected them but that's okay, they like the blog anyway. I love all these people.
Some people may manage to not be angst ridden at finishing their first novel and trying to get it published. Some people also have perfect pitch, trust funds, and no trouble getting dates too. This has never been me. I'm not the girl who gets discovered by the big time modelling agency in a McDonald's. I'm the one with grease in my hair, standing behind the counter, working my butt off and thinking that I'd be prettier than her if I wasn't in my stupid uniform with grease in my hair, and I lost a little of the weight I've put on lately.
So I'm a little angst ridden. I've been dreaming of this ever since I stopped imagining myself as Meg Murray and started imagining myself as Madeleine L'Engle.
And now here I am, very close to finding out if I can make it in this business, devouring any bit of advice and commentary that anyone can hand out to me, and hoping that if I collect enough tips and tidbits it will slant the deck in my favor. I won't wind up among the 99% who never make it. And part of me, that irrational, optimistic part, is hoping that after the difficulties of learning to write well and writing a novel that the next part will be easy. That someone will come along and discover me. The right person will notice my blog, or perhaps my brilliant and erudite comments in someone else's blog, pop on by, read the bits I have up and decide he or she has clearly found a brilliant and publishable author, and I'll be discovered. Hey, it happened to John Scalzi. Can it happen to me? Please?
Reading other people's comments, I can't help but think that some of them are writing from the same place. Please notice my brilliant thank you to your advice. Please notice that I would not be a troublesome author, but instead, a fabulous one: I'll write only bestselling books; I'll be easy to work with; my manuscripts will always be in on time and require little work to get them ready for print; I will be the coolest, hottest, sexiest, snarkiest, best author you ever worked with. You will love me and I will make you lots of money and bring tons of critcal prestige. Please discover me.
Maybe I'm projecting my crazy thoughts on other people.
But just in case there are a few other people who know better but can't help hoping and then you read that two sentence comment you just spent three hours writing and realize just after you hit the button that you do sound a little more desperate than you intended. Yeah, for you, I'm right there with you.
Now back to work.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
picture change
I didn't want to have the picture of me up anymore since I will no longer be the only author writing on here. (I'll let the new author introduce herself.)
And yes, I know, no one thinks your pet is as cute as you do. Sorry. But this picture just seemed so quintessentially writer-ish. Tea, manuscript, computer, cat.
And yes, I know, no one thinks your pet is as cute as you do. Sorry. But this picture just seemed so quintessentially writer-ish. Tea, manuscript, computer, cat.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
weekend roundup
This week:
- Guide to Literary Agents blog points out that the Writer's Digest Magazine has 101 Best Websites for Authors and in the very next post, rates the top five agent blogs.
- Jessica at BookEnds discusses what authors can do to sell their books. And if any of them work.
- Moonrat at Editorial Ass reminds us why our chances suck anyway.
- Janet Reid says a mistake in your query letter is ok. Just don't make the really stupid ones.
- ODE magazine discusses 7 ways to start writing. And they all work. I've tried.
- Kristin at Pub Rants discusses Google Settlement in ways the rest of us can understand and points to more resources.
- Colleen Lindsay on The Swivet announced the date of another Queryfail on Twitter.
- Just discovered Practicing Writing. Very cool. Check it out.
- My friend Arnie's book, Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing is #11 on Amazon's True Crime Catagory!!! How awesome is that?
That's what sticks in my mind for this week. If I missed something or must start following something, leave it in the comments.
Cute picture of my cat time.
Friday, March 27, 2009
reading material
What I am reading right now.
The trashy: Die For Me by Karen Rose. I am 72 pages into the novel and I know who the mysterious killer is, and pretty much the rest of the plot of the book. In spite of this, the initial torture seens and the glimpses into the killer's life are chilling. [insert shudder here]
The pretentious: What Was Literature?:Class Culture and Mass Society by Leslie Fiedler. Of course, Fiedler isn't considered pretentious at all by many. He's more pop-crit, but for the average person, pretentious. And worth reading.
The political: The Pentagon's New Map by Thomas Barnett. You will never see the world the same again.
The trashy: Die For Me by Karen Rose. I am 72 pages into the novel and I know who the mysterious killer is, and pretty much the rest of the plot of the book. In spite of this, the initial torture seens and the glimpses into the killer's life are chilling. [insert shudder here]
The pretentious: What Was Literature?:Class Culture and Mass Society by Leslie Fiedler. Of course, Fiedler isn't considered pretentious at all by many. He's more pop-crit, but for the average person, pretentious. And worth reading.
The political: The Pentagon's New Map by Thomas Barnett. You will never see the world the same again.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
the truth comes out
The cat is the true author. I'm only the typist because I have opposable thumbs.
Working on Chapter 11 after the hiatus this week. It's coming along quite nicely. I think having to take a break actually made it come together better. All right. Back to work.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
it went well
That's what the husband said. (I know this announcement will cause hundreds of people to sigh in relief.) And now I can finally sit down and start revising chapter 11 which I've been putting off for a few days. I had a nice track record of 2-3 chapter revisions a week going. Not sure if I'll manage that this week. Worth a shot, but no rushing. Rushing makes you do shoddy work that I'll just have to fix in the next draft.
In the meantime, as I have nothing else really to say today and need to get to chapter 11, here are some pictures of the show I did with the Irish Arts Center band.
We played at a nursing home here. The pictures were all taken by my husband. They are fabulous to work with and if you live in New York and always wanted to learn the language or any Irish instrument, you should look them up. They have classes. Including dance.
Not that I'm a good sales pitch person here, but they really are a delightful group to sing with.
The only thing was on the very first song, I completely forgot the verse. It was my first time singing with them on the first song and there I am, blanking out completely right in the middle. They played the verse and I remembered the words and came in on the next go around.
I sat back down, humiliated and convinced they'd never invite me again. But it was far too late to go running from the room in tears. So there I sat, feeling like the biggest moron ever.
The rest of the show was great. Later, talking to one of the fiddle players about how I'd screwed up the first song she said, "Oh, I thought you put the instrumental verse in there on purpose."
In the meantime, as I have nothing else really to say today and need to get to chapter 11, here are some pictures of the show I did with the Irish Arts Center band.
We played at a nursing home here. The pictures were all taken by my husband. They are fabulous to work with and if you live in New York and always wanted to learn the language or any Irish instrument, you should look them up. They have classes. Including dance.
Not that I'm a good sales pitch person here, but they really are a delightful group to sing with.
The only thing was on the very first song, I completely forgot the verse. It was my first time singing with them on the first song and there I am, blanking out completely right in the middle. They played the verse and I remembered the words and came in on the next go around.
I sat back down, humiliated and convinced they'd never invite me again. But it was far too late to go running from the room in tears. So there I sat, feeling like the biggest moron ever.
The rest of the show was great. Later, talking to one of the fiddle players about how I'd screwed up the first song she said, "Oh, I thought you put the instrumental verse in there on purpose."
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
too nervous to think
My very nice husband is a scientist doing his postdoc. He's a nuclear engineer and essentially he builds the various ways to shoot radiation at cells and other small things so biologists can study cancer.
Anyway, where he works is up for a really big grant and the really big grant people are visiting today. I'm just glad it is almost over. Watching someone you love run themselves into the ground is painful. He's gone to work at nine in the morning and not come home until four in the morning at times. More usually he'd get home at ten or eleven pm, exhausted and hungry. He's been really good at trying not to take it out on me, but it's been a rough couple of months. Even the cat picked up on the general stress level and developed some neurotic tendencies having to do with litter and poo.
So either way the grant goes, at least I get him back after this. For a little while, anyway, until our mutual work-a-holics decide we've had enough time off and need to get back to work.
And speaking of work, I need to go do something. I'm not helping anyone by pacing the house and shoving any fast, easy, fat-laden edible I can find into my mouth. Fry a hen.
Anyway, where he works is up for a really big grant and the really big grant people are visiting today. I'm just glad it is almost over. Watching someone you love run themselves into the ground is painful. He's gone to work at nine in the morning and not come home until four in the morning at times. More usually he'd get home at ten or eleven pm, exhausted and hungry. He's been really good at trying not to take it out on me, but it's been a rough couple of months. Even the cat picked up on the general stress level and developed some neurotic tendencies having to do with litter and poo.
So either way the grant goes, at least I get him back after this. For a little while, anyway, until our mutual work-a-holics decide we've had enough time off and need to get back to work.
And speaking of work, I need to go do something. I'm not helping anyone by pacing the house and shoving any fast, easy, fat-laden edible I can find into my mouth. Fry a hen.
Monday, March 23, 2009
am I stupid?
I must be. Because all these agents are talking about how many more queries they are receiving this year and I'm intending to add one more to the flood. Fabulous. I'm finally in on a trend.
As I am in the middle of draft 3 and on track to have a novel done by late spring/early summer, I am now working on drafting my query letter and synopsis. It has nothing to do with the economy. It just happens to be when I completed my novel.
But still my initial inclination is to panic and worry that no matter how great a query letter and novel I write, it will never be good enough and all agents will pass it over, so overworked and harried from the extra deluge of queries that I am lost in the rivers of poor grammar and stupid mistakes made by others.
Ok. I'm over it now. Rationality returned.
The truth is, most of these people are not my competition. Probably 80% are so badly written, researched, unprofessional, etc. that they are no threat to me. As for the other 20%, there are a lot of agents out there. Someone will bite.
Or not, but I'll go on writing my next novel and the next. Because I believe in the law of averages. Look at it this way, you can't sink all your hopes and dreams into one book. If I wanted to be an actress would I sink all my fate into one audition and decide if I don't get it, I am done as an actress? Of course not. I'd audition for anything suitable I can find. It's the same with dating. You don't give up after one or three or half dozen or more bad relationships. You might take a hiatus, but most people, most times, get back in the game eventually.
If not this book, then another one. And if I do my research and query intelligently, it will probably happen sooner rather than later. Fry a hen. (Try again, in case you haven't figured that out.)
Of course, that is all very well and good to talk about right now that I haven't even begun querying yet. We'll see how I feel in five years when I have five unpublished/unwanted novels.
At least I have my health.
As I am in the middle of draft 3 and on track to have a novel done by late spring/early summer, I am now working on drafting my query letter and synopsis. It has nothing to do with the economy. It just happens to be when I completed my novel.
But still my initial inclination is to panic and worry that no matter how great a query letter and novel I write, it will never be good enough and all agents will pass it over, so overworked and harried from the extra deluge of queries that I am lost in the rivers of poor grammar and stupid mistakes made by others.
Ok. I'm over it now. Rationality returned.
The truth is, most of these people are not my competition. Probably 80% are so badly written, researched, unprofessional, etc. that they are no threat to me. As for the other 20%, there are a lot of agents out there. Someone will bite.
Or not, but I'll go on writing my next novel and the next. Because I believe in the law of averages. Look at it this way, you can't sink all your hopes and dreams into one book. If I wanted to be an actress would I sink all my fate into one audition and decide if I don't get it, I am done as an actress? Of course not. I'd audition for anything suitable I can find. It's the same with dating. You don't give up after one or three or half dozen or more bad relationships. You might take a hiatus, but most people, most times, get back in the game eventually.
If not this book, then another one. And if I do my research and query intelligently, it will probably happen sooner rather than later. Fry a hen. (Try again, in case you haven't figured that out.)
Of course, that is all very well and good to talk about right now that I haven't even begun querying yet. We'll see how I feel in five years when I have five unpublished/unwanted novels.
At least I have my health.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Chapter 1 Excerpt
The phone rang.
Swan Shreve ignored it, and continued to flip through files in the black, metal file cabinet until she reached the right tab. The phone had been ringing like a malfunctioning car alarm all morning. It was as though every idiot in the world had signed a pact to call her today to ensure she wouldn’t get the filing done. In all, she’d gotten two sales calls for magazines, one man selling siding, three irate and rude customers, and a woman who called to complain about a bill and when Swan explained she’d called the wrong department said, “Why don’t you know? Can’t you just call it up on your computer?” Swan said she couldn’t look it up and she’d transfer the woman to accounts receivable. The woman brightly explained that they never pick up there. That’s why she’d called this office instead. The phone rang again as Swan slid a piece of paper into the file. She hated filing.
“Are you going to get that?” Mr. Kowalchik yelled from his office.
She closed the drawer with her hip and reached for the phone. “Good morning. Mr. Kowalchik’s office. Swan speaking.” Mr. Kowalchik’s front office was predominately white with mass produced office furniture. The fake cherry veneer was chipping off a corner of the desk. Swan considered herself fairly lucky because Mr. Kowalchik, as head of a section in the engineering department, had a corner office with wide windows and this meant she too had a window, overlooking the vast green lawn of the Bova Technologies campus. No one was ever out on the lawn and it probably had more chemicals spread on it than it was healthy to think about, but Swan liked it just the same.
“Is Mr. Kowalchik there?” asked the caller. He had the harsh, impatient voice of someone who wanted to convince her he was very important.
Swan braced herself. “May I ask who’s calling, sir?”
“I asked you a question first,” the man said.
“I’m sorry?” She considered herself well schooled in caller rudeness by now, but this tactic was new. It was also not working.
“Don’t be sorry. Put Mr. Kowalchik on the damn phone,” said the man.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” she said, trying to keep her voice mostly pleasant. “You have to give me your name and an idea of what you want.”
“Well, if you aren’t going to put me through to Mr. Kowalchik, what good are you?” the man demanded.
Swan clutched the phone, largely because she couldn’t clutch the caller’s neck. “I’m good for screening out rude, idiot callers. I’m not going to give you Mr. Kowalchik, because I’d rather hang up on you.” She hung up on him.
“Miss Shreve,” Mr. Kowalchik said from behind her.
“Yes, Mr. Kowalchik?”
“Who was the caller?”
“He didn’t give a name. I’m guessing a sales call.” Swan turned back to the stack of filing.
Mr. Kowalchik continued to loom in the doorway between his office and hers. He was good at looming. He had the size for it, about six foot, and had been a right tackle in college. He never stopped eating like a football player and now at middle age had developed a belly that on top of his short legs made him resemble a substantial highboy. And being a serious man in a serious business, his face had permanently set itself into a displeased and superior expression, proof that mother was right, an expression kept for too long would stick that way. “Did you ask his name?” Mr. Kowalchik asked.
“No, Mr. Kowalchik, I don’t ask names anymore. I’ve decided to take up mind reading.” She opened a drawer in the black, metal filing cabinet and started thumbing through the files, hoping to finally finish and go to lunch.
“What if that was Magnus Wade?”
Swan turned to face him. He tended to get angrier when she continued to work while he wanted to talk at her. Seemed to think it meant she wasn’t listening. “It wasn’t,” she said.
“But it might have been. I did not hire you to slam down phones or be rude to callers. As my administrative assistant you are a representation of me.” He held both index fingers up and used them for emphasis like a conductor conducting his own performance. “If that was Wade, imagine the sort of image he has of me now.” Mr. Kowalchik’s fat face was slowly turning pink on its way to a hearty red. Swan figured she’d better stop this before his head blew off. Secretaries get blamed for everything and if he were to have an aneurysm now, she’d probably be accused of murdering him by answering the phone wrong.
“Why would Mr. Wade refuse to give his name when he has legitimate business and giving his name will get him through? People who refuse to give information are trying to pitch something and know as soon as they say they are trying to sell something I will get rid of them. This guy was a salesman. A rude salesman. Okay?”
Mr. Kowalchik stood there, his face still a nice shade of baby pink, but further coloration seemed to have been arrested. Still, this would not do. He had come out here with the express purpose of being angry at her and now she was being reasonable. She would at the very least have to sit through a lecture on being a lady. “You still had no call to be rude back to him,” Mr. Kowalchik blustered.
Swan tried to put the stack of filing out of her mind. There was no way she’d get it done before lunch now. It would have to take a little longer. She settled herself for the oncoming lecture. It is an old idea…
“It’s an old idea, and one which your generation has gotten rid of, but I’d like it if you would think of yourself as a lady when you are in my office. Well mannered, considerate, proper, listening to all comers and giving everyone their due. A lady would not slam the phone down, nor would she call someone rude and an idiot no matter how badly she had been treated. Do I make myself clear?”
Swan’s stomach gurgled loudly as if in answer.
Mr. Kowalchik looked at her midsection and frowned. A lady’s stomach should be quiet and decorous even if it is nearly an hour after the usual lunch time.
“Yes, Mr. Kowalchik. I understand.”
“Thank you, Miss Shreve.”
“Doctor,” she corrected.
“Hmm?”
“Doctor Shreve. The Ph.D.?” she reminded him.
Mr. Kowalchik frowned some more. A lady should not insist on her title, or even reference it, when she is better educated than her boss and she knows it bothers his ego. “Yes. Doctor,” he muttered and returned to his office.
“And I’m going to lunch,” she called after him. It was inviting another Mr. Kowalchik speech to leave all that mess on her desk, but she could no longer file on an empty stomach. He grunted, which she took as assent. She grabbed her purse and opened the door.
“Hey Dr. Shreve,” the mail guy swung his cart right into Swan’s path, nearly taking out her knees. “Couple of packages for you today.” He was a skinny kid named Garrett who’d been in her Intro to American Lit class last spring semester.
“Don’t call me that,” she said as she relieved him of a few packages addressed to Mr. Kowalchik. “I’m not your professor anymore. Just call me Swan.”
He grinned. “But that wouldn’t drive you crazy.”
“Thanks,” Swan said.
“Hey, I have to find some fun around here. See you Doctor Shreve.”
Swan slipped back into the office and set the boxes on her desk. Mr. Kowalchik came out of his office again.
“Ran into the mail guy,” she explained.
Mr. Kowalchik grunted. “Take these over to Brian’s office on your lunch break.” He shoved a file at her.
Swan grabbed it and cursed herself for coming back. No good deed goes unpunished. “Okay,” she said. At least she’d get to see Brenda.
***
“She’s late today,” Mrs. Strand remarked.
Mrs. Hamel and Mrs. Strand sat in a light blue Prius at the bottom of the parking ramp of Bova Technologies campus, watching the activity around the side door of the south building. A security guard nosed by their car and stopped to tap on the driver’s side window. He was in a gray uniform that said Bova Technologies on the left breast. He had a stick in his belt but no gun. The uniform was more fitted than the usual mass produced shirts most companies gave security. Bova was serious. But then technology companies needed to be these days. The guard looked about two days over the age of twenty-three and probably had a criminal justice degree and was working here while trying to become a real cop.
Mrs. Hamel rolled down her window and looked up expectantly at the guard.
“You ladies lost?”
“No. Just waiting to take my granddaughter to lunch,” Mrs. Hamel said.
The two ladies plastered mild, grandmotherly smiles on their faces. Mrs. Strand was the older of the two by twenty years. She sat, prim as a gray cat in the passenger seat, holding a pair of knitting needles and half a sweater in orange and brown acrylic. Mrs. Hamel was younger and thicker, her middle age spread had not yet given way to old age frailness. She was one of those grandmothers who always opens stuck pickle jars herself.
The security guard looked them over and seemed unsure. Finally he said, “Well, I’m not allowed to let you just sit here. Does she know you’re coming?”
Mrs. Hamel broadened her smile. “She’ll be out soon.”
“Can you call her?”
“Well, no,” Mrs. Strand said. “There’s no phone around.”
“Cell phone?” the guard asked.
“Oh I don’t like those things. I never understand them.” Mrs. Hamel waved her hand by her head. “My grandson always has to help me with these technological doodads.”
The guard smiled. “Yeah. My grandparents just got a computer second hand from the neighbors and their always calling me.”
“Oh, I bet your just a whiz at those things,” Mrs. Hamel said.
The guard shrugged. “I do okay. Not like some, but I get by.” He stared at the old ladies as if they’d just appeared out of nowhere and finally decided to break the rules. “I need to get back in the booth,” he said. “But I guess you’re okay as long as you aren’t blocking traffic.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hamel said. The guard went back to his booth and Mrs. Hamel closed the window.
“She should have been out by now,” Mrs. Strand said. She dug in her purse and for a moment two inches of gun barrel stuck out. Mrs. Strand tucked it back in and came out with a pack of Trident. “Gum?” she offered to Mrs. Hamel.
Mrs. Hamel took a piece. “I hate tailing people.”
Swan Shreve ignored it, and continued to flip through files in the black, metal file cabinet until she reached the right tab. The phone had been ringing like a malfunctioning car alarm all morning. It was as though every idiot in the world had signed a pact to call her today to ensure she wouldn’t get the filing done. In all, she’d gotten two sales calls for magazines, one man selling siding, three irate and rude customers, and a woman who called to complain about a bill and when Swan explained she’d called the wrong department said, “Why don’t you know? Can’t you just call it up on your computer?” Swan said she couldn’t look it up and she’d transfer the woman to accounts receivable. The woman brightly explained that they never pick up there. That’s why she’d called this office instead. The phone rang again as Swan slid a piece of paper into the file. She hated filing.
“Are you going to get that?” Mr. Kowalchik yelled from his office.
She closed the drawer with her hip and reached for the phone. “Good morning. Mr. Kowalchik’s office. Swan speaking.” Mr. Kowalchik’s front office was predominately white with mass produced office furniture. The fake cherry veneer was chipping off a corner of the desk. Swan considered herself fairly lucky because Mr. Kowalchik, as head of a section in the engineering department, had a corner office with wide windows and this meant she too had a window, overlooking the vast green lawn of the Bova Technologies campus. No one was ever out on the lawn and it probably had more chemicals spread on it than it was healthy to think about, but Swan liked it just the same.
“Is Mr. Kowalchik there?” asked the caller. He had the harsh, impatient voice of someone who wanted to convince her he was very important.
Swan braced herself. “May I ask who’s calling, sir?”
“I asked you a question first,” the man said.
“I’m sorry?” She considered herself well schooled in caller rudeness by now, but this tactic was new. It was also not working.
“Don’t be sorry. Put Mr. Kowalchik on the damn phone,” said the man.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” she said, trying to keep her voice mostly pleasant. “You have to give me your name and an idea of what you want.”
“Well, if you aren’t going to put me through to Mr. Kowalchik, what good are you?” the man demanded.
Swan clutched the phone, largely because she couldn’t clutch the caller’s neck. “I’m good for screening out rude, idiot callers. I’m not going to give you Mr. Kowalchik, because I’d rather hang up on you.” She hung up on him.
“Miss Shreve,” Mr. Kowalchik said from behind her.
“Yes, Mr. Kowalchik?”
“Who was the caller?”
“He didn’t give a name. I’m guessing a sales call.” Swan turned back to the stack of filing.
Mr. Kowalchik continued to loom in the doorway between his office and hers. He was good at looming. He had the size for it, about six foot, and had been a right tackle in college. He never stopped eating like a football player and now at middle age had developed a belly that on top of his short legs made him resemble a substantial highboy. And being a serious man in a serious business, his face had permanently set itself into a displeased and superior expression, proof that mother was right, an expression kept for too long would stick that way. “Did you ask his name?” Mr. Kowalchik asked.
“No, Mr. Kowalchik, I don’t ask names anymore. I’ve decided to take up mind reading.” She opened a drawer in the black, metal filing cabinet and started thumbing through the files, hoping to finally finish and go to lunch.
“What if that was Magnus Wade?”
Swan turned to face him. He tended to get angrier when she continued to work while he wanted to talk at her. Seemed to think it meant she wasn’t listening. “It wasn’t,” she said.
“But it might have been. I did not hire you to slam down phones or be rude to callers. As my administrative assistant you are a representation of me.” He held both index fingers up and used them for emphasis like a conductor conducting his own performance. “If that was Wade, imagine the sort of image he has of me now.” Mr. Kowalchik’s fat face was slowly turning pink on its way to a hearty red. Swan figured she’d better stop this before his head blew off. Secretaries get blamed for everything and if he were to have an aneurysm now, she’d probably be accused of murdering him by answering the phone wrong.
“Why would Mr. Wade refuse to give his name when he has legitimate business and giving his name will get him through? People who refuse to give information are trying to pitch something and know as soon as they say they are trying to sell something I will get rid of them. This guy was a salesman. A rude salesman. Okay?”
Mr. Kowalchik stood there, his face still a nice shade of baby pink, but further coloration seemed to have been arrested. Still, this would not do. He had come out here with the express purpose of being angry at her and now she was being reasonable. She would at the very least have to sit through a lecture on being a lady. “You still had no call to be rude back to him,” Mr. Kowalchik blustered.
Swan tried to put the stack of filing out of her mind. There was no way she’d get it done before lunch now. It would have to take a little longer. She settled herself for the oncoming lecture. It is an old idea…
“It’s an old idea, and one which your generation has gotten rid of, but I’d like it if you would think of yourself as a lady when you are in my office. Well mannered, considerate, proper, listening to all comers and giving everyone their due. A lady would not slam the phone down, nor would she call someone rude and an idiot no matter how badly she had been treated. Do I make myself clear?”
Swan’s stomach gurgled loudly as if in answer.
Mr. Kowalchik looked at her midsection and frowned. A lady’s stomach should be quiet and decorous even if it is nearly an hour after the usual lunch time.
“Yes, Mr. Kowalchik. I understand.”
“Thank you, Miss Shreve.”
“Doctor,” she corrected.
“Hmm?”
“Doctor Shreve. The Ph.D.?” she reminded him.
Mr. Kowalchik frowned some more. A lady should not insist on her title, or even reference it, when she is better educated than her boss and she knows it bothers his ego. “Yes. Doctor,” he muttered and returned to his office.
“And I’m going to lunch,” she called after him. It was inviting another Mr. Kowalchik speech to leave all that mess on her desk, but she could no longer file on an empty stomach. He grunted, which she took as assent. She grabbed her purse and opened the door.
“Hey Dr. Shreve,” the mail guy swung his cart right into Swan’s path, nearly taking out her knees. “Couple of packages for you today.” He was a skinny kid named Garrett who’d been in her Intro to American Lit class last spring semester.
“Don’t call me that,” she said as she relieved him of a few packages addressed to Mr. Kowalchik. “I’m not your professor anymore. Just call me Swan.”
He grinned. “But that wouldn’t drive you crazy.”
“Thanks,” Swan said.
“Hey, I have to find some fun around here. See you Doctor Shreve.”
Swan slipped back into the office and set the boxes on her desk. Mr. Kowalchik came out of his office again.
“Ran into the mail guy,” she explained.
Mr. Kowalchik grunted. “Take these over to Brian’s office on your lunch break.” He shoved a file at her.
Swan grabbed it and cursed herself for coming back. No good deed goes unpunished. “Okay,” she said. At least she’d get to see Brenda.
***
“She’s late today,” Mrs. Strand remarked.
Mrs. Hamel and Mrs. Strand sat in a light blue Prius at the bottom of the parking ramp of Bova Technologies campus, watching the activity around the side door of the south building. A security guard nosed by their car and stopped to tap on the driver’s side window. He was in a gray uniform that said Bova Technologies on the left breast. He had a stick in his belt but no gun. The uniform was more fitted than the usual mass produced shirts most companies gave security. Bova was serious. But then technology companies needed to be these days. The guard looked about two days over the age of twenty-three and probably had a criminal justice degree and was working here while trying to become a real cop.
Mrs. Hamel rolled down her window and looked up expectantly at the guard.
“You ladies lost?”
“No. Just waiting to take my granddaughter to lunch,” Mrs. Hamel said.
The two ladies plastered mild, grandmotherly smiles on their faces. Mrs. Strand was the older of the two by twenty years. She sat, prim as a gray cat in the passenger seat, holding a pair of knitting needles and half a sweater in orange and brown acrylic. Mrs. Hamel was younger and thicker, her middle age spread had not yet given way to old age frailness. She was one of those grandmothers who always opens stuck pickle jars herself.
The security guard looked them over and seemed unsure. Finally he said, “Well, I’m not allowed to let you just sit here. Does she know you’re coming?”
Mrs. Hamel broadened her smile. “She’ll be out soon.”
“Can you call her?”
“Well, no,” Mrs. Strand said. “There’s no phone around.”
“Cell phone?” the guard asked.
“Oh I don’t like those things. I never understand them.” Mrs. Hamel waved her hand by her head. “My grandson always has to help me with these technological doodads.”
The guard smiled. “Yeah. My grandparents just got a computer second hand from the neighbors and their always calling me.”
“Oh, I bet your just a whiz at those things,” Mrs. Hamel said.
The guard shrugged. “I do okay. Not like some, but I get by.” He stared at the old ladies as if they’d just appeared out of nowhere and finally decided to break the rules. “I need to get back in the booth,” he said. “But I guess you’re okay as long as you aren’t blocking traffic.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hamel said. The guard went back to his booth and Mrs. Hamel closed the window.
“She should have been out by now,” Mrs. Strand said. She dug in her purse and for a moment two inches of gun barrel stuck out. Mrs. Strand tucked it back in and came out with a pack of Trident. “Gum?” she offered to Mrs. Hamel.
Mrs. Hamel took a piece. “I hate tailing people.”
Saturday, March 21, 2009
whine, whine, whiny, whine
Finished chapter 10 and I'm quite certain it's the worst thing I've written since some angsty poetry I wrote as a freshman in high school. The real issue is I've spent most of my day balancing my finances and that is enough to make anyone pessismistic about life these days.
But the Husker guys won their game today, so nothing is all bad. And I found this blog by an agent with lots of information on query letters and insight into the business. Check along the side for her query letter workshop and the Agent 101 posts, which explain what agents are negotiating better than anything I've ever read.
Now I think I'm going to find a corner and shut myself off.
But the Husker guys won their game today, so nothing is all bad. And I found this blog by an agent with lots of information on query letters and insight into the business. Check along the side for her query letter workshop and the Agent 101 posts, which explain what agents are negotiating better than anything I've ever read.
Now I think I'm going to find a corner and shut myself off.
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