Category: Thinking, thinking

On The Hunt

Yeah, brace yourself. It’s another self-indulgent post about me. It’s all about me.

In a previous life segment, my work responsibilities included facilitating teams, team-building, and teaching others how to facilitate teams. An entertaining experience, I applied much of what I learned and observed to my personal efforts. First among these that I often apply to my efforts are the four stages of team dynamics: forming, storming, norming, and performing.

Sure, it’s about a team, and I’m just a singular individual, but I have a lot of people inside me.

I’m not kidding.

There’s the husband, son, brother, friend, the guy retired from military and business, a beer drinker, reader, writer, walker, U.S. citizen, liberal, rock fan, animal lover, cat slave, and aging white U.S. male with a crooked sense of humor. I need to shut most of them up when I sit down to write, if I want to get anything done. I also often need to silence the muses, as they’re eager to pursue other fiction projects.

Part of what team dynamics are about is getting together, surveying the situation, putting yourself into it and focusing, working out differences, assessing the others, and then, working toward a goal. Goal is a large and nebulous term in this context. It can be about working toward actual stated goals, objectives to support those goals, coming up with a plan, or creating a vision. In my case, it’s usually about sitting down and writing like crazy. Today, though, like the past several days, it’s about finding a literary agent.

Those of you who have ever searched for agent will understand.

I don’t mean to disrespect agents. I admire them and appreciate their role. They’re a lot like writers, and not just because they work with words and books. Writers are often searching for the secrets. What are the secrets to conceiving a plot and then writing a book? How do you cope with writer’s block, and how do you push through, sustaining your efforts until a novel, play, screen play, what-have-you, is completed? Are you a pantser, an outliner, or some twisted hybrid in between? Do you write everyday? Where do you write?

What fiction writing is about is finding what works for you. That’s true with just about every damn effort on Earth. Find out what works for you. It doesn’t need to be perfect, but you need to do something. If you don’t do something, nothing will get done. Your dream will remain fallow.

That’s hard for many to understand, but that’s the secret. Suck it up, start somewhere, keep trying, and keep learning and adjusting. Thinking about those lessons, and applying them to agents, I see how and why their approaches vary.

I’ve often lamented (read: whine, complained, or growled and ranted about) the lack of standardization about what agents want and how they express it. Their wants are often vague and not infrequently contradictory. Demands for outlines, summaries, synopsis, the number of sample pages widely range.

And it all makes perfect sense.

See, just like writing, they’ve honed their own approach. This is what works for them; that’s why each often makes a unique demand. It’s just like writing.

Returning to my original premise here, my daily approach is like team efforts because of my stages. First, I set out to arrive at my work location and decide what I’m going to do. That’s forming. Next, I complain and whine to myself about how difficult, frustrating, and depressing the agent search is: storming. From them comes norming as I establish objectives for myself, a daily schedule (including breaks and eating), and methodology. Finally, emerging from the rest, I at last begin performing, the final stage.

I’d not perfected my agent search methodology, but I do have something that works (so far). I use several primary tools:

  1. MS Word
  2. Manuscript Wish List (MSWL) (free)
  3. Publishers Marketplace (25 USD per month)
  4. Query tracker (free)
  5. Duotrope (5 USD per mont)
  6. Literary Agency websites (naturally) and blogs (free)
  7. Google

I begin by creating a Word document to establish a list of potential agents. At the top of that, I write a one sentence blurb that summarizes the entire novel. This helps me frame and focus my thinking as I search for an agent.

I’ve done this same thing using Excel, Access, and various tools that are out there. I use Word because I’m intimate with Word and want to keep it simple. I don’t want tracking my queries to be a larger burden than necessary.

  1. Agents name & agency
  2. Date submitted
  3. Result
  4. Remarks or comments.

Next, I start going through MWL. I can begin with anything but I like MSWL’s speed and simplicity. I don’t use its search function, though. Essentially, I prowl the database from A to Z, looking for agents interested in my type of writing (science-fiction infused speculative literary alternative history, anyone?). When I find one, I look at their specific MSWL page.

  1. I’m looking for what they say they’re looking for and gauging their interest in my novel’s genre;
  2. I’m checking what literary agency they’re with;
  3. I’m confirming that they’re open for queries and submissions.

Next, I go to their websites and read their submission guidelines, and again confirm that they’re accepting queries for my genre, that they’re open for submissions, and that they’re still with that agency.

After that, I search for them in the Publishers Marketplace, look for them in Duotrope and QueryTracker, and then do a general net search to see what I find on them. I check out their Twitter account and Facebook page. Gathering all of this information helps me weigh them.

When I find a potential agent, I add them to my Submission Wish List. I rank them, too. I establish a Hot List (that’s the header in the doc) of twenty agents whose information sparks the greatest optimism. In keeping with their guidance, only one agent from each agency should be on that list. I also only include agents based in the U.S., as a personal choice.

Besides the Hot List, I have the Short List and the Long List. Yes, it’s a lot of lists, isn’t it? It’s stems from my natural reluctance to do this sort of thing, my innate habit of over-analyzing information, an urge to be systematic, and my need to organize things to help me think.

I only begin with MSWL, though. I do the same thing, searching for agents, in the Publishers Marketplace, Duotrope, and general net searches. I’m casting a wide net.

Yes, it’s a load of effort, hence, my need to go through the stages. (By the way, regressing to a previous stage isn’t unusual and shouldn’t be taken as anything except a change in the moment.)

Yesterday, I finished all of that. My Hot List has twenty names on it. My Short List has another thirty-nine names.

I then began the next stage: I’ve written a query, summary, ten page synopsis, bio, and elevator pitch, and then established a sample doc of the first fifty pages. I’ve used advice, suggestions, and insights that Jane Friedman has on her blog for query basics and synopsis writing. Included in bio is my social media presence so they can look me up just as I looked them up. I’ll use, cull, and modify these basic documents to meet each agent’s requirements. Then I’ll begin submitting.

And that’s where I’m at today. Today’s goal: submit to ten agents on the Hot List.

Got my coffee. Here we go. Time to perform.

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“Every Family Has Secrets”

I’d finished writing the final working draft of a novel in progress. Which meant, other than trying to get it published, marketing, future editing and revising demanded by editors and proof-readers, I’m free to work on something else.

I’d already planned to shift to a series. A murder-mystery series, I’ve published two of those novels through KDP. More are in mind to be done, and people who read the first two are politely wondering when the third is coming out.

Meanwhile, though, I began thinking about my family as I was walking this morning. Oh, yes, I could write a novel about ‘them’.

Well, it’s not really them. The novel begins with Lisa, my little sister, being suspected of murder when her friend’s body is found in her house. Lisa isn’t there, though. It’s a bloody scene, and as the hours pass, Lisa doesn’t answer her texts or cell. She doesn’t post on FB or other social media, and didn’t show up for work. Her boyfriend says that he hasn’t seen her, and her boys, staying with her father, haven’t heard from her nor seen her.

Is Lisa missing and dead, or running and hiding?

Her older sister, Gina, a young and busy grandmother and physical therapist, is concerned about her sister. She’s the one who becomes the amateur private investigator, looking for little sister. Secrets about everyone begin showing up, of course. Every family has secrets. Fractures, tensions, and disappointments grow.

I thought that “Every Family Has Secrets” was a possible working title. There was more to the story and plot thought out, but that’s enough.

It was an entertaining twenty minutes of thinking and walking. Time to go home and get something to eat.

2

The Whirlpool

I finished the tenth draft of the latest novel-in-progress, April Showers 1921, several weeks back (Surprise!, September 26). I thought it was the final draft but knew that I had notes which called for more work before I could say that it was finished as a draft. I hesitate to say final draft. Nothing is final about a novel-in-progress until it’s published. I prefer to call it the working final draft. Yeah, that’s pretty ambivalent, isn’t it?

I’d begun April Showers 1921 back in January, 2019. It originated with a dream of a book that I’d written, resulting in a powerful impetus to make it real. It’s a hefty ms., one hundred eighty thousand words and six hundred thirty MS Word pages. I recognize that an editor will probably cut through some of that beef. The story is told by skipping back and forth through multiple versions of the same fourteen-year-old protagonist, Anders. I struggled with that, and that facet pushed multiple revisions until I fully recognized and understood why and how the multiple Anders interacted (or didn’t interact) with one another.

The other matter is, I’m sure that the working title of April Showers 1921 will probably be changed. April Showers is a machine invented specifically to interact with Anders, a human. As a machine, she generally acts and looks human. That simple claim gets complicated because the novel is about how multiple levels of filters interact to create realities and alterverses. After exploring everything, April Showers’ role was reduced from what I’d originally expected it to be.

I was right about having some work remaining. I’d identified five sections in my notes for further work. Before I dove into them, I read through the notes, remembering why I’d jumped ahead of those sections. Two of them deleted. I thought they were needed but they weren’t. This happens to me. As I write a novel and explore everything, I develop a sense about where it’s going and what’s going to happen. Sometimes, though, those insights are overtaken by events and turn out to be superfluous to the final tale.

The other three sections were filler/bridge sections. Impatient critter that I am, I didn’t feel like dealing with minutiae that these three sections demanded. As I read the preceding pages to them, I easily slipped into what needed to be done (all hail the muses!).

What became more time-consuming were the side roads I frequently stumbled down. To confirm a point of continuity or clarity, I’d open a second window and hunt my notes and the manuscript for specific points. I inevitably ended up becoming engrossed in the ms, reading chapter after chapter, which I call the writing and editing whirlpool, because it just sucks me in. Small errors, pacing matters, and typos were typically addressed during these periods, but I was mostly indulging myself. Part of the process was sometimes coping with surprise about what I’d written and where that section went.

Seems strange, doesn’t it? I wrote it, so it follows that I should know what I wrote. My conclusion about it is that I’m working on a different level. Two, my writing process is like weaving. I don’t hesitate to dip into a section of the book and edit it to meet my preferences. That tangibly results in many sections being re-written, revised, edited, and polished multiple times. I often wear reader or editor hats when I’m doing that, instead of my writer hat. Maybe I’m just blowing smoke, though, to cover a weak or faulty memory.

Anyway, I’m out of the whirlpool. The final working copy is completed. Now, the part I loathe, presenting it to the world begins. I need to write up a blurb, summary, elevator pitch, synopsis, etc., to entice others into my world.

It’s been a good nine months of writing, editing, and revising like crazy. As other writers have mentioned, and I’ve echoed before, finishing the novel leaves a void. A friend is gone, a puzzle has been finished, a routine has been completed, a desire has been fulfilled. Leaves me with wondering, where do I go from here?

Well, yeah, there is the aforementioned loathsome tasks. I don’t really celebrate the completion except to mention it to a few close, supportive friends and family members, and privately toast myself, “You did it. Well done.”

Then, I begin thinking about the next novel. There’s so much to read, research, think about, and write. Existence is a rich mine of potential stories to be found and written.

Off I go, at least one more time, to write like crazy.

2

Friday’s Theme Music

Mini-rant alert. As I was walking yesterday, I was watching new home construction and started thinking about overkill. Overkill — what I mean by that is excessive use beyond what’s needed — is often our response. Overkill, or do nothing. Going through grocery stores to check out most items in America leads to discoveries of brands, sizes, and qualifiers that staggers me. Look at ice cream. Chips. Soft drinks. Coffee. Beer.

I was reminded more of this while scoping television last night. Samsung has some new phone out (don’t they all?) and was trumpeting a series of images of children playing, playing, playing, playing. And Samsung’s line after all of this was about growing or building the future.

Me, with my sixty-plus year old mind, thought, but all you showed us, Samsung, were children playing. Children obsessed with their technological toys. I thought, then, that Samsung had gone into overkill, that somewhere between where children playing obsessive with their phones (but having phone) and my idea of children playing is a balance that’s needed. Maybe it’s out there, outside of my prying eyes, and past Samsung’s spiel. After all, Samsung is trying to sell more products.

Rant down, you might be thinking, with impatience, what the hell is the song? Well, it’s “Overkill” by Men at Work” (1983), of course. As it’s sung in “Overkill”:

I worry over situations
I know will be all right
Perhaps it’s just imagination

 

1

Amber’s Gift

After exiting the Camaro, silence governed the quartet as they stretched, sniffed, and glanced. Laurel’s father had given the car to her as a high school graduation gift. Camaros had only been out for like, two years, and the little car looked sporty and fresh against the grayish morning.

The town had just completed a face lift of the old plaza. Clean and white cement walks outlined fresh carpets of new, cut grass. Busy, the plaza remained quiet with the stalwart momentum of citizens engaging daily routines. As far as air and sky went, powdery grays above snickered about a chance of drizzle while a streak of sunshine under a blue patch insisted that a sunny day could be possible.

Chatter about what to do ensued. Where should they start? Should they eat first? Toast and bacon smells surfing the fall breeze said, “Come, eat. Follow me.”

Gavin, looking right and stamping his feet against the feeling that they were going numb, saw a small sign on a stack beside a rhodie drooping with night’s damp. Aloud, he read, “Amber’s gift.” Such words created a mental puzzle. Gazing up the steps toward the dank chilliness where they went, his appetite grew.

Back to his friends, he said, “I want to eat first, but pre-first, I’m going to go see what Amber’s Gift is. It’s just take a minute.”

“Pre-first?” Shallie laughed.

“Amber’s gift.” Keri’s face beetled into a frown. “Okay, but don’t be long. I’m hungry. I want to go eat, and I need coffee.” She groaned. “God, do I need coffee. Do I smell coffee?” She lifted her nose into the air. “I do. That’s coffee. Where is that? Does anyone else smell coffee?”

As the others bantered with her about coffee, Gavin said, “I’ll be right back.” He went up the shallow steps fast, two at a time. Pockmarked by time and rain, the cement flight were probably decades old, but the sign, red hand-painted letters on cardboard on a wooden blonde stake, looked new. With that background set, he didn’t expect much. The walk would probably be a minute venture. He wanted to pack everything that he could into every minute. This would be his last weekend away. His draft number had been drawn and he was reporting to the recruiting station the next Monday. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam after basic. Crossing his fingers, he repeated to himself, “Hopefully.”

Shielded by giant firs, pines, sycamores, and oaks, the steps went up higher than Gavin expected. He went fast because he didn’t want to keep the others waiting. As he thought that he’d taken too much time and energy and his stomach rumbled with a request to be fed, he spotted a glow. It seemed like a faintly illuminated cloud of golden pollen dust. Past the glow, the park’s woods seemed darker and wetter than he’d think possible at nine plus in the morning. Quieter, too. Only sounds of his breathing and heart-beat reached him.

The glow seemed like it was concentrated in a dome. He didn’t see anything like a placard to explain this or confirmation that he’d reached Amber’s Gift. Pivoting to turn and leave, he saw something on the ground in the cloud’s middle. That looked like a bronze disc. It was that, he saw in another step, but also a polished, faceted piece of amber that was as large as his head. Eyes widening, he walked up to it and squatted, dropping his fingers to its surface with a gentle stroke. He expected it to be hard and cold, but soft warmth greeted his fingers. Smiling he stroked it again, counting, two, three, four, five.

That was enough, he thought, then was amused that he’d quantified and counted his strokes. Leaping up, he dashed back down the steps. The girls were waiting for him at the bottom beside Laurel’s Prius. The red car looked almost like a space ship.

“About time,” Laurel said as Keri said, “Here comes Christmas.”

“Where have you been?” Shallie asked, arms crossed. “We were about to give you up as dead.”

As he went to answer, Gavin’s arms caught his attention. His fake leather jacket was changing. After gaping at that, he gawked at his friends. Ridiculously wide bell bottoms accented their blue jean hip-huggers, but all that was changing into tight black and blue bottoms that outlined their thighs, knees, and calves. He was certain that it wasn’t what they’d been wearing before.

“Where were you?” Laurel demanded.

“I was.” Beginning to point, Gavin looked for the Amber’s Gift sign. A mossy look of confused thinking hung on his face. “Where’s the sign?

“What sign?” Shallie asked.

The girls laughed. Laurel said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gavin.”

Keri gestured him forward. “Come on, dude. You need coffee.”

“Some coffee would be groovy,” Gavin replied, nodding.

“Groovy?” Laurel laughed. “What decade are you in?”

Remembering something for a moment, Gavin chuckled. “I don’t know.” As he and his friends went along the plaza’s old, worn walks, sunshine split the gray clouds and peeled them away from the day.

 

0

Tuesday’s Theme Music

The Wayback Machine injected another song into the stream yesterday.

I was out walking through an autumn day. Reds, golds, oranges, and yellows have been splashed across the foliage but leaves aren’t dropping yet. Temperatures have dropped in a fallish segment, thirties to forties at night, fifties to sixties in the day, with rain showers.

As I walked through this, I noticed how many people weren’t dressed for the day. Maybe, like my friend, in his loud flowery, tropical shirt, they’re making a last stand for summer. Perhaps they expected the area to follow its tradition of quickly reverting to warmer weather, or, it could be that they’re just denying that the season changed, or they’re not paying attention. I also thought that they were tough people, unfazed by chilly, soggy weather, and were wearing tee shirts and sandals because the weather wasn’t affecting them like the rest of us mortals. The majority them looked cold and a bit miz, though.

So, reflecting on the weather change, I chanced to glance upon a far-away scene, where the leaves were a splash of fiery color on the mountain. Natch, the WM poured a 1975 Marshall Tucker Band song, “Fire on the Mountain” into the stream, and off I went, humming and singing as I continued on.

Of course, “Fire on the Mountain” is about a futile search for gold so a man can improve his family’s situation. He fails and dies. That’s often life, innit?

1

Sunday’s Theme Music

I was running up a hill the other day, so Kate Bush’s song, “Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God)” (1982) popped into the stream. While running up that hill and thinking of her song about relationships, I thought about how easy it is for “Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God)” to be about trying to change your life or achieve something, just get somewhere.

I’d be running up that road
Be running up that hill
With no problems

h/t Genius.com

Running up a hill seems more apt as a metaphor over something like running in place. The exertion needed to run up a hill makes it different, as well as your attitude. When you’re running up that hill and begin tiring, breathing harder, sweat bursting out of your body, your attitude changes. You thought, “I can do this,” when you began. It seemed like a friendly challenge for yourself. Now, as the hill goes on, and your teeth grit and your muscles flail, you wonder. Your body flags, will flags, your heart pounds, and you breathe harder and faster, reaching a point where you decide, “Can I make it? Should I go on or give up?” Attendant thoughts, like, “Why am I doing this,” and, “Nobody else cares, nobody else would know if I stop,” enter.

But I knew, and I kept running, although I gotta tell you, I was a lot slower for much of it until I issued a final hard, determined burst and made it. Then I walked, hands on hips, gasping and sucking air, perspiration all over me, enjoying the view…and recovering.

Going back to that song, though, I often think of it when I know of someone I love that’s suffering, and think, “If only we could swap places, so I could take that on for you, and relieve you of your pain and suffering.” But if there is a God, it doesn’t seem like God likes to make deals.

Naturally, it relates to writing, too. Most writing days are stoic, persevering days of going on, like running on a flat. Some days become more powerful, days when I get a special wind and feel like I’m running faster than light. But there are days and times when I’m running up that hill and it seems endless and pointless.

At least for me.

 

0

A Changing House Dream

I dreamed that I was outside somewhere. Late afternoon, the sky was a deep azure and completely cloud free. It seemed to be a festival. Many people were there, but I didn’t know them.

Celebrations had been going on. I felt tremendous, — relieved, relaxed, and happy. I was celebrating an achievement after a long effort. As part of that, though, I’d also changed houses, selling one house, and buying a new one. Today, I would take ownership of my new house. I was looking forward to that with excitement. Meanwhile, though, I was enjoying this festival.

The festival, which had some food booths, was located alongside a lengthy bluff. Beyond the bluff was the blue, majestic ocean. Calm, powerful, and deep-looking, sunlight splashed on the waves like tiny diamonds were being spread over the water. As the day ended, the organizers were showing a movie outdoors. I’d been about to leave, but decided to stay to see what the movie was. After the opening scenes, I recognized an old hit movie, something from the late eighties or early nineties, that was really just so-so. I decided that I didn’t want to see it again, so I began heading indoors. As I went, almost everyone else made the same decision.

I was going to a large, modern, white building. It seemed to be a luxury hotel. As I went, I had a thick magazine about houses in my hand. It was a glossy, colorful production about great places to live in the area, and so on. In the middle was a tear-out section. Made of thinner paper and in black and white, that section was about homes that had been bought and sold, or were available to buy. I knew both of my homes, the new one and the old one, were in there, and made a halfhearted attempt to look them up as I walked. I thought it was pretty clever of the magazine creators to have this middle section that could pulled out and easily updated and replaced.

I entered the building with a black family: father, mother, and two young boys. One of the boys was playing, and pretended to shoot me. I pretended to fall over dead, laughing as I did. I happen to fall over my brown sofa, which I recognized, thinking of it as my old brown sofa. (In real life, we’ve had this sofa for twenty years, but we’ve ordered a new sofa, and are waiting for it to be delivered.) As the family went on down the hall, I got up to head for my new place eager to see it.

Unfortunately, a cat woke me, so that’s where the dream ends.

0

Rising

Like Phoenix rising, I will lift and soar,

mocking those who said, “Nevermore.”

They thought my time was done,

and now they’ll see that I’ve just begun.

Gaining power with every beat,

I will fly and press beyond defeat.

Yes, they may say that they think they know,

but they don’t know how far I can go.

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