Writer's Wavelength: THE Call

The link below is a follow-up to my post about the need to be prepared for that day when you actually get the call from an agent or publisher.


http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2009/04/getting-call.html

THE Call

For the past few years, I've been striving to put my work out there, to get noticed, to find an agent, an editor, a publisher that will help bring my writing to a wider audience. But every so often, a tiny voice in my head says, "What if?" What if I actually got the call? Usually, the what-if game is fun to play. My wish-fulfillment side takes over, and my husband and I daydream about what life might be like. But the other day, I got a call. Not THE call. But A call. A call from someone in another state wanting to know what was involved in getting rights and permission to use one of my audio theater scripts for a project. What was my response? "That's a really good question." Honest, but not particularly savvy.

We managed to negotiate our way through the situation, and it all worked out fine, but it left me staring down that question as if it were a rat in the middle of a sterilized, white room. What if I got THE call? The call from an agent or a publisher saying they wanted to represent me or publish my stuff? I realized I was completely and utterly unprepared.

When I go to writing conferences, it always seems the height of hubris, or the depth of futility, to go to the workshops about the business aspects. I don't have an agent. Maybe I'll never have an agent. Why bother finding out about picking and choosing and examining all the minutia with a fine-tooth comb when I can't even get my foot in the door? But after that innocuous phone call, I realized I need to be prepared. I need to think like someone who WILL get that call one day. I need to know what to say, how to act, what questions to ask. I don't want to be a clueless rube, tail wagging, eager to please, and failing to stop and think and protect myself and my work.

What would you say if you got THE call? Or what DID you say?

Post Script: After a brief wander through cyberspace, I happened upon this highly relevant post from an agent, plus useful and relevant replies. Ask and you shall receive!
http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2009/04/getting-call.html

Overworking the Clay

On my latest project, I found myself worrying away at the same spot over and over, bringing the same chapters to my critique group, rewritten, revised, renewed and tweaked, week after week. Every week I'd say to myself, "That's good enough for this draft. Now it's time to move forward." My group would echo the sentiment, reminding me not to "overwork the clay." But every week, when I sat down to write, I found myself rereading and rewriting that same section. My logic brain told me I was caught in a quagmire and rereading those same sections was a trap, but some other slippery spirit in me kept insisting on going back.

I didn't really have this problem on the first two novels. Here I am on my third, thinking "I should be getting better at this. In fact, I should know better." I began to think the genre was what made the difference. The first two novels were realistic fiction. This one is magical realism, and the rules and process feel completely different, more metaphorical, less linear. I've written a full draft and about two-thirds of it is useless. I've written multiple synopses that seem to make perfect sense only to have the story hijack me into some other direction. Every rewrite seems to change the metaphorical elements or the psychological landscape just enough that I have to go back and alter imagery, scenes, characters. And each tiny change in choice or motivation has a potentially seismic impact on the physical landscape, the symbolic magical objects and the otherworldly characters.

Okay. Let's say this genre demands a spiraling approach to drafts and revision. Even so, at some point you overdo it. At some point you have to let go and move on or you risk "overworking the clay" - leaving your characters and story limp, exhausted and nearly lifeless from obsessive attention to one section. How much is too much? What signals tell you to move on? What if you go too far - can your story be rescued?

I am reminded of watching my third graders attempt watercolor painting using non-watercolor paper. They just don't understand the idea of exhausting or overworking the paper. I'll watch as they paint and paint and paint the same spot until the paper is coming up in little nubbins or falling apart in their hands or they've worn a hole right through their favorite section of the picture. Then they come to me in despair believing it's ruined. I tell them to let the paper rest and dry and then we will try to repair it by transferring what's usable onto a new, fresh, stronger piece of paper. Perhaps I need to heed my own advice.

Of course the best way to prevent the ruined watercolor situation is to use the right kind of paper to begin with. Proper watercolor paper can handle the kind of stress placed on it by diligent and overly enthusiastic third graders, or by techniques like watercolor wash that involve tons of moisture. It's strong, thick, heavy and durable.

So what's the metaphorical equivalent of "the right kind of paper" for a novel? Setting? Point of view? Pre-drafting strategies? Plot outline? General structure? It has to do with the foundation you lay before the intricate, in-depth work of drafting and revision begins.

What do you do to lay a good foundation before you dive into the serious drafting process?

What Should You Celebrate?

I recently encountered another one of those necessary demons of the writing life - the rejection letter. Mind you, it's not the first one and I doubt it will be the last. With each one, my skin gets a little tougher, but they still take the wind out of my sails. As I bemoaned this fact, a wise woman from my online critique group reminded me I still had something to celebrate. "You've actually finished something and sent it out. Some of us are still mired in the mess of our first-ever first draft." And I remembered a time, not so very long ago, when I "wanted" to write. I actually wrote even then - I wrote and wrote, but I never finished anything. I had sketches and scenes and half-formed notions, images and descriptions and little splurts of characters. My friend's words reminded I had much to celebrate. I had finished a novel - my second novel. And I had had the courage to send it out. In fact, I've been able to finish and send out quite a lot of work over the past few years. And my friend had reminded me that this fact was worth celebrating.

So what should you celebrate? Even rejections are worth celebrating because you had the courage to send something out and the world didn't end when they said no. Celebrate the personal rejection letter, because it's not a form letter. Celebrate the form letter because you ventured forth. Celebrate your decision to share your work with someone else. Celebrate your first paragraph or page or chapter, because you found the time to write. Celebrate putting pencil to paper or fingers to the keyboard. Celebrate the next word you write because you had the courage to do it.