Introducing the Lunch Hour Novelist

As I’ve mentioned here a bunch of times, I have been writing a novel for the last 3 years and I am to the point where I am seeking a literary agent to represent me. But I’ve never been entirely comfortable with writing about the book here. I don’t want to turn into one of those shamelessly self-promoting bloggers whose blogs turn into Times Square and Las Vegas all rolled into one with all the ads for their book.

I use A Life of Adventure to talk about life on the boat, or life on land. While the book has been such a large part of my life on land, I don’t want to bore my tens of readers with all that. But if I want to sell my book I need to market myself more aggressively. So, what’s a girl to do? I could go all Las Vegas with A Life of Adventure, or I could develop an alter ego.

If you are interested in my path to publication, please check out my alter ego’s blog, The Lunch Hour Novelist. The idea was born as a result of the many many lunch hours I have spent writing and editing the book. I want to take the readers of that blog along with me as I try to land a book deal for “Out From Under Big Sky.”

Yes, I will still write here. But I will write about my non-book related life. You’ll still get to read about my sailing trips. You will still get to read about some of the dumb things I do on a regular basis. You will still get to read about whatever things my dogs have ingested off the counters in my home. But you can also go along on my path to publication. So, in a way, you’ll get more of me.

Go check out the new blog. If you’re so inclined, link to me. I am not going to lie, I could use the exposure.

The Critique

Adrenaline surged, I think I was holding my breath. This was the moment I was waiting for—an honest and objective assessment of my first page.

Apparently Chuck, my main character, is unlikeable. He comes off as a jerk in that first page. We don’t know why he’s working at the bar in the casino if he hates it so much. They didn’t feel they learned much about him, nor did they develop any sense of sympathy about him.

I frantically scribbled notes as the agents spoke. At the very end, the agents thanked all the participants for submitting their work and called us brave. Mr. McAgentton said “There’s no way in hell I would have done that.” I sat there thinking “Why the hell wouldn’t you have done it. How do you expect the world to read your book if you can’t submit one measly page to get critiqued?” I am going to put my pages in front of any pair of eyes that want to critique it. How else am I going to improve?

Later on, after I left the conference, I 30 minutes south drove to Connecticut to visit Dad and wondered how I could convey all of that in three or so paragraphs. I reflected on how the readings of the other first pages seemed so much longer and wondered if they were using smaller fonts on those. Were the other writers typing single spaced?
I let the response rattle around in my head. I didn’t talk about it with Dad because, actually, he didn’t really know I was writing a book. I mean, I am sure I mentioned it to him but I mention a lot of things that I eventually toss aside when something else comes along. He doesn’t know anything about the story, so I didn’t really say much about it. Besides we were busy gossiping anyway.

Then I called Todd from Dad’s house and he asked me how it went. “Well, the agent meeting went well, but the critique was kind of hurty.” He apologized and said he suspected that would happen.

“But you know what? Actually, I’m not hurt. It was exactly what I needed. I don’t regret submitting my page, and I’d do it again. I’ve got some work to do, and I am thrilled to have had the opportunity to get critiqued. I didn’t go there to defend my work, I went there to learn how to improve it. Mission accomplished.”

Sunday morning I got up at 4 in the morning with ideas on how to make Chuck likeable. I convinced myself to stay in bed until 7, and couldn’t stand it anymore. I slipped on my sweats and slippers. I did a cuppa tea in the microwave and then set down to work.

After re-writing, and a profing by Todd, I submitted my first 50 pages to Mr. McAgentton, per his request. And then I looked up the particularly expressive agent because she deals in commercial fiction (which is my genre) and submitted my first 10 pages to her, per her submission guidelines on her web site.

And now I frantically click on the “refresh” button on my email. I pace and threaten to wear a hole in my hardwood floors. And I expect that the clicking, the refreshing and the pacing will go on for a damn long time until I manage to land an agent.

Improvement, Not Defense

Yes, I am still writing about the Write Angles Conference. It’s funny, one of my dive buddies jokes about how only divers can take a 30 minute dive and turn it into a 4 hour long conversation. Well, only a novelist wannabe can take a 1 day conference and turn it into 3 blog posts.

We went to see the keynote speaker after lunch, and then to the last break out session “What Agents Really Think.” At this section a random selection of the first pages that attendees submitted ahead of time would be read aloud. The four agents would respond to each one as to whether they’d read on to the second page, or whether they’d request more from the author. Just from one page.

Michelle and I sat in the very front so we could get a good look at the agent reactions. From where I sat I could see the stack of first pages in front of one of the agents. I could see that the first one on the pile was not mine. I grew antsy and wondered how many first pages were submitted and whether mine was selected for reading.

The first one read was an astoundingly beautiful description of Malawi at sundown. The author talked about how the air grew cold once the sun went down, the darkness closed in and the cooking fires were visible from the road. It was so beautifully written I swear I could smell the campfires. I applauded after the reader finished. But then I stopped when I realized that Michelle and I were the only ones clapping. Yes, we were the dorks in the front row clapping. Mr. McAgentton (the one I’d met with) said “I don’t know who you are, but you need to send that to me.” All of the agents swooned over it. I slouched in my seat. It was way better than mine.

But then I remembered what Michelle and I talked about in an earlier session in which we talked about the self-doubt that creeps in after rejection. We both had the same thought “When faced with rejection we say ‘So, what can I do better next time.’” And while I may not be able to describe nightfall in Malawi as beautifully as this person had, I had other parts of my book that were just as good, but they were a different kind of good. Who knows, maybe this Malawi person can’t write dialogue for crap. I feel I can. I commanded myself to turn on my sponge and learn about what I can do better.

Then the reader read the next one, and the next. Damn, all of these were good. I fought to keep myself sitting up straight in my seat, not letting the self-doubt seep in. The agents shed their politeness as the session wore on. I think that some of the first pages weren’t as polished as others (not like that Malawi one. Damn!) and they picked up right on it and asked questions like “Who is this person? Why are they doing this? What’s going on here?” All very valid questions.

I kept my eyes on the stack of first pages that the agent closest to me had on the table in front of her. Then I saw mine. I elbowed Michelle, “Mine’s next! Holy crap!”

And it was read, and I watched the agents react. There was one who was particularly expressive. She rolled her eyes, she sighed and scribbled a note in the margin. The rest remained poker-faced.

Now, keep in mind that this first page had since been re-written. So, it wasn’t the best representation. And I wondered what Mr. McAgentton was thinking about it at the time. Was he annoyed with himself for having requested my first 50? Would he ignore my email once he did get those pages? Have I blown my chance with him?

The reader stopped reading. I think only one of the agents raised their hand before the end of the reading, which is the signal that they would stop reading at that point. They had done that on a few others as well, so I didn’t feel singled out. My heart pounded as I waited for a response.

Post-Agent Meeting Glow

I shook the agent’s hand before standing up, “Thanks for meeting me. I hope that you find some good material today.” I figured it would be cool of me to acknowledge why he’s there. He’s there to support his livelihood, as he makes a commission off of the authors that he sells to publishing houses and he was there to find new talent.

I strode out of the room and went back to the break out session. I made my way to the middle to sit beside Michelle again. The way they set up the chairs in the session rooms was kind of strange. The aisles in the center of the room were way too small. I bashed about 4 different heads with either my bag on my left shoulder or my right hip. “’Scuse me… pardon me…” I whispered so I wouldn’t interrupt the speaker any more than the “Oof! Ouch!” from my victims already had.

Exhausted from the trek I flopped down next to her, “How’d it go?” she whispered. I smiled and nodded back while I pulled my notepad out of my bag. I bobbed my knee as the Q&A session went on. I am trying to remember, but I have no real idea about what was said after I’d sat down. I was busy replaying every little bitty microsecond of the agent meeting.

I wished that we weren’t sitting in a break out session; I needed someone who’d done what I had just done. I needed someone who understood the feeling of exhilaration that I felt after having a positive discussion about this thing I’ve been working on for three years. In the discussion he asked me questions about my work, he took notes, he said things like “That’s interesting.”

Mercifully the breakout session ended and the other attendees filed out.

“OK, tell me.”

“Oh my God! It was exhilarating!” I replied. I told her all about it and then I said “He asked me for my first 50 pages. But I think he’s just asking everyone for that.”

“No, they don’t just ask everyone for their first 50 pages. If he wasn’t interested he would say ‘I’m not interested in this’ because he doesn’t want to waste his time. When I went to that conference in San Francisco I met with 6 agents and only 3 of them wanted more. The others said that they weren’t interested in it. Believe me, if he wasn’t into it he would have said so.”

My hopes climbed a bit after she’d said that. We went to another session and then upstairs to lunch. We were in line at the buffet when a woman struck up conversation with me, “I saw you meet with Agent McAgentton. I met with him right after you did. How’d it go?”

I told her that I thought it went well and she said, “Yeah, he asked me for my first 50 pages.”

I looked up at Michelle as if to say “See, he’s totally asking everyone for their first 50.” She shrugged back at me.

No matter if he asked everyone in the conference for their first 50. He still asked me for mine.

Kind of Like a Job Interview, But Better

Last week I had posted that I would be attending my first literary agent meeting and writer’s conference on Saturday. It’s now Wednesday (I think… weren’t there like 4 Tuesdays shoved into this week already?) and I’ve had some time to obsess about my meeting and the conference and replay the meeting over and over in my mind.

I went to the conference with a high school friend, Michelle, who is also writing a book. Michelle just went to a big writer’s conference in San Francisco where she met with a half dozen or so agents. In the weeks leading up to the conference I annoyed the crap out of Michelle with ‘What are you wearing on Saturday?’ and ‘What should I bring? What should I prepare?’ questions. Then I changed my outfit at least three times before going to the event.

When I signed up I knew I wanted to meet an agent and submit my first page for critique. I wrote a query letter, submitted it, and was fixed up with an agent meeting at 10:10 in the morning. I also submitted my first page for the critique at the end of the day. And then I re-wrote the damn page right after I submitted it because that’s just how I roll.

I met Michelle in the morning and we got caught up, we went to see the keynote speaker and then went to a break out session on launching your book on the Internet. I kept a close eye on my watch, and at 10 left the session to use the ladies room and touch up my lipstick.

I went upstairs to find out where the meetings were being held and a man looked at my nametag “Oh, you’re BJ. Come with me.” He sat me down on the couch outside of the meeting room where I struck up a conversation with a woman writing a novel about squatters in New York City. Then the guy showed me into the room and I met “my” agent. (Well, not really MY agent, just the agent I had the appointment with. It’s shorter to call him “my” agent.)

I had researched this agent as much as I possibly could. I pasted relevant facts about him and his quotes from articles into a word doc, and studied it as I sat on the couch. I learned a bit about how he likes to be approached from one of his quotes and decided that I am going to treat the meeting kind of like a job interview. Lord knows I’ve been on enough of those, I am comfortable with job interviews. I calmed right down as I shook the agent’s hand.

He asked me about the book. I gave him my pitch, which I’d practiced in the car all morning, and he took notes and asked me more questions about the characters. Things like “What motivated Vince to do this, that and the other…” And we talked about the plot, and he filled the sheet on his little notepad. He asked me what my next book is about, and I just so happen to be writing another one long hand.

And then he asked me to send him my first 50 pages. And then the sun streamed through the window and the angels sang. And then I levitated out of my chair and went back to my break out session.

More later. This is getting kind of long.

On the Eve of My Deflowering

It’s been three years since I started writing the book. Surprisingly, I haven’t gotten sick of it yet, as that is often my M.O. I will start a project, get obsessed with it, and then drop it like it’s hot and move on.

I’ve written, I’ve edited, I’ve slashed some 11,000 words out of the final manuscript, and still want to find another 21,000 to blow away. I’ve had others read a few chapters and told them to be brutally honest and wonder if they’re just being polite. I re-read the book and think “Man, I am really on to something here.

Then on other days I re-read it and think “This is shit, do I really want to go on with this?” But I think what’s kept me going on this project is knowing how I’d feel if I stopped. I just spent 3 years of my life writing it. I’ve just spent 3 years of my life talking about it. I can’t just dump it, right?

I haven’t gotten burnt out yet. Instead I am moving to the next level. I learned about a local writing conference—well, if you count a 2 hour drive as local—and signed up for it. Then I found an old high school friend on facebook who is also writing a book. The conference is local to her as well, so we’re meeting there.  I haven't seen her in years.

Then the weeks went by. I signed up for an appointment to meet a literary agent at the conference. I submitted my first page for critique, and then promptly re-wrote it. I’ve never met an agent before; I’ve never had my pages critiqued before. And I am scared shitless. I am also excited to get feed back.

But I really wonder which voice in my head will be validated. Will it be the “You’re really on to something here” voice or the “This is shit” voice. I know it’s just one agent. And I know that I am supposed to get rejected by something like 4,397 agents and publishers before the book gets sold. I am at the very beginning of this part of the path to publication.

I have a few more things to do to prepare for Saturday. I need to assemble a packet with my synopsis, bio, and first 50 pages. Most of it is written, but I’d like to format them so they’re all nicey nice. Then I’ll go to Todd’s office on Friday after work and use his bitchen color printer so they look flawless. Should I get nicer paper?

I ordered business cards with the name of the book on them with a paragraph synopsis on the back, and I’ve been checking Fedex tracking all day long so I know precisely when they arrive at my house.

I just bought green folders from Staples in which to assemble this packet, a cute pen and a little notebook to put in my bag. Green is my favorite color, and I think it’ll bring me luck.

I need to Google the agent and compile research on him in just the right way so I don’t appear stalkerish, yet informed about what he’s sold and what he likes. I could do it at work, but my Internet access is so restricted there that I won’t find much. I could do it at home, but our printer doesn’t work.

I need to find that black tote bag I bought from the Gap Outlet when I used to commute on the train to work. It’s a stylish yet functional bag that will look more professional than my lime green backpack I tote around every day.

But most importantly, I need to not do that thing where I talk a lot and say something incredibly stupid on Saturday at 10:10 AM.

Hitting the Snooze Bar on Brilliance

I take my dreams very seriously. I keep a notepad by the bed so I can write things down that I come up with in my dreams. I came up with the premise for my novel in a dream more than a year ago, and I got up and started writing it.

The other night I had a great idea for a title for the book. It was great. It burst into my head and woke me up from a deep sleep. I groped for the notepad in the dark. It wasn’t there. I lied in the dark and debated on whether I wanted to get out of bed, and out of the snuggly warmth of the bed. I dreaded the cold house around me as I went downstairs to get another note pad. I imagined the cold of the wood floors, as I left my slippers downstairs.

“Nah, I’ll remember it,” I told myself. “It’s a great idea, I’ll totally remember it.” I rolled over and dozed off.

I woke up in the morning, empty. The idea was gone. Vanished. Vaporized. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t reproduce it.

I mentioned it to Todd the next morning, hoping that he would say “Oh yeah, you were saying something in your sleep. It was blah blah blah blah…” No dice.

Instead he said “You always think that the ideas you dream about are brilliant. I’ll bet it was really something like ‘Concrete Bananas’ though. Then when you get up in the morning and look at your notepad you’ll say ‘What? I thought that was brilliant?’”

Notepad has been restored in its rightful place by the bed. Hopefully it’ll come to me.

Dry Spell

I used to write songs. Whenever I was particularly moved by something (usually when a guy broke up with me) I’d pull out the guitar and write some gut-wrenching tune that I would brokenheartedly howl along to. I’d perfect the song then play it at the open mike night, or whenever I’d play an actual show, and watch the people in the front row wince as I crowed about some injustice that some loser boyfriend committed against me. I went through periods of cranking out songs (and blowing through bad boyfriends) and then I’d hit a dry spell, otherwise known as contentment.

During my song writing dry spells I would write about my inability to write about something that moved me. For example, a song I wrote in 1996 started with “I’m only writing this song in this key because I know you like these chords…” And later on, in 2003 when I wrote our wedding song as a surprise for Todd it started with “I tried to write you a sappy love song, complete with poetry and riddles and rhymes. But the way I feel there’s too much to say, I couldn’t write it all down on time…”

I remember reading the liner notes from the Deborah Conway CD "Bitch Epic." She said that she had composed most of the songs on the CD by filling a hat with slips of paper that had random words on them. She would draw the slips of paper out and try to write something using the words on the slip--which was how she had come up with the name of the CD and with the hit from the CD "Alive and Brilliant." I remember thinking then that this is a fantastic idea, one I've yet to try.

Right now I am experiencing a bit of a blogging dry spell, so I am employing one of my old songwriting methods—writing about not being able to write. I’ve been busy, I’ve been tired. I’ve been hanging out on my boat; I’ve been picking the blueberries off my bushes and eating them by the handful. I have plenty of incomplete blog entries rattling around in my brain, but haven’t been able to get them into any sort of meaningful story for you to read. I’ve been working on my book during my lunch hours, wishing I had an entire afternoon to myself to put all the edits into the manuscript and print it out and read it again. So the dry spell continues.

While I am writing about dry spells, let me tell you about another kind of dry spell. The scuba kind of dry spell. My wetsuit remains folded in the gear bin, my reg and dive computer are coiled up in the padded carry bag. We haven’t been on a dive yet this season and I am starting to get itchy to be underwater again.

Maybe this weekend, then I’ll really have something to write about. Either that or the only diving I will do will be into a hat filled with slips of papers.

3-2-1 Contact!

Sorry, I’ve been very neglectful of my blog. But as always I can explain. See, I am starting the new job on Monday and it was my goal to finish writing my book before I start the job and I did it! I finished the book yesterday afternoon.

I haven’t talked about the book here because I don’t want to turn into one of those bloggers who shamelessly promotes the living hell out of my book should it ever get published. I think it’s inevitable that some promotion happen, I mean I would want people to buy it, but I don’t want to be annoying about it. So anyway, I’ve written a fictional book, and now I need to print it all out, settle down and read it and make a few more edits, and then I’ll be ready to start querying literary agents and see if I can net one that can sell the book. So, this last week it’s been all-book-all-the-time in our house. As a result I’ve largely given up on the endless “settling in” process that happens when you move house, and it also looks like a bomb went off in our house as it’s now filthy where I live.

:::

Today we spent the day at the boat, getting it ready for launch. I have mentioned in past posts about Sabine’s leak and how we’ve been attempting to isolate the source of the leak, and in the process jacked up our electrical system. Well, the electrical was a quick and cheap fix today, and then tomorrow we’ll lay down some fiberglass inside the bilge so we can seal up any holes in there. During the week we’ll replace the depth sounder, which has a crack in it. Hopefully this will do the trick and Sabine will be floating at her mooring by the end of next week. Conveniently said mooring is a only a few blocks away from my new job, so I will have a very short commute on the nights when we stay aboard.

:::

We left the dogs home while we were at the boat, because the temperature has been in the 90’s today. Normally we’d take them along, but leaving them in the truck would have been way too uncomfortable (and deadly) for them, and because the boat is in dry dock right now, it would be impossible to carry a 70 lb Labrador up a ladder. Since we’ve lived here we’ve been leaving them in our vacant master bedroom (which we’ll start renovating in the fall, so we didn’t bother to move our bedroom furniture in there) because there’s nothing for our mischievous dogs to get into in that room while we’re out. Today we decided to let the dogs have the run of the house.

In our old house we couldn’t let the boys have run of the house while we were out because Griffen learned how to open the fridge and help himself to the contents. In the new house we have a side by side fridge and freezer. The handles are higher, so we figured that Griff wouldn’t be able to open it.

Boy, were we wrong.

While we were out Griffen grew a thumb and opened the freezer. He helped himself to a pound of frozen ground turkey, whatever was left of the peas and a package of brats. Of course the styrofoam and cellophane packaging was strewn all over the house, licked clean.

Looks like they’ll be banned to the bedroom for the rest of their lives.