Spent a lovely morning being the guest author at a summer creative writing course for middle graders. Creatures after my own heart! I would’ve loved to have taken a class like this when I was that age. Writing might’ve given veterinary medicine a run for its money years earlier…
This was the second presentation I’ve given this month. In August, I’m speaking to a women’s philanthropic organization; in October, at a school librarian conference; and I’ll be reading at Wordstock, Portland’s literary festival, in November. With the help of my publicist, I hope to line up several more gigs in the next year. I'm an inveterate introvert (say that five times fast) but oddly enough, I love talking to groups. Good thing, because public speaking is a great way for authors to raise awareness of their books.
Supposedly, more people are afraid of public speaking than death. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know lots of folks who would rather clean cat litterboxes ad infinitum rather than step behind a podium.
Much of what I learned about speaking in public came from ten years teaching part-time at a local community college. Lectures are, after all, a form of performance art; present them well, and you’ve got your students hooked. (I once briefly considered a career in veterinary epidemiology based solely on one professor’s lectures, which were mostly riveting stories about fighting pestilence the length and breadth of California. He made it sound like modern-day knight-errantry, and I was ready to snatch up the banner…until I found out it would take an additional two years of graduate school. That took the shine off the sword pretty quick). On the other hand, if you present your material poorly, you can actually hurt your cause. So if the thought of public speaking leaves you a-shiver, these tidbits might help:
1. First, foremost and always: Remember that your audience wants to like you. After all, who goes to an event hoping to have a bad time? You have their goodwill from the start; meet them at least halfway, and they’ll be pulling for you to do well.
2. Tailor your talk to your audience. Don’t take a one-size-fits-all approach. Earlier this month, I spoke about writing YA to a writers’ organization. In October, I’ll be speaking on the same topic to the school librarians. Two different audiences; two different sets of audience expectations; similar material, but presented two different ways to meet those expectations.
3. Keep eye contact. Don’t just gaze aimlessly in the general direction of the audience, but actually catch and hold individuals’ eyes for a second or two each. Never forget: you’re talking to them, not at them. Eye contact is huge.
4. Which means: you simply can’t read from notes. Practice ahead of time, and then practice some more. This doesn’t mean memorizing, because trying to recite from memory will kill your presentation. But know your main points. Certainly you’ll want to bring notes; I print mine out in 18-point type, one or two paragraphs per page (makes it easy to glance down if I need a memory jog). But be familiar enough with your material that you don’t need to read directly from them. Head up, eyes on your audience, and…
5. Please, for heaven’s sake, don’t speak in a monotone. Are you interested in your own material? I certainly hope so—because if you’re not, nobody else will be. Let your interest show through your voice and expression. Passion is contagious! Don’t be afraid that you might look funny. I’ve had pictures taken of me in which I look practically certifiable—hands thrown in the air, mouth wide open and eyebrows halfway to the moon—but people consistently tell me how much they enjoy my energy.
6. I learned early on with students, and the same holds true now: your audience doesn’t expect you to be perfect. But they do expect you to be genuine.
7. People love stories. Stories are gold. Funny stories (pertaining to your material, of course) are whole big treasure chests. If you’re not sure the story is funny to anyone other than you, though, try it out first on your most honest friend. Better to leave the funny out, rather than have to explain it to a bunch of confused-looking people.
8. When you’re practicing, time yourself. Know to the minute how long your presentation is. Another practice tip: visualize yourself giving the talk. Speak out loud to get used to the sound of your voice; use the inflections and gestures you’ll use during the presentation; practice your breathing. The more prepared you are, the more you’ll be able to…
9. Relax. You’re prepped, passionate, and rehearsed. The audience is on your side. Step up to the podium, take that first deep breath…and take it away.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Excellent!
OK, it’s been a little more than a week. And this post is not about public speaking, as I’d previously promised. Mice and men and gang agley and all that. It’s summer. Go with it.
The ins and outs of public speaking will be coming soon. But first, Melissa Marsh of Grosvenor Square has nominated me for a Blogging Excellence Award. I’m flattered, and really don’t think I deserve it. But—never one to turn down a pat on the back—I’ll take it!
Here are blogs that I nominate in turn:
Smart Bitches Trashy Books. I’m not currently a romance reader, although I’ve devoured a few in my day. But this blog is on my daily rounds, because these gals dish it up straight and are hilariously funny to boot. In addition to reviewing romance novels, they provide insights on pop culture, snarky analysis of romance covers (Warnings: Has Profanity. Not Work Safe. Do Not Read While Drinking a Beverage or You’ll Be Replacing Your Keyboard), and even, when warranted, investigative journalism into plagiarism and the mating habits of the black-footed ferret.
Pub Rants. Written by Kristen Nelson, a very nice woman who happens to be an up-and-coming literary agent. Her daily (or rather, nightly) take on the business of publishing is a must-read. Other literary agents’ blogs that are top of the heap: Nathan Bransford and BookEnds Literary Agency.
A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing. J.A. Konrath is a mystery writer, and no, I don’t read mysteries, either. But if you want to read about book promotion from an author who’s dived in feet-first and not yet come up for air, this blog is it. Konrath is the inexhaustible king of self-promotion, and he doesn’t just talk about it. He does it, and invites his readers along for the ride, whether he’s figuring out how to get on the conference circuit or engaging in a three-month, cross-country quest to personally visit 500 bookstores. He dispenses tons of information, his opinions are strong, the comment threads can go from fawning to contentious in the blink of an eye—all ingredients for great blogging.
barista brat. I don’t even remember how I discovered barista brat, but I’m a devotee. As a longtime Starbucks employee, her take on the world of the green apron is often amused, sometimes annoyed, occasionally bitter—but always fresh. On hiatus for three months, she’s back at last. If you’ve ever worked (or you currently do) in a service profession, and you’ve ever longed for karmic justice to be dispensed on an unpardonably rude customer, you must read this post.
The Heart of the Matter. Barry Eisler has been a lot of things: a corporate executive, an attorney, a covert something in the CIA (what exactly isn’t clear from his bio—I imagine that’s the covert part) and a writer. He’s the author of the John Rain series of thrillers (um, no…I don’t read thrillers, either. Stop asking me) but his blog is not book- or publishing-related. It’s about politics, and far from the ever-popular pasttime of slinging insults and reducing complex issues to soundbites, his blog posts are well-reasoned and insightful. I don’t always agree with him, but I’m always interested in what he has to say.
Up next: public speaking. Pinky swear, I promise.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Get on the Bus, Y'All--It's Adventure Time!
If there’s one thing that new or aspiring authors hear over and over again, it’s that we must actively promote our books.
But wait a minute, many authors say. Promotion is the publisher’s job, not mine.
It’s true that your publisher will put together a publicity and marketing plan for your book, just as it does for every title it produces. But plans vary widely, depending on—among other things—the subject matter of the book and the amount of time and money the publisher has to spend. At a minimum, your book will be included in the publisher’s catalog and sent out for reviews. The in-house publicist might be able to arrange some media coverage, maybe some local events. But if you’re a new author with no audience (yet), don’t start packing your bags. That national tour most likely ain’t happening.
So then what? The answer from most publishing folks these days is: take off the writer’s hat and put on the self-promotion one. Because now that your book is written, rewritten, edited, rewritten again, designed, and on the shelf…it’s time to get to work.
Not everyone is unanimous on this point. Well-known agent Donald Maass, for example, dismisses the notion of authors promoting their books. In his writer’s guide, Writing the Breakout Novel, he contends that the best way for a writer to sell books isn’t by going around tooting her own horn, but by focusing on writing the best damn books she can manage. Write a novel people want to read, he says, and the rest will take care of itself.
Donald Maass notwithstanding (and I love ya, Donald, really I do—yours is a refreshing, soothing voice, and lord I wish I could believe you), most of us grit our teeth and roll up our sleeves, if for no other reason than we believe in our books and we want to give them the best chance possible. The problem is, most writers—myself included—start out having no clue what to do. (If we did, we’d probably be in sales, and making a lot more money). The possibilities seem endless—and endlessly expensive, in either time or money. Should I spend $2000 on a book trailer? Another $1500 on a website? Scrape together thousands for a freelance publicist? Devote hours every week to MySpace and Facebook? Write a blog? An article for the local paper? Comment on other people’s blogs? Drive to every bookstore in a 50-mile radius to sign stock and meet booksellers? Should I bring cookies? Homemade or store-bought? What about milk?
Having now studied these burning questions for two years (and having actually done some of them) I herewith inaugurate another periodic series* on this blog: My Adventures in Book Promotion!
And just to kick the series off right: Watch this hilarious book trailer from author Dennis Cass (hilarious, because it is so painfully true...)
Next week: The One Thing People Fear More Than Death, and How to Deal (without actually dying).
*In case you missed it, the first periodic series was called From Manuscript to Finished Book. Click here for the first post in that series.
But wait a minute, many authors say. Promotion is the publisher’s job, not mine.
It’s true that your publisher will put together a publicity and marketing plan for your book, just as it does for every title it produces. But plans vary widely, depending on—among other things—the subject matter of the book and the amount of time and money the publisher has to spend. At a minimum, your book will be included in the publisher’s catalog and sent out for reviews. The in-house publicist might be able to arrange some media coverage, maybe some local events. But if you’re a new author with no audience (yet), don’t start packing your bags. That national tour most likely ain’t happening.
So then what? The answer from most publishing folks these days is: take off the writer’s hat and put on the self-promotion one. Because now that your book is written, rewritten, edited, rewritten again, designed, and on the shelf…it’s time to get to work.
Not everyone is unanimous on this point. Well-known agent Donald Maass, for example, dismisses the notion of authors promoting their books. In his writer’s guide, Writing the Breakout Novel, he contends that the best way for a writer to sell books isn’t by going around tooting her own horn, but by focusing on writing the best damn books she can manage. Write a novel people want to read, he says, and the rest will take care of itself.
Donald Maass notwithstanding (and I love ya, Donald, really I do—yours is a refreshing, soothing voice, and lord I wish I could believe you), most of us grit our teeth and roll up our sleeves, if for no other reason than we believe in our books and we want to give them the best chance possible. The problem is, most writers—myself included—start out having no clue what to do. (If we did, we’d probably be in sales, and making a lot more money). The possibilities seem endless—and endlessly expensive, in either time or money. Should I spend $2000 on a book trailer? Another $1500 on a website? Scrape together thousands for a freelance publicist? Devote hours every week to MySpace and Facebook? Write a blog? An article for the local paper? Comment on other people’s blogs? Drive to every bookstore in a 50-mile radius to sign stock and meet booksellers? Should I bring cookies? Homemade or store-bought? What about milk?
Having now studied these burning questions for two years (and having actually done some of them) I herewith inaugurate another periodic series* on this blog: My Adventures in Book Promotion!
And just to kick the series off right: Watch this hilarious book trailer from author Dennis Cass (hilarious, because it is so painfully true...)
Next week: The One Thing People Fear More Than Death, and How to Deal (without actually dying).
*In case you missed it, the first periodic series was called From Manuscript to Finished Book. Click here for the first post in that series.
Friday, June 27, 2008
I'm Still Gadding About...
...being interviewed by the wonderful Tasha at her blog, And Another Book Read. Click here for the interview, and here for her review of Ten Cents a Dance. Thanks Tasha, for the fun questions!
Next week I'll give my social butterfly wings a rest, and settle back home a while...
Next week I'll give my social butterfly wings a rest, and settle back home a while...
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Guest Blog over at the RAVENous Reader!
The RAVENous Reader invited me to guest blog for her, and I was delighted to oblige. Trot on over for my thoughts on inspiration, and the story of how Ten Cents a Dance got its start. You can also check out RAVENous Reader's review (suffice to say, she has impeccable taste. Thanks, RAVENous!)
Monday, June 09, 2008
Brownout
That's what they're calling the outcome of last Saturday's Belmont Stakes.If you follow the blog, you know I've watched the Triple Crown races ever since I was a little kid. Now that I work every Saturday, "watch" takes on a slightly different meaning. Getting a break during work almost never happens, so most times I catch the race later that night on the Internet.
But this past Saturday, I actually had the day off. (Long story). At 3:30 PM I was settled on the couch, surrounded by snoozing animals, watching Big Brown lead the parade to the post. His most serious rival, Casino Drive, had been scratched from the race that morning, and none of the other horses were thought to be a threat. After a 30-year drought, it seemed almost inevitable that in just a few minutes, the Crown would fall onto Big Brown's big, handsome head. Finally!
Sure enough, shortly after the start, his jockey got him positioned in the number 3 spot on the outside, perfectly poised to make his move when the right moment came. As the horses came around the final turn, you could see the jockey asking for the tremendous, track-eating burst of speed that was Big Brown's hallmark in the previous two races.
Nothing happened.
The frontrunner, a long shot named Da'Tara, began opening up his lead. Three lengths...four...five... and Da'Tara swept under the finish line, having led wire-to-wire over the entire 1-1/2 miles, a rare feat in a race this long.
After Eight Belles lost her life in this year's Kentucky Derby, and Barbaro his after a devastating injury in the 2006 Preakness, my first thought (and I'm sure, everyone's first thought) was that Big Brown had been hurt. Thankfully, he wasn't. In post-race interviews, his jockey said that he had "no horse" under him; when he asked Big Brown to move, the horse simply didn't have it in him. At that point, the jockey--wisely, in my opinion--eased him up. Big Brown finished last.
Was Da'Tara that superior a horse? Nope. The only other time the two had raced together, three months ago in the Florida Derby, Big Brown had beaten Da'Tara by 23 lengths. So what happened Saturday? Big Brown showed no sign of lameness or soreness after the race, so the patched quarter crack in his left front foot doesn't seem to be to blame. Was it the heat? Getting dirt kicked in his face for the first time in his career? Could he just plain not handle 3 grueling races in 5 weeks? We'll probably never know; even the people closest to him may never know.
And that, my friends, is why they call it horse racing.
In all the hoopla before the Belmont, and all the head-scratching afterward, though, an important issue came to light--the use of anabolic steroids in racehorses. They're legal in most states, and Big Brown's trainer routinely uses them.*
Should racehorses be given steroids? I say no. It ought to be illegal, and I'm glad that more states are now considering banning their use. I have a few more suggestions for the racing industry, but if the steroids get thrown out, that's a start.
So the Triple Crown drought continues. And while Big Brown's people are surely sorely disappointed, one of his owners, Michael Iavarone, had this to say: “I love this horse. I’ve grown tremendously attached to this horse emotionally. I wanted him to know he could run dead last or first and we would still love him.”
Bravo.
*Although he withdrew Big Brown's usual dose a couple of weeks before the Belmont, in order to prove that his horse could win without the drug. Did that contribute to Big Brown's defeat? The equine veterinarians I've listened to say probably not. Still, it's another thing we'll never know.
Drumroll, Please...
The winner of the piccallili blog comment contest, as chosen at random by the magic random number generator: Melissa Marsh! Congratulations, Melissa!
(BTW: If you’re interested in writing, I highly recommend Melissa’s blog, Grosvenor Square, for her wonderful insights on historical fiction and the writing life.)
Thanks again to everyone who left a comment, and to everyone who stops by the blog. As I mentioned in my last post, I’m still having fun with this thing. And it still tickles me to death that people like to read it.
Upcoming posts (in no particular order—these are the scribbles on the Post-it note stuck on my desk): writing mentors; fabulous books I’ve recently read; an update on Ten Cents a Dance; and I'm mulling over an idea for a series on personal adventures in book promotion.
Not to mention whatever else pops into my head. Stay tuned...
(BTW: If you’re interested in writing, I highly recommend Melissa’s blog, Grosvenor Square, for her wonderful insights on historical fiction and the writing life.)
Thanks again to everyone who left a comment, and to everyone who stops by the blog. As I mentioned in my last post, I’m still having fun with this thing. And it still tickles me to death that people like to read it.
Upcoming posts (in no particular order—these are the scribbles on the Post-it note stuck on my desk): writing mentors; fabulous books I’ve recently read; an update on Ten Cents a Dance; and I'm mulling over an idea for a series on personal adventures in book promotion.
Not to mention whatever else pops into my head. Stay tuned...
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
An Anniversary. A Contest. And It's Only Been Two Years!*
I just realized that on April 26th, 2008, the second anniversary of this blog slipped quietly past. I clearly remember, at the beginning, giving myself six months. If I was managing to post on a regular basis, I figured I’d keep going. If not, I’d bag it. Quite honestly, I doubted I’d make it past two posts, let alone two years.
Why did I start? Simple. Because my agent and editor said all authors need to blog. Period. I was a brand-new baby author; if my editor said I had to eat Froot Loops for breakfast every day, I’d have run out to buy a dozen boxes and a gallon of milk. And too, I thought it’d be fun to try (blogging, not Froot Loops. I hate Froot Loops).
But even though all the pros were sure I needed a blog, I was still hazy on what the thing was actually FOR. Endlessly pushing my own books? Ewww. Just the thought made me queasy. Rambling on about my day? Oh, please. Not even my dogs are interested in my day. (“She sat and make the clicky noises with her fingers…I fell asleep…woke up… still making clicky noises.”) Yep, that’s fascinating.
My own favorite blogs are snarkily funny (the great Miss Snark herself, RIP; Smart Bitches Trashy Books; barista brat—where are ye, brat? So long since we heard from ye…) But snark isn’t a voice I can pull off. No way, no how, don’t even try.
So…when in doubt, make it simple. I blog about things that interest me. Now, I know well the depths of my own geekiness; I’ve had too many actual-world people stare blankly while I blather on about something I find absolutely fascinating to doubt I might get the same reaction online. (After reading one of my first posts, my sweetie shook his head and said, “Wow, that’s really strange.” And no, I’m not going to link to which post it was). Snarkiness might be the homecoming queen, the quarterback’s girlfriend, the head cheerleader. Geeks work on the yearbook committee and come up with the obscurely funny photo captions that nobody else gets. But what would the world be without us?
Anyway, somewhere along the line I figured out the purpose of this blog. Nothing profound; it’s an open door, that’s all. For folks who are curious about my books, or who just stumbled across my site: come on in, poke around, get to know me a little. And for you who stop by regularly, my deep thanks. I’m still delighted and honored whenever I get a comment—wow, someone read what I wrote!
I have my Post-it note of possible topics stuck on my desk, and Blogger awaits. Sometimes, it even lets me post pictures. And so we begin year three…
...the same way we began two years ago: with a contest. Leave a comment on this post and I'll use the magic random number generator to pick the winner of a signed copy of Ten Cents a Dance. Deadline by my next post. Which I don't know when that will be. Could be tomorrow (OK, that's unlikely), probably within the next week. Hey, what's a contest without a little suspense?
*A shout-out to the post that started this whole shenanigan.
Why did I start? Simple. Because my agent and editor said all authors need to blog. Period. I was a brand-new baby author; if my editor said I had to eat Froot Loops for breakfast every day, I’d have run out to buy a dozen boxes and a gallon of milk. And too, I thought it’d be fun to try (blogging, not Froot Loops. I hate Froot Loops).
But even though all the pros were sure I needed a blog, I was still hazy on what the thing was actually FOR. Endlessly pushing my own books? Ewww. Just the thought made me queasy. Rambling on about my day? Oh, please. Not even my dogs are interested in my day. (“She sat and make the clicky noises with her fingers…I fell asleep…woke up… still making clicky noises.”) Yep, that’s fascinating.
My own favorite blogs are snarkily funny (the great Miss Snark herself, RIP; Smart Bitches Trashy Books; barista brat—where are ye, brat? So long since we heard from ye…) But snark isn’t a voice I can pull off. No way, no how, don’t even try.
So…when in doubt, make it simple. I blog about things that interest me. Now, I know well the depths of my own geekiness; I’ve had too many actual-world people stare blankly while I blather on about something I find absolutely fascinating to doubt I might get the same reaction online. (After reading one of my first posts, my sweetie shook his head and said, “Wow, that’s really strange.” And no, I’m not going to link to which post it was). Snarkiness might be the homecoming queen, the quarterback’s girlfriend, the head cheerleader. Geeks work on the yearbook committee and come up with the obscurely funny photo captions that nobody else gets. But what would the world be without us?
Anyway, somewhere along the line I figured out the purpose of this blog. Nothing profound; it’s an open door, that’s all. For folks who are curious about my books, or who just stumbled across my site: come on in, poke around, get to know me a little. And for you who stop by regularly, my deep thanks. I’m still delighted and honored whenever I get a comment—wow, someone read what I wrote!
I have my Post-it note of possible topics stuck on my desk, and Blogger awaits. Sometimes, it even lets me post pictures. And so we begin year three…
...the same way we began two years ago: with a contest. Leave a comment on this post and I'll use the magic random number generator to pick the winner of a signed copy of Ten Cents a Dance. Deadline by my next post. Which I don't know when that will be. Could be tomorrow (OK, that's unlikely), probably within the next week. Hey, what's a contest without a little suspense?
*A shout-out to the post that started this whole shenanigan.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Lightning Strike
Most days, writing feels like a whole lot of heavy lifting. Write a sentence. Delete it. Write a slightly different one. Delete that. Put the scene together, bit by bit. The character enters, and…then what? She looks around, oh, that’s good. And sees…what? OK, think about where she is. What does it look like? Sounds? Smells? What is she feeling? For that matter, why is she there at all?
*Sigh* Delete paragraph. Start over.
*Sigh* Delete paragraph. Start over.
But then—sometimes—lightning strikes. It happened last week. I’d already written one partial scene that didn’t work. I went back to my notebook, scribbled some thoughts, drew arrows from one note to another. (Drawing arrows always makes it seem like I’m in charge. Like I know what I’m doing. It’s an illusion…but one I cling to).
I started the scene again. And this time…it flowed.
Some people call it being in the zone. Some people call it the Muse. I call it Thank you, God, and I write as fast as I can. Don't stop to look stuff up. A character needed a French surname; I threw together a bunch of letters ending in "ier." Fix later. Write now.
I started the scene again. And this time…it flowed.
Some people call it being in the zone. Some people call it the Muse. I call it Thank you, God, and I write as fast as I can. Don't stop to look stuff up. A character needed a French surname; I threw together a bunch of letters ending in "ier." Fix later. Write now.
When lightning strikes, the characters take on life. They’re no longer mannequins, waiting for my direction. Instead, they’re moving, talking, acting, often with no regard for my original intentions for them. I feel like a reporter, looking through the characters’ eyes, feeling what they feel, scribbling down everything. The internal editor stops squawking (awkward sentence! bad phrasing! how run-on can you get?) and quiets to a hum, reaching in only now and then for a fast tweak. The scene unfolds; new people appear; characters say and do things I didn’t anticipate. It’s like watching a movie for the first time, with all the surprise and delight of the unexpected. I’m no longer eyeing the clock on my computer taskbar, wondering when I can legitimately take a break for lunch… check the mail…move laundry. I get hungry, but the scene isn’t stopping, I can see what’s coming around the corner, let me get just this bit down and then I’ll go eat.
The scene comes to a close. Last sentence, final period. I stretch, and the animals leap to their feet. It’s past their dinnertime. I never stopped for lunch. Wet laundry is still in the washer, the mail is still in the box. My shoulders ache, and I feel a little buzzed, a little disoriented. I’ve just spent ten hours in an upscale department store salon in 1944. My kitchen in 2008 seems strange. I find myself looking at a can of cat food like I’ve never seen it before.
I feel fantastic.
All the writers I know live for days like this. They don’t come often. The only way we know to make them appear is to do the days and weeks of heavy lifting. If you choose not to write until the lightning comes...well, you’ll be waiting a long time.
Sure enough, since that one great day, it’s been nothing but more heavy lifting. That’s OK. The lightning has struck, for the first time, in this newest novel. It’ll strike again.
We’re on our way.
The scene comes to a close. Last sentence, final period. I stretch, and the animals leap to their feet. It’s past their dinnertime. I never stopped for lunch. Wet laundry is still in the washer, the mail is still in the box. My shoulders ache, and I feel a little buzzed, a little disoriented. I’ve just spent ten hours in an upscale department store salon in 1944. My kitchen in 2008 seems strange. I find myself looking at a can of cat food like I’ve never seen it before.
I feel fantastic.
All the writers I know live for days like this. They don’t come often. The only way we know to make them appear is to do the days and weeks of heavy lifting. If you choose not to write until the lightning comes...well, you’ll be waiting a long time.
Sure enough, since that one great day, it’s been nothing but more heavy lifting. That’s OK. The lightning has struck, for the first time, in this newest novel. It’ll strike again.
We’re on our way.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
O2
This past Sunday, my sweetie and I were standing in line for coffees when I smacked my forehead (this isn’t just a literary conceit—I really do smack my forehead when I’ve forgotten something) and said, “The Obama rally!” A co-worker had told me about it the day before, and it had clean slipped my mind. We looked at our watches. I thought it started at noon; it was already ten A.M. “No way we’ll get in,” we said.
When we got home, I checked online. Turned out the gates opened at 12:30; the rally didn’t start until 2:30. Sweet! We hopped on our bikes and pedaled downtown.
Portland on a sunny spring day is like Cinderella at the ball: once the overcast gray gloom is banished, the city sparkles. We rode along the Willamette River, then joined the crowd pouring over one of the ten bridges linking east Portland with the westside. Once across, we started looking for a place to lock our bikes…and looked…and looked. The railing along the entire riverfront spanning downtown was packed with thousands of bicycles. In fifteen years in this town, we'd never seen anything like it.
(I should note at this point the regrettable lack of our own photographs. I forgot my camera. My sweetie—ever prepared—brought his, but the fresh battery he took out of the charger was inexplicably dead. I will skip over the bitter gnashing of teeth.)
Bikes finally secured, we walked to Waterfront Park, the site of the rally. You know how you read in novels: the mood was electric—well, this actually was. The air practically crackled with an optimistic, buzzing energy. We came across an event organizer; she waved at a queue of folks and said, “Go to the end of the line.” So we walked, past hundreds and hundreds of people, past folks selling bottled water, ice cream, Obama T-shirts, looking for the end. And looking…and looking…
Six blocks later, we looked at each other. “No way we’re getting in,” one of us said.
“Lunch,” we both said.
When it comes to crowds, I admit it—we’re weenies.
After lunch, we headed back to the Hawthorne Bridge, thinking we’d watch the rally from there. No such luck—the west end of the bridge rose just above the rally point, and not surprisingly, the police weren’t allowing anyone on the near side, within sight of the grandstand. But we were allowed to queue up on the far side. No visuals, but we could hear. A heavy, steady tide of people was still pouring over the bridge into downtown. In the river, dozens and dozens of boats arrayed themselves in a rough half-moon close to shore. The electric mood heightened.
And then, from the park: “Please welcome…the next First Family of the United States!” A roar boomed from the crowd inside; on the bridge, cheers and applause. Then everyone quieted.
“Wow,” we heard Obama say. “Wow. Wow.” And then, “This is the most spectacular crowd, in the most spectacular setting, that we’ve seen in all the months of this campaign.” Another roar. Yay, Portland! Then he began his stump speech. No one talked on their cell phones; nobody chatted with each other. We all stood listening, quiet, for the forty minutes Obama spoke. We couldn’t catch everything—wind snatched away some of the words, buses drowned out others. Then another roar from the crowd inside the park, and Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” jazzed through the air.
Later, we found out that the official crowd estimate was seventy-two to seventy-five thousand. The queue of people waiting to get into the rally was estimated to be over two miles long. Sixty thousand made it into Waterfront Park; the rest, like us, gathered outside. It was Obama’s largest rally by far, and, we heard, one of the largest for any primary election event in American history. (Blogger, that silly creature, isn't letting me post any pictures at all--go here for some eye-popping ones, and here and here for great videos.)
It was amazing to be part of, and something I will never forget. Not just the crowds, but that optimism, that incredible energy crackling through the air.
Today, Oregon votes. Usually, by this time in the primary season, everything is wrapped up and tied with a bow, and our poor state is like the smallest kid in the class jumping up and down with her hand in the air, squeaking, “Me, too! Me, too!” But this year, for the first time in decades, Oregon’s vote actually matters.
So if you’re an Oregonian—no matter what party, no matter whom you support—get that ballot delivered! *
*Oregon is the only state which votes exclusively by mail. At first, I was unsure about it. Now, I think it’s the most civilized way to cast a ballot. There’s simply no lovelier way to vote than at one’s own kitchen table, with a cup of coffee, music of one’s choice, our state’s wonderful Voter’s Pamphlet (which furnishes information on all the candidates and ballot measures—in plain English) a black pen, and a ballot. No standing in line, no trying to cram it in before or after work, no having to remember which candidate is who and which ballot measures I’m for or against. I’m telling you—vote-by-mail is voter heaven, complete with a paper trail. Y’all should try it sometime. And maybe some year we'll take a cue from you other states, and do away with not allowing ourselves to pump our own gas.
When we got home, I checked online. Turned out the gates opened at 12:30; the rally didn’t start until 2:30. Sweet! We hopped on our bikes and pedaled downtown.
Portland on a sunny spring day is like Cinderella at the ball: once the overcast gray gloom is banished, the city sparkles. We rode along the Willamette River, then joined the crowd pouring over one of the ten bridges linking east Portland with the westside. Once across, we started looking for a place to lock our bikes…and looked…and looked. The railing along the entire riverfront spanning downtown was packed with thousands of bicycles. In fifteen years in this town, we'd never seen anything like it.
(I should note at this point the regrettable lack of our own photographs. I forgot my camera. My sweetie—ever prepared—brought his, but the fresh battery he took out of the charger was inexplicably dead. I will skip over the bitter gnashing of teeth.)
Bikes finally secured, we walked to Waterfront Park, the site of the rally. You know how you read in novels: the mood was electric—well, this actually was. The air practically crackled with an optimistic, buzzing energy. We came across an event organizer; she waved at a queue of folks and said, “Go to the end of the line.” So we walked, past hundreds and hundreds of people, past folks selling bottled water, ice cream, Obama T-shirts, looking for the end. And looking…and looking…
Six blocks later, we looked at each other. “No way we’re getting in,” one of us said.
“Lunch,” we both said.
When it comes to crowds, I admit it—we’re weenies.
After lunch, we headed back to the Hawthorne Bridge, thinking we’d watch the rally from there. No such luck—the west end of the bridge rose just above the rally point, and not surprisingly, the police weren’t allowing anyone on the near side, within sight of the grandstand. But we were allowed to queue up on the far side. No visuals, but we could hear. A heavy, steady tide of people was still pouring over the bridge into downtown. In the river, dozens and dozens of boats arrayed themselves in a rough half-moon close to shore. The electric mood heightened.
And then, from the park: “Please welcome…the next First Family of the United States!” A roar boomed from the crowd inside; on the bridge, cheers and applause. Then everyone quieted.
“Wow,” we heard Obama say. “Wow. Wow.” And then, “This is the most spectacular crowd, in the most spectacular setting, that we’ve seen in all the months of this campaign.” Another roar. Yay, Portland! Then he began his stump speech. No one talked on their cell phones; nobody chatted with each other. We all stood listening, quiet, for the forty minutes Obama spoke. We couldn’t catch everything—wind snatched away some of the words, buses drowned out others. Then another roar from the crowd inside the park, and Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” jazzed through the air.
Later, we found out that the official crowd estimate was seventy-two to seventy-five thousand. The queue of people waiting to get into the rally was estimated to be over two miles long. Sixty thousand made it into Waterfront Park; the rest, like us, gathered outside. It was Obama’s largest rally by far, and, we heard, one of the largest for any primary election event in American history. (Blogger, that silly creature, isn't letting me post any pictures at all--go here for some eye-popping ones, and here and here for great videos.)
It was amazing to be part of, and something I will never forget. Not just the crowds, but that optimism, that incredible energy crackling through the air.
Today, Oregon votes. Usually, by this time in the primary season, everything is wrapped up and tied with a bow, and our poor state is like the smallest kid in the class jumping up and down with her hand in the air, squeaking, “Me, too! Me, too!” But this year, for the first time in decades, Oregon’s vote actually matters.
So if you’re an Oregonian—no matter what party, no matter whom you support—get that ballot delivered! *
*Oregon is the only state which votes exclusively by mail. At first, I was unsure about it. Now, I think it’s the most civilized way to cast a ballot. There’s simply no lovelier way to vote than at one’s own kitchen table, with a cup of coffee, music of one’s choice, our state’s wonderful Voter’s Pamphlet (which furnishes information on all the candidates and ballot measures—in plain English) a black pen, and a ballot. No standing in line, no trying to cram it in before or after work, no having to remember which candidate is who and which ballot measures I’m for or against. I’m telling you—vote-by-mail is voter heaven, complete with a paper trail. Y’all should try it sometime. And maybe some year we'll take a cue from you other states, and do away with not allowing ourselves to pump our own gas.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Will 2008 Be the Year of Big Brown?
So-o-o-o-o, after…
…1 veterinary staff retreat at the beach
…1 author visit to Longview Public Library (thanks to super-librarian Jan Hanson, Tallulah fan Liz, and all the teens who came out on a Tuesday night to hear me read—you guys rock!)
…and 1 major breakthrough on the new novel I’m writing
Watching Big Brown gallop away with the Kentucky Derby, and then yesterday’s Preakness Stakes, it’s hard not to get excited about the possibility. What a powerhouse of a horse! Big Brown makes a charge to victory look easy as a romp in the park on a summer’s day.
But eleven times in the past thirty years, horses have won the first two legs of the Triple Crown, only to get foiled in the infamously grueling Belmont Stakes. Eleven oh-so-close…and then we sigh, and say, Maybe next year.
Smarty Jones, you broke my heart. Dare I love again?
…1 veterinary staff retreat at the beach
…1 massive spring housecleaning
…1 fantabulous visit with brother-and-nephew unit (many games of Scrabble, played to cries of “That is not a word—I challenge!” followed by “I can’t believe that’s actually a word!” heh heh heh)
…1 author visit to Longview Public Library (thanks to super-librarian Jan Hanson, Tallulah fan Liz, and all the teens who came out on a Tuesday night to hear me read—you guys rock!)
…1 busted-up car that left us stranded
…and 1 major breakthrough on the new novel I’m writing…I’m back.
I’ve blogged before about watching the great horse Affirmed fend off his archrival, Alydar, to win the Triple Crown. The thirty years since then have been the longest stretch ever without a Triple Crown champion.
This year, will Affirmed finally have a successor?
I’ve blogged before about watching the great horse Affirmed fend off his archrival, Alydar, to win the Triple Crown. The thirty years since then have been the longest stretch ever without a Triple Crown champion.
This year, will Affirmed finally have a successor?
Watching Big Brown gallop away with the Kentucky Derby, and then yesterday’s Preakness Stakes, it’s hard not to get excited about the possibility. What a powerhouse of a horse! Big Brown makes a charge to victory look easy as a romp in the park on a summer’s day.
But eleven times in the past thirty years, horses have won the first two legs of the Triple Crown, only to get foiled in the infamously grueling Belmont Stakes. Eleven oh-so-close…and then we sigh, and say, Maybe next year.
Smarty Jones, you broke my heart. Dare I love again?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
An Engineer's Guide to Cats
Hilarious, and yet oddly undescribable. You just have to watch.
(I originally had the video posted here, but it was too big for the space, so I took it down and posted the YouTube link instead.)
Thursday, April 24, 2008
An Afternoon with the Greatest Generation
When a writer friend of mine asked if I would do a reading for her mother-in-law’s sorority, I pictured—I admit it—a roomful of starchy, upper crust ladies with Greek letter pins on their immaculate gabardine lapels. How, I wondered, would they react to rough-and-tumble Ruby, the main character of Ten Cents a Dance?
I slipped into my `40s vintage, put up my hair in victory rolls (no time for pin curls in the back, but that’s where a snood comes in awfully handy. Those old-timey gals had an answer for everything), slapped on the MAC Chili Red lipstick, and headed over to Albertina’s, a lovely restaurant/charity shop/venerable Portland institution. Most everybody was already there. Not a single Greek letter in sight, I noticed. Introductions were made all around, and then we sat down to lunch.
Over carrot-ginger soup, I learned that this was no ordinary sorority. The women belong to a chapter of Euthenics, which (they explained) is the science of improving the human condition through improvement of external factors: nutrition, education, environment. To join, each member had to have a degree in home economics. Listening to them talk, I realized—for the first time—that home ec is about more than learning how to sew a gingham apron. For these women, it’s a means to better the whole human race—a goal to which they had devoted themselves for over fifty years.
But back to lunch. Anita was talking about Colony Collapse Disorder in honeybees (Anita is a beekeeper, as well as the only member not in her eighties…having just celebrated her ninetieth birthday) when I realized that quitting full-time veterinary work to write was the best career decision I’d made in my life.
I’d thought this before, of course. But never with such absolute clarity and conviction. How else would I have met these witty, down-to-earth, wonderful women, had a chance to listen to their stories, and share with them mine and Ruby’s?
After lunch, I read from Ten Cents a Dance. The group responded with enthusiasm—they’d lived through the time I wrote about, after all, and it kicked off a lively discussion of the war…the homefront…the men who came back and never talked about what they’d seen or done. The afternoon was over way too soon—I felt I could have stayed for hours, listening to their stories, laughing at their jokes. If I’m half as sharp and half as active at that age, I’ll be thankful indeed! Thank you, ladies, for your wonderful hospitality. This was my first reading for the Greatest Generation—and I hope it won’t be the last.
I slipped into my `40s vintage, put up my hair in victory rolls (no time for pin curls in the back, but that’s where a snood comes in awfully handy. Those old-timey gals had an answer for everything), slapped on the MAC Chili Red lipstick, and headed over to Albertina’s, a lovely restaurant/charity shop/venerable Portland institution. Most everybody was already there. Not a single Greek letter in sight, I noticed. Introductions were made all around, and then we sat down to lunch.
Over carrot-ginger soup, I learned that this was no ordinary sorority. The women belong to a chapter of Euthenics, which (they explained) is the science of improving the human condition through improvement of external factors: nutrition, education, environment. To join, each member had to have a degree in home economics. Listening to them talk, I realized—for the first time—that home ec is about more than learning how to sew a gingham apron. For these women, it’s a means to better the whole human race—a goal to which they had devoted themselves for over fifty years.
But back to lunch. Anita was talking about Colony Collapse Disorder in honeybees (Anita is a beekeeper, as well as the only member not in her eighties…having just celebrated her ninetieth birthday) when I realized that quitting full-time veterinary work to write was the best career decision I’d made in my life.
I’d thought this before, of course. But never with such absolute clarity and conviction. How else would I have met these witty, down-to-earth, wonderful women, had a chance to listen to their stories, and share with them mine and Ruby’s?
After lunch, I read from Ten Cents a Dance. The group responded with enthusiasm—they’d lived through the time I wrote about, after all, and it kicked off a lively discussion of the war…the homefront…the men who came back and never talked about what they’d seen or done. The afternoon was over way too soon—I felt I could have stayed for hours, listening to their stories, laughing at their jokes. If I’m half as sharp and half as active at that age, I’ll be thankful indeed! Thank you, ladies, for your wonderful hospitality. This was my first reading for the Greatest Generation—and I hope it won’t be the last.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Crack the Champagne, It's a Book Launch!
Last Sunday, St. Johns Booksellers hosted the launch party for Ten Cents a Dance. Liz and Nena, the fabulous booksellers, cleared a big space in the middle of the store and set out all their chairs in preparation. After all, my last reading there had been a great success, with more than thirty attendees—fingers crossed that as many people might come this time!
The party started at 3 PM. By the time I started reading, at 3:15, the entire store—front to back, side to side, every chair, between every bookshelf—was standing room only. More than sixty people came out to help us celebrate! To say I was gratified would be the understatement of the year—I was utterly overwhelmed.
The crowd responded enthusiastically to the reading, and in the Q&A session following, questions flew thick and fast: about the research and writing, about taxi dancing and the Chicago of the era, what a dime would buy in 1941 (besides a dance with Ruby!), and about the opportunities and sacrifices that WWII brought to a young generation—some of whom, I was honored to discover, were in the audience. And doubly honored when they told me, afterward, that Ruby’s world seemed to them truly authentic.
I was going for some personal authenticity, myself. With the invaluable assistance of friend and fellow author Sally Nemeth, I snagged a fabulous 1940s dress. Then, armed with YouTube tutorials, advice and encouragement from the wonderful folks at the Fedora Lounge, I practiced and practiced my chosen 1940s hairstyle, reverse victory rolls and pincurls. (Our grandmothers had some dextrous fingers, to pull these off every day. Pincurls are hard!) Finally, seamed stockings, my mother’s ‘40s crocodile platform heels, a flower to top it all off—I was set!
Two days later, I’m still floating. Thank you to everyone who came to this colliding of my worlds: all my veterinary folk, my writing pals, friends, neighbors, and Tallulah fans who came to discover what this new book is all about. Special shout-outs: to my pal Amber, who bought a zoot suit costume for the occasion; 
to the Portland members of the Fedora Lounge, some of whom I finally got to meet in person, and whose vintage turnout put mine to shame! And especially to my good friend Walter, who flew in from Idaho just for the party, and had to fly right back out again.
A heartfelt thank you to my wonderful agent, Dorian Karchmar, who bought the champagne and sent a lovely message of congratulations. The crowd burst into quite an ovation!
And finally, my deepest gratitude to Nena and Liz of St. Johns Booksellers, who, the moment I told them I was working on a second novel, cried, “We want to host the party!” They made it a magnificent event—Liz even suffered high heels through the entire afternoon (I hope your feet have recovered, Liz!) These two are truly a class act, and their bookstore is a treasure in our neighborhood.
Thanks to them, and to all who came, and to all who couldn’t but sent their congratulations—Ten Cents a Dance is well and beautifully launched.
The party started at 3 PM. By the time I started reading, at 3:15, the entire store—front to back, side to side, every chair, between every bookshelf—was standing room only. More than sixty people came out to help us celebrate! To say I was gratified would be the understatement of the year—I was utterly overwhelmed.
The crowd responded enthusiastically to the reading, and in the Q&A session following, questions flew thick and fast: about the research and writing, about taxi dancing and the Chicago of the era, what a dime would buy in 1941 (besides a dance with Ruby!), and about the opportunities and sacrifices that WWII brought to a young generation—some of whom, I was honored to discover, were in the audience. And doubly honored when they told me, afterward, that Ruby’s world seemed to them truly authentic. 
I was going for some personal authenticity, myself. With the invaluable assistance of friend and fellow author Sally Nemeth, I snagged a fabulous 1940s dress. Then, armed with YouTube tutorials, advice and encouragement from the wonderful folks at the Fedora Lounge, I practiced and practiced my chosen 1940s hairstyle, reverse victory rolls and pincurls. (Our grandmothers had some dextrous fingers, to pull these off every day. Pincurls are hard!) Finally, seamed stockings, my mother’s ‘40s crocodile platform heels, a flower to top it all off—I was set!
Two days later, I’m still floating. Thank you to everyone who came to this colliding of my worlds: all my veterinary folk, my writing pals, friends, neighbors, and Tallulah fans who came to discover what this new book is all about. Special shout-outs: to my pal Amber, who bought a zoot suit costume for the occasion; 
to the Portland members of the Fedora Lounge, some of whom I finally got to meet in person, and whose vintage turnout put mine to shame! And especially to my good friend Walter, who flew in from Idaho just for the party, and had to fly right back out again.A heartfelt thank you to my wonderful agent, Dorian Karchmar, who bought the champagne and sent a lovely message of congratulations. The crowd burst into quite an ovation!
And finally, my deepest gratitude to Nena and Liz of St. Johns Booksellers, who, the moment I told them I was working on a second novel, cried, “We want to host the party!” They made it a magnificent event—Liz even suffered high heels through the entire afternoon (I hope your feet have recovered, Liz!) These two are truly a class act, and their bookstore is a treasure in our neighborhood.
Thanks to them, and to all who came, and to all who couldn’t but sent their congratulations—Ten Cents a Dance is well and beautifully launched. Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Countdown: ZERO!
Publication day! Ten Cents a Dance is officially available in bookstores and online. Are we excited? Is the Pope Catholic?
So what happens on pub day (as book insiders affectionately call it)?
Well, so far, not much. I got up, curled my lip at the frost outside (it’s April, people! Enough with the frost!), ate breakfast, and parked myself in front of my computer. Pub dates, alas, aren’t like a movie premiere. There’s no red carpet in front of the local Barnes & Noble, George Clooney ain’t showing up at my door in a tux. (Although, if he wants to, who am I to deny the man?) In short, it’s a lot like any other day. There’s pages to write on the next book, errands to run, chores to do.
But Ten Cents a Dance, the novel I’ve lived and breathed for two years, is now—finally—on the shelves. Ruby’s story is out of my hands, and into yours.
So what happens on pub day (as book insiders affectionately call it)?
Well, so far, not much. I got up, curled my lip at the frost outside (it’s April, people! Enough with the frost!), ate breakfast, and parked myself in front of my computer. Pub dates, alas, aren’t like a movie premiere. There’s no red carpet in front of the local Barnes & Noble, George Clooney ain’t showing up at my door in a tux. (Although, if he wants to, who am I to deny the man?) In short, it’s a lot like any other day. There’s pages to write on the next book, errands to run, chores to do.
But Ten Cents a Dance, the novel I’ve lived and breathed for two years, is now—finally—on the shelves. Ruby’s story is out of my hands, and into yours.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
She'll Bring You the World...In Books
A few weeks ago, a friend e-mailed me with a request. She had an author coming to Portland for a reading; would I be able to drive him from his hotel to the bookstore?Go to a reading? You don't have to ask me twice. So, on a recent rainy Wednesday (is there any other kind in the Pacific Northwest in March?) I had the pleasure of meeting Dominique Fabre. Dominique is well-known in his native France, where he's published nine novels to widespread acclaim. But he's virtually unknown in the U.S., because none of his books have been translated into English.
Until now.
That's where my friend comes in. Jill Schoolman is the founder and publisher of Archipelago Books, a small independent press dedicated to bringing the best of the world's literature to the United States. I met Jill some years back, at the Pacific Northwest Writers' Conference. I was there to pitch my first novel to agents and editors. At the time, she was an editor at Seven Stories Press. She sat down next to me at the conference's opening banquet; we started talking, and we haven't stopped since. That was when I first heard about her idea--more than an idea, her passion. Less than one percent of books published in the U.S. every year are translations of foreign works. Why? Because common wisdom says that Americans aren't interested in reading them. If Americans won't buy translations, then obviously there's no point in publishing them. Right?
Jill believes the common wisdom is wrong. She believes it so strongly, she quit her job at Seven Stories and leaped off the proverbial cliff: She founded her own publishing house.
Everyone told her she was nuts. The odds of any independent press succeeding are astronomically high, let alone one devoted to translations. In addition to the usual costs of acquiring, editing, designing, and producing the books, there's the additional burden of finding and paying top-notch translators. But Jill was determined--and where Jill is determined, odds don't seem to matter. Now in its fourth year, Archipelago Books boasts 35 titles hailing from all corners of the world: Lebanon, Poland, Japan, Russia, Palestine, Germany, Brazil, Korea and Bosnia, among others. Just last week, Archipelago Books won the 2008 Miriam Bass Award for Creativity in Independent Publishing, in recognition of its "commitment to enriching and broadening the American literary landscape through the publication of...a host of distinguished international authors." A whole new catalog of books is coming out from Archipelago this year; Dominque Fabre's gorgeous little novel, The Waitress Was New, is but one.
The reading, held at one of Portland's best-loved indie stores, Looking Glass Books, was cozy and informal. Dominque spoke with delightful, self-deprecating humor about his writing process, about publishing in France ("All my books sell the same number of copies," he said. "I think perhaps I'll put my grocery list between two covers, and see if it sells the same"), and about the experience of being translated into English; he said the translator, Jordan Stump, did a marvelous job. Afterward, we headed up the street for dinner and drinks with the bookstore owner, Karin Anna, along with the Looking Glass staff and many of the guests who had come to the reading. It was a wonderful evening with great conversation, but not a late one. Dominique was Amtrak-bound early the next morning for Seattle, where he read at Elliot Bay Books--the final stop on his first American tour.
All made possible by one woman's unshakeable belief that Americans will embrace the world in literature...if only we get the chance.
Countdown to publication of Ten Cents a Dance: One week!
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
The Quiet Time...or, Mommy, Why is That Lady Muttering to Herself and Twitching?
Countdown to publication: Four weeks, minus 1 day.
This is when many authors go slowly nuts. All revisions on the book—for better or worse—are finished. Not even a comma can be changed; not even a question mark. Someone is working hard, turning manuscript pages into actual books; but the author’s part in the creation is over. Marketing and publicity plans have been finalized. The heady days of e-mails and phone calls between author and publisher are at a lull. Nothing now requires the author’s input.
Cue the nail-biting.
I’m no good at waiting for a bus, let alone a publication date. When it comes to the quiet time, it’s like all caffeine, all the time. I’m scattered. I can’t get to sleep. I fret about everything. That the book won’t get reviewed. That it will get reviewed, and the reviews will read exactly like hideous, cackling hyena laughs, if hyena laughs could be translated into English. I fret that the pub date will come and no one will notice because readers will be too busy swarming around another title. You don’t even want to know how many young adult novels are pubbing the same day as mine. In fact, I don’t want to know. I stopped counting at six.
So, yeah. It's the quiet time, and I’ve got the pre-pub jitters like you wouldn’t believe.
This is what helps:
My sweetie, who has the front row seat for every fret and anxiety I can dream up, and who still hasn’t run screaming out the door.
My writer friends, who get the deal because they’ve been through it themselves—especially Sally Nemeth, who took me on the hunt for a fab 1940s dress to wear to my publication shindig, and the hunt was good, and spoils were brought back to the lair in triumph. Did I mention the fabulousness? Oh, child. There’ll be pics, you just wait.
My non-writer friends, who are steeped in yet more wonderfulness because they get it, too. Or they’re all actors right up there with Cate Blanchett, only Cate Blanchett would be getting that narrow-eyed little frown of hers that makes ordinary people look like ferrets and yet she remains gorgeous as she telegraphs with her ice-making eyes, You’ve become a crashing bore, get hold of yourself, can’t you? Bloody American, and none of my wonderful friends are doing that. Yet. 
Kitties falling asleep on my keyboard.
Working on the next book. Because no matter what flavor of reality ends up smacking itself all over the book about to hit the shelves, there’s always another story that needs telling. Publishing is one thing. Writing is a whole different beast. Writers write, and so…off I go.
While I wait, the next story is waiting for me.
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Art of Enticement...and an Announcement
For me, the most mysterious aspect of the manuscript-to-book journey has to be the cover art. Think about the cover’s job. Sure, it has to look good…but is that enough? In the bookstore, surrounded by hundreds of other books, the cover has to entice the reader. Look at me, it has to say. Don’t I look delicious? Don’t you just have to know what I’m about? Come on, pick me up. You know you want to. Once the book is in the reader’s hands, it’s up to the concept and the writing to clinch the deal. But first, the reader has to pass by all those other books and pluck this one off the shelf. We say “don’t judge a book by its cover,” but come on…of course we do.
In fact, the judging starts even before the cover makes it onto the book. Case in point: this early design for Ten Cents a Dance. When I saw it, I thought…nice. Just…nice. Would I pick the book up, though, if I was browsing through a bookstore? Well, umm... It's pretty, all right. But to be honest, it doesn't really pique my curiosity.
Well, as it turned out, nobody was really happy with that first design. And this is why I love my agent and my editor, and I adore the book designer, whom I’ve never met but if I do, I will wash her windows and her car and walk her dogs and make her dinner. Because once it became apparent nobody was really happy, she started again from scratch. Authors usually aren’t involved in cover design—many authors are shown their cover as a courtesy, and that’s it. But my editor asked for feedback, and bless her heart, my agent and I gave it, and they listened, and the book designer (who, by the way, is responsible not only for my book, but also for probably 20 other titles coming out this spring) knocked it right out of the park:
This is gorgeous and striking and enticing as all damn, and if I saw it in a bookstore, I would make a beeline and snatch it right into my greedy little book-loving hands. That girl looks like she's up to something--perfect for my main character, Ruby. The mood is more tense, more mysterious. And I adore all the little details: the pinstripes, and (you can't see this, really, but take my word for it) the way the woman's nail polish matches the color of the title font. And then there's the little tagline above the title: Bad boys and secrets are both hard to keep...
No secret that I'm in love with this cover. Kudos to the whole amazing team at Bloomsbury and to my wonderful agent. You've made this author one happy gal.
So what's the book about, you ask? And when will we see it in real life?
Here's a sneak preview of the flap copy:
Chicago, 1941: When her mother becomes too ill to work, fifteen-year-old Ruby Jacinski is forced to drop out of school to support her family. But her dull factory job makes life feel like one long dead end...until she meets neighborhood bad boy Paulie Suelze. Soon, Ruby discovers how to make money—lots of money—while wearing silk and satin and doing what she does best: dancing. Paid ten cents a dance to lead lonely men around a dance hall floor, Ruby thinks she’s finally found a way out of Chicago’s tenements…until swinging with the hepcats turns into swimming with the sharks.
A mesmerizing look into a little known world and era, Ruby’s story is resplendent with the sounds of great jazz, the allure of beautiful clothing, and the passions of a young generation in a country on the brink of war.
Coming to a bookstore near you on April 1! If you want to read an excerpt ahead of time--and have a chance to win a signed copy--be sure to sign up for my newsletter here.
In fact, the judging starts even before the cover makes it onto the book. Case in point: this early design for Ten Cents a Dance. When I saw it, I thought…nice. Just…nice. Would I pick the book up, though, if I was browsing through a bookstore? Well, umm... It's pretty, all right. But to be honest, it doesn't really pique my curiosity.
Well, as it turned out, nobody was really happy with that first design. And this is why I love my agent and my editor, and I adore the book designer, whom I’ve never met but if I do, I will wash her windows and her car and walk her dogs and make her dinner. Because once it became apparent nobody was really happy, she started again from scratch. Authors usually aren’t involved in cover design—many authors are shown their cover as a courtesy, and that’s it. But my editor asked for feedback, and bless her heart, my agent and I gave it, and they listened, and the book designer (who, by the way, is responsible not only for my book, but also for probably 20 other titles coming out this spring) knocked it right out of the park:
This is gorgeous and striking and enticing as all damn, and if I saw it in a bookstore, I would make a beeline and snatch it right into my greedy little book-loving hands. That girl looks like she's up to something--perfect for my main character, Ruby. The mood is more tense, more mysterious. And I adore all the little details: the pinstripes, and (you can't see this, really, but take my word for it) the way the woman's nail polish matches the color of the title font. And then there's the little tagline above the title: Bad boys and secrets are both hard to keep...
No secret that I'm in love with this cover. Kudos to the whole amazing team at Bloomsbury and to my wonderful agent. You've made this author one happy gal.
So what's the book about, you ask? And when will we see it in real life?
Here's a sneak preview of the flap copy:
Chicago, 1941: When her mother becomes too ill to work, fifteen-year-old Ruby Jacinski is forced to drop out of school to support her family. But her dull factory job makes life feel like one long dead end...until she meets neighborhood bad boy Paulie Suelze. Soon, Ruby discovers how to make money—lots of money—while wearing silk and satin and doing what she does best: dancing. Paid ten cents a dance to lead lonely men around a dance hall floor, Ruby thinks she’s finally found a way out of Chicago’s tenements…until swinging with the hepcats turns into swimming with the sharks.
A mesmerizing look into a little known world and era, Ruby’s story is resplendent with the sounds of great jazz, the allure of beautiful clothing, and the passions of a young generation in a country on the brink of war.
Coming to a bookstore near you on April 1! If you want to read an excerpt ahead of time--and have a chance to win a signed copy--be sure to sign up for my newsletter here.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunshine and Smartness
Last week, my sweetie and I left Oregon for what we hoped would be sunny Florida. Let me tell you, Orlando in January is one hell of a weather crapshoot. One day it was 72—the next, 52. The day after that, 65 and raining. Did we mind? We did not. Because no matter what Orlando decided to throw at us—including righteous thunder and lightning—IT WAS WARMER THAN PORTLAND.
I wish I could say we spent five days lounging on beaches, but alas. #1, Orlando has no beaches. Anywhere. I looked. #2, we weren’t on vacation. Nope, we were headed for the North American Veterinary Conference, on a quest for continuing education.
Knowledge expands so fast in this profession, it feels like a full-time race just to keep up. A lot has changed since veterinary school (all the stuff we crammed into our heads, back in the day, that has since fallen by the wayside...it is to weep, to weep). And it’s not slowing down, either. Veterinary medicine gallops along, and we have to gallop with it.
Which is why, every day for five days, we staggered our jet-lagged selves out of bed and into hotel meeting rooms, clutching coffees and nifty tote bags, ready to learn, re-learn, get updated, briefed, and brought up to speed. ABCs of Acid-Base Disorders. Common Canine Ocular Emergencies. Managing the Head Trauma Patient. Four hours of lecture in the mornings, three in the afternoons, and for the real diehards, another hour in the evening. (For the rest of us, there was the hotel bar.) Every hour of every day had at least three talks to choose from. How to pick between Canine Chronic Bronchitis: Confounding Issues, vs. Interstitial Lung Disease: What Does It Mean? Or, Soft Tissue Sarcomas: Your Questions Answered, vs. Let Your Fingers Do The Walking: How to Restrain and Examine Snakes? (OK, that one was easy; I don’t treat snakes.)
Five days of this, and I came away feeling quite smartified. And ready to seriously hurt the next person unwise enough to cut in front of me in line. Was I wearing an invisibility cloak, or what? I’m telling you, buddy—I’ve just spent the last two hours listening to Atopic Dermatitis: Developing a Management Plan, and you’ve put yourself between me and my SmartFood cheese popcorn. Woe betide.
One line I didn’t have to stand in? Believe it or not, the ladies’ room. When you’ve got a conference with six thousand veterinarians and seventeen hundred veterinary technicians—more than half of them women—you need serious restrooms. And the Gaylord Palms Hotel has ‘em. Not only enormous, but spotless too. I don’t normally wax poetic about ladies’ rooms, but I gotta hand it to the Gaylord—those folks GET IT.
Thirty-two hours of lectures later, we flew home, our brains resembling the best kind of sofa: comfortably overstuffed. The day after we got back, Portland received another sprinkling of snow, a dash of freezing rain. Sigh. But while we were gone, the crocuses buried in my outside pots started nudging up. They’re the first crack in winter’s grip…better for a winter-weary spirit (almost) than Florida sunshine.
I wish I could say we spent five days lounging on beaches, but alas. #1, Orlando has no beaches. Anywhere. I looked. #2, we weren’t on vacation. Nope, we were headed for the North American Veterinary Conference, on a quest for continuing education.
Knowledge expands so fast in this profession, it feels like a full-time race just to keep up. A lot has changed since veterinary school (all the stuff we crammed into our heads, back in the day, that has since fallen by the wayside...it is to weep, to weep). And it’s not slowing down, either. Veterinary medicine gallops along, and we have to gallop with it.
Which is why, every day for five days, we staggered our jet-lagged selves out of bed and into hotel meeting rooms, clutching coffees and nifty tote bags, ready to learn, re-learn, get updated, briefed, and brought up to speed. ABCs of Acid-Base Disorders. Common Canine Ocular Emergencies. Managing the Head Trauma Patient. Four hours of lecture in the mornings, three in the afternoons, and for the real diehards, another hour in the evening. (For the rest of us, there was the hotel bar.) Every hour of every day had at least three talks to choose from. How to pick between Canine Chronic Bronchitis: Confounding Issues, vs. Interstitial Lung Disease: What Does It Mean? Or, Soft Tissue Sarcomas: Your Questions Answered, vs. Let Your Fingers Do The Walking: How to Restrain and Examine Snakes? (OK, that one was easy; I don’t treat snakes.)
Five days of this, and I came away feeling quite smartified. And ready to seriously hurt the next person unwise enough to cut in front of me in line. Was I wearing an invisibility cloak, or what? I’m telling you, buddy—I’ve just spent the last two hours listening to Atopic Dermatitis: Developing a Management Plan, and you’ve put yourself between me and my SmartFood cheese popcorn. Woe betide.
One line I didn’t have to stand in? Believe it or not, the ladies’ room. When you’ve got a conference with six thousand veterinarians and seventeen hundred veterinary technicians—more than half of them women—you need serious restrooms. And the Gaylord Palms Hotel has ‘em. Not only enormous, but spotless too. I don’t normally wax poetic about ladies’ rooms, but I gotta hand it to the Gaylord—those folks GET IT.
Thirty-two hours of lectures later, we flew home, our brains resembling the best kind of sofa: comfortably overstuffed. The day after we got back, Portland received another sprinkling of snow, a dash of freezing rain. Sigh. But while we were gone, the crocuses buried in my outside pots started nudging up. They’re the first crack in winter’s grip…better for a winter-weary spirit (almost) than Florida sunshine.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
We Gots Us Some Geeky Fun
Naming characters is always fun. For Tallulah Falls, I knew Tallulah’s name from the very beginning. Maeve's, too. I don’t know how; that’s just who they were, and I ran with it.
For the characters in Ten Cents a Dance (which I’m already thinking of as my “last book,” even though it isn’t published yet, to distinguish it in my head from the “new book,” the one I’m currently whamming at with a sledgehammer trying to get it off the ground—and if that sounds like a frustrating way to get something airborne, believe me, it is), Ruby’s name came to me fast. It’s colorful and sparkly, which fits her, plus it has that lovely 1940s feel to it.
That’s the thing about names. They have to fit the characters, and they also have to be true to the time period of the book. Which gets me to the main event of this post:
The Baby Name Wizard’s Name Voyager!
Now, I realize I am a geek. I find many things fascinating which put other people to sleep. Which I don’t understand, because they're fascinating, don't you understand? But OK, whatever. This, though—I showed this to a couple of co-workers, and the next thing I knew, ten people were crowded around the computer, yelling, “Put in ‘Leslie!" "Put in ‘Sam’!" "Put in ‘Ashley’!”
See, the Name Voyager is a Java interactive thingy whereby you type in a name, specify “boy” or “girl” or both, and its magical presto-chango graph illustrates, in lovely color, how popular that name has been in every decade since the 1880s. You heard that right. Eighteen-eighties.
Type in “Bella.” Middling popular until the 1910s, then it tanks and disappears by the mid-‘30s. Gone for decades, then…boom, 2003, folks start naming their baby girls “Bella” again. It’s shot up the charts and is still climbing. Why is that? No idea.
And then there’s “Lisa.” I know a million Lisas. It’s a name as old as the hills, right? One of those perennial favorites that’ll never disapp— Hey, wait a minute! Where’d it go?
Gone with the wind, my friend. The Lisa, she is gone with the wind.
I could spend hours on this thing, it’s so much geeky fun. No, wait—I have spent hours on this thing. Naming characters was always entertaining…but with the Name Voyager to play with, now it’s a wonder I get anything else done at all.*
*Shhh! Don't tell my agent. She thinks I'm working.
***********************************************
Cassie Edwards plagiarism update:
(here's the original post)
Signet Books, which originally said this, is now saying this. (I can just hear their lawyers: "All riiiiight, everyone, backpedal! And a-one-two-three-four...")
One of the plagiarized parties, Paul Tolme, whose article on mating habits of the black-footed ferret—I swear to God I’m not making this up—was copied and pasted into Edwards’s novel, Shadow Bear, writes about his reaction in Newsweek magazine.
To top all off—because the whole thing isn't bizarre enough already, you know—an exceptionally dedicated searcher found this in Edwards’s novel Savage Obsession:
SAVAGE OBSESSION Page 284
The odors of the forest, the dew and damp meadow, and the curling smoke from the wigwams were left behind as Lorinda [...]
HIAWATHA by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Lines 3-5 of the Introduction
With the odors of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams
Holy freaking moly. Hiawatha?
For the characters in Ten Cents a Dance (which I’m already thinking of as my “last book,” even though it isn’t published yet, to distinguish it in my head from the “new book,” the one I’m currently whamming at with a sledgehammer trying to get it off the ground—and if that sounds like a frustrating way to get something airborne, believe me, it is), Ruby’s name came to me fast. It’s colorful and sparkly, which fits her, plus it has that lovely 1940s feel to it.
That’s the thing about names. They have to fit the characters, and they also have to be true to the time period of the book. Which gets me to the main event of this post:
The Baby Name Wizard’s Name Voyager!
Now, I realize I am a geek. I find many things fascinating which put other people to sleep. Which I don’t understand, because they're fascinating, don't you understand? But OK, whatever. This, though—I showed this to a couple of co-workers, and the next thing I knew, ten people were crowded around the computer, yelling, “Put in ‘Leslie!" "Put in ‘Sam’!" "Put in ‘Ashley’!”
See, the Name Voyager is a Java interactive thingy whereby you type in a name, specify “boy” or “girl” or both, and its magical presto-chango graph illustrates, in lovely color, how popular that name has been in every decade since the 1880s. You heard that right. Eighteen-eighties.
Type in “Bella.” Middling popular until the 1910s, then it tanks and disappears by the mid-‘30s. Gone for decades, then…boom, 2003, folks start naming their baby girls “Bella” again. It’s shot up the charts and is still climbing. Why is that? No idea.
And then there’s “Lisa.” I know a million Lisas. It’s a name as old as the hills, right? One of those perennial favorites that’ll never disapp— Hey, wait a minute! Where’d it go?
Gone with the wind, my friend. The Lisa, she is gone with the wind.
I could spend hours on this thing, it’s so much geeky fun. No, wait—I have spent hours on this thing. Naming characters was always entertaining…but with the Name Voyager to play with, now it’s a wonder I get anything else done at all.*
*Shhh! Don't tell my agent. She thinks I'm working.
***********************************************
Cassie Edwards plagiarism update:
(here's the original post)
Signet Books, which originally said this, is now saying this. (I can just hear their lawyers: "All riiiiight, everyone, backpedal! And a-one-two-three-four...")
One of the plagiarized parties, Paul Tolme, whose article on mating habits of the black-footed ferret—I swear to God I’m not making this up—was copied and pasted into Edwards’s novel, Shadow Bear, writes about his reaction in Newsweek magazine.
To top all off—because the whole thing isn't bizarre enough already, you know—an exceptionally dedicated searcher found this in Edwards’s novel Savage Obsession:
SAVAGE OBSESSION Page 284
The odors of the forest, the dew and damp meadow, and the curling smoke from the wigwams were left behind as Lorinda [...]
HIAWATHA by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Lines 3-5 of the Introduction
With the odors of the forest,
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams
Holy freaking moly. Hiawatha?
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
A Rose By Any Other Name...Still Stinks
There’s a brouhaha a-brewin’ in romance publishing this week.
I'm not a romance novel reader, although I did go through a brief period in college during which I scarfed them down like Pringles (sour cream and chives flavor, yum!) I am, however, a huge fan of the Smart Bitches, and thereupon hangs this blog post.
The Smart Bitches, Sarah and Candy, run the romance novel review website Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. I adore them because, first, second, and third, they are profanely funny. (Their style of humor isn’t for everyone, but hey, I like it.) Fourth, they take reviewing seriously. A lot of book review websites hand out five-star write-ups like prizes at a beauty pageant for toddlers (make sure everyone has a shiny crown to take home!), which renders them pretty much useless. The SBs, though, call it like they read it, and if what they read is crapola, they’ll not only tell you so, but their snarky analysis will have you snorting coffee out your nose. Fifth, one of their regular features is offering up romance cover art for unabashed critique. Straight shooters? These gals could plug a squirrel’s eye at fifty yards, and make the squirrel think it’s funny, to boot.
So when the Smart Bitches discovered that Cassie Edwards, a romance author with over 100 published books, has apparently lifted lengthy passages from other books verbatim and used them in her own novels, they did what any honest, sharp-shootin’ gals who run a book review site would do.
They documented their findings. And then they called Cassie Edwards and her publishers on it.
Inevitably, this being the Internet, the SBs received angry comments from Cassie Edwards fans. The gist of these screeds was 1) verbatim copying isn't wrong, and 2) the SBs are evil for creating such skeezy drama.
Well OK, you think, those are fangirls. Sure they're going to defend a beloved author (although I'd like to see their reaction if some other writer had ripped off Cassie Edwards, instead of the other way around).
Today came the official response from Signet Books. You can read it here, but in short, it tells the SBs to take a hike. An excerpt:
"The copyright fair-use doctrine permits reasonable borrowing and paraphrasing another author’s words, especially for the purpose of creating something new and original. "
Hmm. My Oxford English dictionary defines “plagiarize” as to:
“take and use the thoughts, writings, inventions, etc. of another person as one’s own.”
Now, I'm no lawyer, but I've read my publishing contracts. They contain a standard clause that says the work I submit to my publisher must be original. I've sweated blood worrying that somewhere in my new book, I may have inadvertantly used a phrase or sentence from a research source. I've checked and cross-checked obsessively, and still I worry. I listed my most-used sources in the acknowledgements, both to give credit to these outstanding works and to give interested readers leads on more information.
So I'm pretty confident that--no matter what Signet claims--verbatim copying, Cassie Edwards-style, is not “reasonable borrowing and paraphrasing.” Students flunk classes for this. Other authors get called on the carpet, in public. It’s plagiarism, and it’s unethical.
Just sayin’, Signet. Smart Bitches, rock on.
I'm not a romance novel reader, although I did go through a brief period in college during which I scarfed them down like Pringles (sour cream and chives flavor, yum!) I am, however, a huge fan of the Smart Bitches, and thereupon hangs this blog post.
The Smart Bitches, Sarah and Candy, run the romance novel review website Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books. I adore them because, first, second, and third, they are profanely funny. (Their style of humor isn’t for everyone, but hey, I like it.) Fourth, they take reviewing seriously. A lot of book review websites hand out five-star write-ups like prizes at a beauty pageant for toddlers (make sure everyone has a shiny crown to take home!), which renders them pretty much useless. The SBs, though, call it like they read it, and if what they read is crapola, they’ll not only tell you so, but their snarky analysis will have you snorting coffee out your nose. Fifth, one of their regular features is offering up romance cover art for unabashed critique. Straight shooters? These gals could plug a squirrel’s eye at fifty yards, and make the squirrel think it’s funny, to boot.
So when the Smart Bitches discovered that Cassie Edwards, a romance author with over 100 published books, has apparently lifted lengthy passages from other books verbatim and used them in her own novels, they did what any honest, sharp-shootin’ gals who run a book review site would do.
They documented their findings. And then they called Cassie Edwards and her publishers on it.
Inevitably, this being the Internet, the SBs received angry comments from Cassie Edwards fans. The gist of these screeds was 1) verbatim copying isn't wrong, and 2) the SBs are evil for creating such skeezy drama.
Well OK, you think, those are fangirls. Sure they're going to defend a beloved author (although I'd like to see their reaction if some other writer had ripped off Cassie Edwards, instead of the other way around).
Today came the official response from Signet Books. You can read it here, but in short, it tells the SBs to take a hike. An excerpt:
"The copyright fair-use doctrine permits reasonable borrowing and paraphrasing another author’s words, especially for the purpose of creating something new and original. "
Hmm. My Oxford English dictionary defines “plagiarize” as to:
“take and use the thoughts, writings, inventions, etc. of another person as one’s own.”
Now, I'm no lawyer, but I've read my publishing contracts. They contain a standard clause that says the work I submit to my publisher must be original. I've sweated blood worrying that somewhere in my new book, I may have inadvertantly used a phrase or sentence from a research source. I've checked and cross-checked obsessively, and still I worry. I listed my most-used sources in the acknowledgements, both to give credit to these outstanding works and to give interested readers leads on more information.
So I'm pretty confident that--no matter what Signet claims--verbatim copying, Cassie Edwards-style, is not “reasonable borrowing and paraphrasing.” Students flunk classes for this. Other authors get called on the carpet, in public. It’s plagiarism, and it’s unethical.
Just sayin’, Signet. Smart Bitches, rock on.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
The Journey Continues: First Pass Pages
I thought I’d get to blogging about this earlier, but, you know, holidays and whatnot…so here we are, better late than never, talking about first-pass pages.
When last we left our book-in-progress, I was reviewing copyedits and going over the manuscript, looking for errors. Two months later, another big FedEx package lands on my porch. But for the first time, the pages inside aren’t a raw manuscript. They're still loose, not bound; but otherwise, they look exactly how they will in the finished book. They’re designed. The words are typeset, the chapter headings are set off in an amazing bold font. It’s beautiful. But my publisher didn’t send them for me to admire. No, it’s time to—once more—proofread for mistakes. But honestly, at this stage, how many can there be? I sit down with my pencil and Chicago Manual of Style, and not even three pages in, oh, my God. You’ve got to be kidding.
My editor and I ended up going over all the corrections via phone. Me in Oregon with my set of pages, she in New York with hers, both our copies bristling with colored sticky tags. A different shade for every person who’d found stuff to fix. Five readers in all: the two of us, the copyeditor, the proofreader, and my good friend/writing mentor/fresh-pair-of-eyes, Karen Karbo. The scariest thing? Each of us had caught something that the other four missed. That’s how sneaky some of this stuff is. And not just typos, either. I picked up a plot inconsistency that had completely eluded me earlier. D’oh! *smacks forehead with hard object*
And yet my editor somehow made this whole thing fun, rather than nervewracking. For this, she deserves sainthood. And me—when I find an occasional slip-up in a book I’m reading, I’m a lot more forgiving than I used to be. Because I know, somewhere, the poor author (and his poor editor) are smacking their foreheads, saying, But we went over it eighteen-bazillion times! How could we have possibly missed that?
Yeah, dude. I know. But it's still a beautiful thing.
When last we left our book-in-progress, I was reviewing copyedits and going over the manuscript, looking for errors. Two months later, another big FedEx package lands on my porch. But for the first time, the pages inside aren’t a raw manuscript. They're still loose, not bound; but otherwise, they look exactly how they will in the finished book. They’re designed. The words are typeset, the chapter headings are set off in an amazing bold font. It’s beautiful. But my publisher didn’t send them for me to admire. No, it’s time to—once more—proofread for mistakes. But honestly, at this stage, how many can there be? I sit down with my pencil and Chicago Manual of Style, and not even three pages in, oh, my God. You’ve got to be kidding.
My editor and I ended up going over all the corrections via phone. Me in Oregon with my set of pages, she in New York with hers, both our copies bristling with colored sticky tags. A different shade for every person who’d found stuff to fix. Five readers in all: the two of us, the copyeditor, the proofreader, and my good friend/writing mentor/fresh-pair-of-eyes, Karen Karbo. The scariest thing? Each of us had caught something that the other four missed. That’s how sneaky some of this stuff is. And not just typos, either. I picked up a plot inconsistency that had completely eluded me earlier. D’oh! *smacks forehead with hard object*
And yet my editor somehow made this whole thing fun, rather than nervewracking. For this, she deserves sainthood. And me—when I find an occasional slip-up in a book I’m reading, I’m a lot more forgiving than I used to be. Because I know, somewhere, the poor author (and his poor editor) are smacking their foreheads, saying, But we went over it eighteen-bazillion times! How could we have possibly missed that?
Yeah, dude. I know. But it's still a beautiful thing.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
If It's Not a Resolution, Does That Mean I Can Keep It?
I’m not a big believer in New Year’s resolutions. I’ve broken too many, I guess (the gym, yeah, I know. And my vitamins. And walking the dogs. And watering the plants. And washing my car. All right, already!) But I have a thought to keep in mind as I slug away at my third novel (currently in the research/deep imagining/taking-stabs-at-the-beginning phase):
Strive to stay outside my comfort zone.
It’s said that big risks mean big rewards. The flip side, of course: big honkin’ failure. Staying outside my comfort zone means working with the constant feeling that I have no idea what I’m doing. Forging ahead on a project that at times seems so out there, I have no clue whether anyone will be interested in reading it. An idea that spins off in so many directions and into such big territory, I don’t think I can do it justice. Or even if I can do it at all.
Then again, if it seemed like a cinch, that would mean my vision is too small.
At least, I’ll keep telling myself that.
************************************
Besides wrestling the new project, there’s plenty happening around here in 2008. My second novel, Ten Cents a Dance, will debut on April 1st. (Yippee!) My website designer and I are busy cooking up a brand-spanking-new look for http://www.christinefletcherbooks.com/, including a slew of pages devoted to TCAD. (If you haven’t already signed up for the newsletter, you can do so here to get exclusive “sneak peeks” of book excerpts, contests, and events).*
Stay tuned to this space…and Happy New Year to all!
*Never fear that I’ll jam up your inbox with endless updates. I can guarantee no more than four newsletters a year, and frankly it’ll probably only be two. No New Year’s resolution, you see.
Strive to stay outside my comfort zone.
It’s said that big risks mean big rewards. The flip side, of course: big honkin’ failure. Staying outside my comfort zone means working with the constant feeling that I have no idea what I’m doing. Forging ahead on a project that at times seems so out there, I have no clue whether anyone will be interested in reading it. An idea that spins off in so many directions and into such big territory, I don’t think I can do it justice. Or even if I can do it at all.
Then again, if it seemed like a cinch, that would mean my vision is too small.
At least, I’ll keep telling myself that.
************************************
Besides wrestling the new project, there’s plenty happening around here in 2008. My second novel, Ten Cents a Dance, will debut on April 1st. (Yippee!) My website designer and I are busy cooking up a brand-spanking-new look for http://www.christinefletcherbooks.com/, including a slew of pages devoted to TCAD. (If you haven’t already signed up for the newsletter, you can do so here to get exclusive “sneak peeks” of book excerpts, contests, and events).*
Stay tuned to this space…and Happy New Year to all!
*Never fear that I’ll jam up your inbox with endless updates. I can guarantee no more than four newsletters a year, and frankly it’ll probably only be two. No New Year’s resolution, you see.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Dear Santa...
Every Christmas, the entire population of Portland engages in mass wishful thinking. This year, for the first time in maybe ever, our wish came true...
...it snowed!
Cozy as we were inside, the moment we saw the big flakes coming down, my sweetie and I knew there was only one thing to do. Scarves, gloves, hats, and two dogs on leashes later, we were outside basking in the wonderment. Here are Ginny and Inja, (aka Virginia Pearl and How Now, Brown Cow, aka Blondie and Brownie, aka the Most Wonderful Sweet Girls in the World) racing through the snowflakes.
Good thing we carped the diem, too, because a short while later, it was over. A couple of hours after that, all had melted...*sigh* But it was magical while it lasted. Thanks, Santa!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Christmas Cheer Bonus Pack
If you believe in Santa Claus—or wish you still did—check out this beautiful Christmas essay by Kerry Madden. (Kerry is the author of two wonderful young adult novels, Gentle's Holler and Louisiana's Song; her next, Jessie's Mountain, will be available on Valentine's Day, 2008.)
Ever wanted to write a novel, and wondered, "Just how does one do it?" Then skip on over to Libba Bray's blog. (Libba is the author of A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels; the final book of the trilogy, The Sweet Far Thing, will be released tomorrow. Libba has more comedic talent than the entire population of most small countries, and she's also an accomplished dramatic novelist, which means I would hate her if only I didn't admire her so damn much.)
More on my own adventures in novel-writing next week...for today, it's eggnog, calling family, lolling on the couch watching hours and hours of costume drama DVDs, and spending quality time with my sweetie (who gave me the most gorgeous earrings even though we agreed not to get each other anything, and I would be mad at him if only I didn't adore him so damn much.)
Merry Christmas to all!
Ever wanted to write a novel, and wondered, "Just how does one do it?" Then skip on over to Libba Bray's blog. (Libba is the author of A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels; the final book of the trilogy, The Sweet Far Thing, will be released tomorrow. Libba has more comedic talent than the entire population of most small countries, and she's also an accomplished dramatic novelist, which means I would hate her if only I didn't admire her so damn much.)
More on my own adventures in novel-writing next week...for today, it's eggnog, calling family, lolling on the couch watching hours and hours of costume drama DVDs, and spending quality time with my sweetie (who gave me the most gorgeous earrings even though we agreed not to get each other anything, and I would be mad at him if only I didn't adore him so damn much.)
Merry Christmas to all!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Beginnings
At the beginning of a new project, I’m in love.
The idea is not only brilliant but emotionally gripping. The main character…oh, I could swoon over her, she’s so alive and complex and unique. Snippets of dialogue and scenes start writing themselves in my head. The settings are Technicolor bright. Everything is exciting, busting with possibilities.
This euphoria lasts until I actually start writing.
When the project is contained entirely in my head, it’s perfect. The moment I sit down and commit words to screen, though, that sense of shiny-apple newness wears off faster than the bath I just gave my dog. Because once the work actually starts, problems start poking their ugly little fishy snouts into my vision.
Exactly how was I going to manage the—? Which point of view—? If you have main character X doing this, then she can’t go there, because—No, maybe she can, if I just—Why was she doing that to begin with? Wait a minute, now I’m confused. Where are my notes?!
This is never going to work. This idea is stupid. Whoever said I could write, anyway? Oh, look, Star Trek is on. Aliens with funny foreheads, now that’s a good idea! Maybe I should write science fiction instead. Yeah, science fiction, that’s it.
Get. Butt. Back. In. Chair.
Stare at computer screen. Type a few words. Delete them. Hunt for my notes. The notes don’t help. The vision in my head is still there, but trying to capture it feels like catching butterflies with a sledgehammer.
This is when a writer is confronted with Two Choices.
1) The sledgehammer.
2) Hold onto the dream of perfection forever.
If I choose 1), trying to club this thing onto paper, I know that my perfect dream of a book will sprout warts and grow twisted limbs and disappear, for long stretches, only to reappear looking like something out of Tim Burton's nightmares. But…it’ll be real, it’ll be out in the world. It will exist.
If I choose 2), the vision stays in my head. Forever perfect, and never taking on a life of its own. And I get to go back to work full-time.
Hm.
Where did those notes go, again…?
The idea is not only brilliant but emotionally gripping. The main character…oh, I could swoon over her, she’s so alive and complex and unique. Snippets of dialogue and scenes start writing themselves in my head. The settings are Technicolor bright. Everything is exciting, busting with possibilities.
This euphoria lasts until I actually start writing.
When the project is contained entirely in my head, it’s perfect. The moment I sit down and commit words to screen, though, that sense of shiny-apple newness wears off faster than the bath I just gave my dog. Because once the work actually starts, problems start poking their ugly little fishy snouts into my vision.
Exactly how was I going to manage the—? Which point of view—? If you have main character X doing this, then she can’t go there, because—No, maybe she can, if I just—Why was she doing that to begin with? Wait a minute, now I’m confused. Where are my notes?!
This is never going to work. This idea is stupid. Whoever said I could write, anyway? Oh, look, Star Trek is on. Aliens with funny foreheads, now that’s a good idea! Maybe I should write science fiction instead. Yeah, science fiction, that’s it.
Get. Butt. Back. In. Chair.
Stare at computer screen. Type a few words. Delete them. Hunt for my notes. The notes don’t help. The vision in my head is still there, but trying to capture it feels like catching butterflies with a sledgehammer.
This is when a writer is confronted with Two Choices.
1) The sledgehammer.
2) Hold onto the dream of perfection forever.
If I choose 1), trying to club this thing onto paper, I know that my perfect dream of a book will sprout warts and grow twisted limbs and disappear, for long stretches, only to reappear looking like something out of Tim Burton's nightmares. But…it’ll be real, it’ll be out in the world. It will exist.
If I choose 2), the vision stays in my head. Forever perfect, and never taking on a life of its own. And I get to go back to work full-time.
Hm.
Where did those notes go, again…?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Book Blast!
When it comes to book promotion, sometimes you just don’t know which small action might lead to big results. A few months ago, I read on someone’s blog about a new website called BookTour.com. The idea is that authors sign up for a profile that lists all their scheduled events. Readers can then search for their favorite authors and find out when they’re coming to town. Readers also get a weekly e-mail which lets them know what other author events are going on in their area. Well, dang, sign me up! I filled out my own author profile and then—I admit—I pretty much forgot about it.
And then, out of the blue, I got an e-mail from one Bart King, author of the popular Big Book of Boy Stuff and Big Book of Girl Stuff, as well as An Architectural Guide to Portland, not that architectural guides to Portland are not popular, but it’s more of a niche market than boys and girls, if you see what I mean, and maybe I just better get on with the story lest I dig myself a deep hole from which I will never emerge. Anyway, Mr. King had seen from my profile on BookTour.com that I was a local YA author. So he invited me to join him and some other authors for Book Blast, a literacy event at Cedar Park Middle School here in Portland. Of course I took him up on it. And the Book Blast was, truly, a blast! I had so much fun with my student volunteers, M. and J., whose names not only rhyme, but who talked up my books to anyone stopping by our table. Thanks to their enthusiasm and energy, we sold all 20 copies of Tallulah Falls and gave away all 12 advance reading copies of Ten Cents a Dance. The best part, though, was the time we spent talking books, not to mention meeting and chatting with the other kids and their parents, and the other authors in attendance (shout-out to Annie Auerbach!)
So thanks a million, Bart King, M. and J. and all the students, and everyone at Cedar Park Middle School, for a fun and beautifully-presented evening of books and literacy. I’m already looking forward to adding Book Blast to my 2008 events on BookTour.com!
And then, out of the blue, I got an e-mail from one Bart King, author of the popular Big Book of Boy Stuff and Big Book of Girl Stuff, as well as An Architectural Guide to Portland, not that architectural guides to Portland are not popular, but it’s more of a niche market than boys and girls, if you see what I mean, and maybe I just better get on with the story lest I dig myself a deep hole from which I will never emerge. Anyway, Mr. King had seen from my profile on BookTour.com that I was a local YA author. So he invited me to join him and some other authors for Book Blast, a literacy event at Cedar Park Middle School here in Portland. Of course I took him up on it. And the Book Blast was, truly, a blast! I had so much fun with my student volunteers, M. and J., whose names not only rhyme, but who talked up my books to anyone stopping by our table. Thanks to their enthusiasm and energy, we sold all 20 copies of Tallulah Falls and gave away all 12 advance reading copies of Ten Cents a Dance. The best part, though, was the time we spent talking books, not to mention meeting and chatting with the other kids and their parents, and the other authors in attendance (shout-out to Annie Auerbach!)
So thanks a million, Bart King, M. and J. and all the students, and everyone at Cedar Park Middle School, for a fun and beautifully-presented evening of books and literacy. I’m already looking forward to adding Book Blast to my 2008 events on BookTour.com!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wordstock 2007!
Whew! This past weekend was the 3-day extravaganza that is Wordstock, Portland’s Festival of the Book, and I’m still recovering. We kicked off the fun Thursday night, when my good friend and comrade-in-arms, Sally Nemeth (she of the funny and poignant YA novel, The Heights, the Depths, and Everything in Between) arrived fresh from the Hollywood writers’ strike. First on the agenda: catching up over pub food and some fine local microbrews. Then, Friday morning, Sally went off into the hills with a wild-food expert, part of her research for her new YA novel (check out her blog for more on her adventures in untamed NW cuisine).
In the meantime, I was having my own adventures. As part of Wordstock’s publicity blitz, those madcap book folks thought it would be fun to have authors sit in a store window in downtown Portland and read to folks passing on the street. When I first got their call for volunteers, I thought, No way. Never in a million years.
Whatsa matter? Chicken?
No, I’m not chicken! It’s just…
Bra-a-a-w! Braw-braw-bra-a-a-w!
I AM NOT CHICKEN!
So do it, then. Dare you. Double dare you.
ALL RIGHT, I WILL!
I shot off an e-mail to the Wordstock organizers: Sign me up! And then spent the next two days wishing I could take it back. I was only joking. Someone sent that e-mail without my knowledge. I have a family emergency. My house burned down. I lost my book. I lost my voice.
But when Friday afternoon arrived, here I was:
Wordstock did a bang-up job, not only making a cozy author space in the window, but setting red Wordstock armchairs outside so folks could take a load off while they listened. People would be hurrying past, on their way to wherever, and they’d glance up with puzzled looks (where is that voice coming from?) Then they’d pause. Sometimes just for a few seconds, but often for a few minutes or even longer. It was, as another author-in-the-window told me later, “Weird and wonderful!” By the end, I was wishing I could read some more.
Other festival highlights:
Here I am at the authors’ reception with Sam Moses (for an absolute nail-biter of a true story, check out his book At All Costs: How a Crippled Ship and Two American Merchant Mariners Turned the Tide of WWII) and Sally Nemeth.
Sally’s reading on the Children’s Stage:
And then my own reading, Sunday afternoon. I shared the stage with my friend and mentor Karen Karbo, who read from the third book in her YA mystery series, Minerva Clark Gives up the Ghost.
I can't stand still long enough to speak from a podium. Even when I was teaching, I always had to move around. Plus, I talk with my hands. Drove some of my students nuts. Get over it, I'm Italian--I can't help it.
The inimitable Karen Karbo. When I grow up, I want to be just like her.
And finally, last thing on Sunday night at the festival's close, a photo session in the big red Wordstock chair:
I already can't wait until next year. I'll be reading from Ten Cents a Dance--and if any store windows are up for grabs, get out of my way. I'm there!Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Knitting and Brewing and...Writing?
My cousin Jenne Hiigel e-mailed me recently to let me know about her new book project, A Knitter’s Guide to Beer. Now that, I thought, is one intriguing title. Equally captivating are Jenne’s thoughtful and funny posts about knitting, homebrewing, and the process of craft. I especially loved “The Value of Ripping and Dumping.” When her knitting students are daunted at the prospect of having to rip out stitches and redo them, Jenne tells them that’s “more knitting pleasure at no additional cost!” Mistakes, she points out, are an essential part of learning the craft…and that the process itself should be valued and enjoyed, not just the finished product. After all, if you’re not having fun, why do it?
My first writing teacher, Verlena Orr, told us that most beginners have to produce about 10,000 pages before their work is good enough to publish. My heart instantly sank. At that time, I was lucky if I could produce one page a week. Compulsive geek that I am, I quickly figured that, at that rate, it’d take me one hundred and ninety-two years to get published!
Whether the 10,000-page-rule is really true or not, I don’t know. What Verlena was trying to get across to us beginners is that writing is a craft. Like any other craft, it takes learning and practice. It also takes a willingness to recognize when something isn’t good enough. When the work needs to be rethought, re-imagined, redone. Or even scrapped entirely. At that point, it’s tempting to get discouraged and give up. Or to hold on even more fiercely to the work, blaming everyone else when it doesn’t get the recognition we think it deserves.
Part of craftsmanship is never resting on your laurels. It's striving to always improve, to tweak a little something, get a little better, a little more original. That’s what keeps it from getting boring. That’s what makes it fun. It's how all of us—eventually—get to where we’re headed, slipping and tripping though we might.
My first writing teacher, Verlena Orr, told us that most beginners have to produce about 10,000 pages before their work is good enough to publish. My heart instantly sank. At that time, I was lucky if I could produce one page a week. Compulsive geek that I am, I quickly figured that, at that rate, it’d take me one hundred and ninety-two years to get published!
Whether the 10,000-page-rule is really true or not, I don’t know. What Verlena was trying to get across to us beginners is that writing is a craft. Like any other craft, it takes learning and practice. It also takes a willingness to recognize when something isn’t good enough. When the work needs to be rethought, re-imagined, redone. Or even scrapped entirely. At that point, it’s tempting to get discouraged and give up. Or to hold on even more fiercely to the work, blaming everyone else when it doesn’t get the recognition we think it deserves.
Part of craftsmanship is never resting on your laurels. It's striving to always improve, to tweak a little something, get a little better, a little more original. That’s what keeps it from getting boring. That’s what makes it fun. It's how all of us—eventually—get to where we’re headed, slipping and tripping though we might.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
What Do You Believe?
All my life, I’ve been bothered by the nature of truth. Who gets to say what’s true? And how come, anytime somebody declares something to be True, everybody else starts shouting Untrue! at the top of his or her lungs? Even as a little kid, I reasoned there had to be a way to figure out, once and for all, what was True. And then we could all stop arguing.
No wonder I took to the scientific method like a duck to water. From the very first I learned about it—in sixth grade, I think—the scientific method felt logical and right. As a way to make sense of the world, it…well, it makes sense. It’s simple and elegant and, if followed with integrity, its results are untainted with superstition, personal bias, or emotion. In a twisty world, it’s the straightest ruler we’ve got.
And yet, even the staunchest scientist has beliefs he or she can't explain with the scientific method. And that’s the premise for one of the most fascinating books I’ve read this year: What We Believe But Cannot Prove: Today’s Leading Thinkers on Science in the Age of Certainty. This gem of a book was sent to me by my good friend Walter, and from the first essay, I couldn’t put it down. The essays are short—a few pages, at most—and in each one, a prominent scientist or expert describes something he or she knows to be unproveable, and yet believes to be absolutely, incontrovertibly true. That intelligent life is unique to Earth. That intelligent life is spread throughout the galaxies. That there is life after death. That there isn’t. That God exists. That He doesn’t. That there is an external reality. That nothing exists except our own consciousness.
The essays are fascinating in and of themselves, but what I love best about this book is their tone. The writers may be scientists steeped in the scientific method—logical, rational, show-me kind of folks—but they write with such passion, such optimism and hope, that the book as a whole becomes much more than a collection of random musings. It’s a shout-out of human curiosity, spirit, and endeavor. It’s a distillation of everything contradictory, wonderful, frustrating, and inspiring about the search for truth. It doesn’t exactly have a three-hanky moment—it is written by scientists, after all—but for this geek, it’s the feel-good book of the year.
No wonder I took to the scientific method like a duck to water. From the very first I learned about it—in sixth grade, I think—the scientific method felt logical and right. As a way to make sense of the world, it…well, it makes sense. It’s simple and elegant and, if followed with integrity, its results are untainted with superstition, personal bias, or emotion. In a twisty world, it’s the straightest ruler we’ve got.
And yet, even the staunchest scientist has beliefs he or she can't explain with the scientific method. And that’s the premise for one of the most fascinating books I’ve read this year: What We Believe But Cannot Prove: Today’s Leading Thinkers on Science in the Age of Certainty. This gem of a book was sent to me by my good friend Walter, and from the first essay, I couldn’t put it down. The essays are short—a few pages, at most—and in each one, a prominent scientist or expert describes something he or she knows to be unproveable, and yet believes to be absolutely, incontrovertibly true. That intelligent life is unique to Earth. That intelligent life is spread throughout the galaxies. That there is life after death. That there isn’t. That God exists. That He doesn’t. That there is an external reality. That nothing exists except our own consciousness.
The essays are fascinating in and of themselves, but what I love best about this book is their tone. The writers may be scientists steeped in the scientific method—logical, rational, show-me kind of folks—but they write with such passion, such optimism and hope, that the book as a whole becomes much more than a collection of random musings. It’s a shout-out of human curiosity, spirit, and endeavor. It’s a distillation of everything contradictory, wonderful, frustrating, and inspiring about the search for truth. It doesn’t exactly have a three-hanky moment—it is written by scientists, after all—but for this geek, it’s the feel-good book of the year.
What do I believe that I cannot prove? That we are not the only sentient beings on this planet. That some animal species are intelligent, feel emotions, and are conscious of themselves as individuals.
What do you believe that you cannot prove?
What do you believe that you cannot prove?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Writer-Geek Heaven...
...is two days spent bundled under an afghan in a rocking chair , with my manuscript, a sharp pencil, big pink eraser, a cup of coffee, and the Chicago Manual of Style. Outside, it rained; inside, kitties snoozed on the bed. A cozier, nerdier time could not have been had.
It was time to review copyedits.
As I mentioned in my last post, I adore copyeditors. First, I strongly suspect that they are even geekier than I am. Second, as I noted before, it’s the copyeditor’s job to keep me from making an idiot of myself in public. As I went through the manuscript, one thing became clear: me and proper comma use, not so much acquainted. What can I say? I put them where the pauses sound in my head.
So if the copyeditor is catching all the mistakes, what is the manuscript doing back on my lap, the person who made the mistakes to begin with? Because my job, at this junction, is to go through every change suggested by the copyeditor. The author may not have final say over the cover or the title, but s/he has absolute, final say over the actual writing. If I felt it was utterly essential that those commas stayed where I originally put them, then all I needed to do was indicate so on the manuscript. Take that, Strunk and White!* My word is law!
Then again, my manuscript was blessed with a wonderful copyeditor who really knows her stuff. That, and I’m not an idiot.
Reviewing copyedits isn't all coziness; it's also stressful, and not only because I'm never sure if I'm making the little squiggle at the end of a line deletion correctly. This is crunch time, the last chance an author has to make any significant changes. By this time, I have so many different versions of certain scenes in my head, it's hard to see the words fresh on the page the way a reader will. And there's not much time to ponder. One week to turn the manuscript around. But by Monday afternoon, I was done, the sun was out again, and the manuscript was winging its way back to New York--in better condition, I hope, than when it arrived.
*"Strunk and White" is the nickname for the book The Elements of Style. It was originally written by William Strunk, Jr. a zillion years ago, added onto by E.B. White only a million years ago, and is the one essential reference on written English that everyone should have. Everyone. It's only about 80 pages long and it's plain, clear, common good sense and a masterpiece. So no, I don't really defy Strunk and White. But I could. If I wanted to.
It was time to review copyedits.
As I mentioned in my last post, I adore copyeditors. First, I strongly suspect that they are even geekier than I am. Second, as I noted before, it’s the copyeditor’s job to keep me from making an idiot of myself in public. As I went through the manuscript, one thing became clear: me and proper comma use, not so much acquainted. What can I say? I put them where the pauses sound in my head.
So if the copyeditor is catching all the mistakes, what is the manuscript doing back on my lap, the person who made the mistakes to begin with? Because my job, at this junction, is to go through every change suggested by the copyeditor. The author may not have final say over the cover or the title, but s/he has absolute, final say over the actual writing. If I felt it was utterly essential that those commas stayed where I originally put them, then all I needed to do was indicate so on the manuscript. Take that, Strunk and White!* My word is law!
Then again, my manuscript was blessed with a wonderful copyeditor who really knows her stuff. That, and I’m not an idiot.
Reviewing copyedits isn't all coziness; it's also stressful, and not only because I'm never sure if I'm making the little squiggle at the end of a line deletion correctly. This is crunch time, the last chance an author has to make any significant changes. By this time, I have so many different versions of certain scenes in my head, it's hard to see the words fresh on the page the way a reader will. And there's not much time to ponder. One week to turn the manuscript around. But by Monday afternoon, I was done, the sun was out again, and the manuscript was winging its way back to New York--in better condition, I hope, than when it arrived.
*"Strunk and White" is the nickname for the book The Elements of Style. It was originally written by William Strunk, Jr. a zillion years ago, added onto by E.B. White only a million years ago, and is the one essential reference on written English that everyone should have. Everyone. It's only about 80 pages long and it's plain, clear, common good sense and a masterpiece. So no, I don't really defy Strunk and White. But I could. If I wanted to.
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