In Tallahassee now, watching my daughter compete in the state finals of the National History Day competition. Then off to Washington to visit my son. Blog updates will be sporadic and will have to coincide with whatever wireless signal is available.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Friday, May 08, 2009
blogging agents
A growing number of literary agents maintain blogs. They rant about query letter mistakes, dispense sometimes conflicting advice, and provide real insight to what they like and how you might succeed in connecting with them.
If you wanted a job with a new company, wouldn't you appreciate a glimpse into the thinking of the hiring manager? That's the value of agent blogs: they provide a how-to manual on how to market your writing to that agent. The good ones also teach how to make your writing get taken seriously.
Here's a partial list of the good ones:
Nathan Bransford - Check out "The Essentials" section on the right of his landing page. Good lessons in agent-hunting fundamentals.
Jennifer Jackson - Her tags entitled "agent manners" and "query wars" are where to get the quickest bounce from her blog.
Rachelle Gardner - Handles primarily Christian-oriented books, but gives good insight to the process and frequently responds to the comments on her blog (which helps with clarifying some of the still mysterious aspects).
Jonathan Lyons - Unusually focused blog, as these things go.
Kristin Nelson - An agent who seems more interested in helping writers break in (or at least be taken seriously) than proving she's hipper than anyone else in the room.
Janet Reid - I've spoken about her before. Funny, outspoken agent who cares about this stuff as much as we should.
Miss Snark - The agent blog that started it all. An acerbic, anonymous agent cajoles, complains and provides a master class in how to approach the publishing industry. She's been out of the blogging business for two years now, but her archives remain a valuable resource. And the "Crapometer" contests enable you to measure your query or hook against hundreds of others.
I don't suggest following all of them. I am suggesting that when you have a manuscript that's ready to go out, you ought to know everything you can about how the submissions process works. These sites can help.
If you wanted a job with a new company, wouldn't you appreciate a glimpse into the thinking of the hiring manager? That's the value of agent blogs: they provide a how-to manual on how to market your writing to that agent. The good ones also teach how to make your writing get taken seriously.
Here's a partial list of the good ones:
Nathan Bransford - Check out "The Essentials" section on the right of his landing page. Good lessons in agent-hunting fundamentals.
Jennifer Jackson - Her tags entitled "agent manners" and "query wars" are where to get the quickest bounce from her blog.
Rachelle Gardner - Handles primarily Christian-oriented books, but gives good insight to the process and frequently responds to the comments on her blog (which helps with clarifying some of the still mysterious aspects).
Jonathan Lyons - Unusually focused blog, as these things go.
Kristin Nelson - An agent who seems more interested in helping writers break in (or at least be taken seriously) than proving she's hipper than anyone else in the room.
Janet Reid - I've spoken about her before. Funny, outspoken agent who cares about this stuff as much as we should.
Miss Snark - The agent blog that started it all. An acerbic, anonymous agent cajoles, complains and provides a master class in how to approach the publishing industry. She's been out of the blogging business for two years now, but her archives remain a valuable resource. And the "Crapometer" contests enable you to measure your query or hook against hundreds of others.
I don't suggest following all of them. I am suggesting that when you have a manuscript that's ready to go out, you ought to know everything you can about how the submissions process works. These sites can help.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
attention, warped writers
There is a quick, fun writing contest underway. Have a look:
http://montanaforreal.blogspot.com/2009/05/warped-minds-writing-contest.html
http://montanaforreal.blogspot.com/2009/05/warped-minds-writing-contest.html
old stuff
Searching for the repair manual to one of my expletive-deserving major appliances, I stumbled on something I wrote twelve years ago. Is running something so old the first sign that a blogger has gone dry? (Or is writing about a favorite TV show?)
Colleen registered for kindergarten this week. She spent five minutes talking with one woman for speech evaluation, and another five minutes with the district psychologist. Later she related part of the second conversation, which is reprinted here in its entirety, in this little sketch we will entitle, "Why I Never Know What Is Going On In The Lives Of My Children, Part One."
COLLEEN: She asked me what pretty means.
DAD (ever gentle -- the home office for fatherly concern): And what did you say?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD (playfully): You don't know? Whaddaya mean, you don't know?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: You mean you can't remember what you told her?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: Or do you mean you don't know what pretty means?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: Okay. What else did she ask you?
COLLEEN: She asked me what enormous means.
DAD: And what did you tell her.
COLLEEN (pause): I don't know.
DAD: Do you know what enormous means?
(She nods.)
DAD: What does it mean?
(She shrugs.)
DAD: Colleen, tell Daddy. What does enormous mean?
COLLEEN (exasperated): I don't KNOW!
DAD: Do you want me to tell you what enormous means?
COLLEEN: No.
DAD: You don't?
COLLEEN: No.
DAD: It means very, very, very--
COLLEEN: BIG! I know that. Duh!
DAD: You know that?
COLLEEN: Of course! Every time you ask me that I always tell you what enormous means!
DAD: Did the teacher tell you that?
(She shrugs.)
DAD: Did you tell the teacher what enormous means, or did the teacher tell you?
COLLEEN (pauses): I don't know.
(Dad shakes his head, and goes back to reading.)
COLLEEN: She said I have pretty blue eyes.
DAD: Well, she's right.
COLLEEN: She asked me if I know what pretty is and she said I have pretty blue eyes.
DAD: And what did you say?
COLLEEN: I said thank you.
DAD: That's nice. Good for you. (Pauses. Then, because he doesn't want the Half Hollow Hills Union Free School District to think his daughter is an idiot, he softens his voice and goes back to work.) You do know what pretty means, don't you? I mean, anybody who knows what a big word like enormous means has to know what pretty means. Right?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: What else did the nice lady ask you?
COLLEEN: She asked me do I know what angry is.
DAD: And what did you tell her?
COLLEEN (nodding her head gravely): Daddy makes me angry.
DAD: Huh?
COLLEEN (proud to remember an actual answer): I told her Daddy makes me very, very angry.
DAD: And what did she say?
COLLEEN: She said why does your daddy make you angry?
DAD: And?
(COLLEEN fidgets, having lost interest in this conversation a long time ago.)
DAD: What did you tell the lady when she asked why dad makes you angry?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: You can't remember? Or did you say I don't know?
COLLEEN: I don't KNOW! I TOLD you that already. Can I watch TV now?
Colleen registered for kindergarten this week. She spent five minutes talking with one woman for speech evaluation, and another five minutes with the district psychologist. Later she related part of the second conversation, which is reprinted here in its entirety, in this little sketch we will entitle, "Why I Never Know What Is Going On In The Lives Of My Children, Part One."
COLLEEN: She asked me what pretty means.
DAD (ever gentle -- the home office for fatherly concern): And what did you say?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD (playfully): You don't know? Whaddaya mean, you don't know?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: You mean you can't remember what you told her?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: Or do you mean you don't know what pretty means?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: Okay. What else did she ask you?
COLLEEN: She asked me what enormous means.
DAD: And what did you tell her.
COLLEEN (pause): I don't know.
DAD: Do you know what enormous means?
(She nods.)
DAD: What does it mean?
(She shrugs.)
DAD: Colleen, tell Daddy. What does enormous mean?
COLLEEN (exasperated): I don't KNOW!
DAD: Do you want me to tell you what enormous means?
COLLEEN: No.
DAD: You don't?
COLLEEN: No.
DAD: It means very, very, very--
COLLEEN: BIG! I know that. Duh!
DAD: You know that?
COLLEEN: Of course! Every time you ask me that I always tell you what enormous means!
DAD: Did the teacher tell you that?
(She shrugs.)
DAD: Did you tell the teacher what enormous means, or did the teacher tell you?
COLLEEN (pauses): I don't know.
(Dad shakes his head, and goes back to reading.)
COLLEEN: She said I have pretty blue eyes.
DAD: Well, she's right.
COLLEEN: She asked me if I know what pretty is and she said I have pretty blue eyes.
DAD: And what did you say?
COLLEEN: I said thank you.
DAD: That's nice. Good for you. (Pauses. Then, because he doesn't want the Half Hollow Hills Union Free School District to think his daughter is an idiot, he softens his voice and goes back to work.) You do know what pretty means, don't you? I mean, anybody who knows what a big word like enormous means has to know what pretty means. Right?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: What else did the nice lady ask you?
COLLEEN: She asked me do I know what angry is.
DAD: And what did you tell her?
COLLEEN (nodding her head gravely): Daddy makes me angry.
DAD: Huh?
COLLEEN (proud to remember an actual answer): I told her Daddy makes me very, very angry.
DAD: And what did she say?
COLLEEN: She said why does your daddy make you angry?
DAD: And?
(COLLEEN fidgets, having lost interest in this conversation a long time ago.)
DAD: What did you tell the lady when she asked why dad makes you angry?
COLLEEN: I don't know.
DAD: You can't remember? Or did you say I don't know?
COLLEEN: I don't KNOW! I TOLD you that already. Can I watch TV now?
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
unreality
I consider myself a fan of only two TV programs. One is a sports show I'll write about some other time. The other is the A&E series, Intervention.
For those who haven't seen it, Intervention takes the form of a one-hour documentary about an alcoholic or drug addict (or once in a while a compulsive shopper or gambler) and the hell he or she inflicts on his or her family. It combines talking-head interviews with footage of family disputes, drunk driving and shooting up. Lots of shooting up.
At the thirty-eight minute mark, one of the show's three interventionists sits down with the family and helps them prepare for the ambush. The following scene, the actual intervention, makes for utterly compelling television. The subjects usually "accept the gift that is being offered" and go into treatment. We witness their arrival at the rehab center, and then -- if we're lucky -- if they're lucky -- a couple of moments with their sober selves 90 days later. (A high percentage don't make it through rehab.) A caption after the closing credits lets us know their current status. The majority who make it through later fall off the wagon, which is realistic enough. (Even one of the show's interventionists took the most recent season off because of a relapse of his own.)
This synopsis strips the program of its emotional element. The pain on display is real, and it's palpable. I am amazed by how often, and how much, I find myself caring about these broken people and their patient (or codependent) families.
But how much does the presence of a film crew alter the lives of the people on display? What kinds of filters are at work here?
We know there are at least two cameramen working many of the scenes, along with a producer. That makes three strangers hovering around the "authentic" family get-togethers and the "gritty" scenes on the street. How can people avoid playing to the crowd?
I can promise you, my next domestic squabble will go a whole lot differently than the last one if you can arrange to have a film crew moving stealthily around my family room.
This has been the subtext of television documentaries since the first reality series, the PBS show, "An American Family." That 1973 series followed the Loud family of Santa Barbara across a year in which the marriage broke up and the oldest son came out. I was 16 when it aired, and I thought, "Whoa. She tells the guy she wants a divorce on television? She couldn't wait until they went to bed?"
I remember watching that scene and being bothered by its restrained emotional content. I had heard about people with that kind of self-control, but I was the oldest of eight kids in a working-class Irish Catholic neighborhood in Brooklyn. I sure didn't know any of them.
But what else were these people going to be but restrained? They had all those cameramen in the living room.
Albert Brooks nailed this irony in his 1979 movie, Real Life. He plays a filmmaker who wants to follow the Yeager family for a year. In order to remain as unobtrusive as possible, he invested in a revolutionary camera:
". . . a startling breakthrough in technology. The smallest, most versatile motion picture camera ever made. From Holland. The Ettinauer 226XL. The Ettinauer is actually worn over the head. The camera is controlled by using body movement, and by operating this human-eye-like lens system. Isn't that something? And it can hear like a human, too, with these special omnidirectional microphones located exactly where we have our ears. The Ettinauer needs no special lighting, and it uses no film. Yes, all picture and sound information is recorded digitally on these integrated circuit chips, some no larger than a child's fingernail. When these chips are filled to capacity, they are removed from this housing and then mailed back to the institute, where they're decoded and then transferred to film as we know it. Only six of these cameras were ever made. Only five of them ever worked. We have four of those."
To this day I laugh whenever I remember the scenes in which Albert's cameramen, with their bulbous astronaut helmet-cams, slink "unobtrusively" around the room, getting in each other's shots.
I know Intervention works on me. I just don't know if it's authentic, or whether its authenticity matters.
I'd like it to matter, though.
For those who haven't seen it, Intervention takes the form of a one-hour documentary about an alcoholic or drug addict (or once in a while a compulsive shopper or gambler) and the hell he or she inflicts on his or her family. It combines talking-head interviews with footage of family disputes, drunk driving and shooting up. Lots of shooting up.
At the thirty-eight minute mark, one of the show's three interventionists sits down with the family and helps them prepare for the ambush. The following scene, the actual intervention, makes for utterly compelling television. The subjects usually "accept the gift that is being offered" and go into treatment. We witness their arrival at the rehab center, and then -- if we're lucky -- if they're lucky -- a couple of moments with their sober selves 90 days later. (A high percentage don't make it through rehab.) A caption after the closing credits lets us know their current status. The majority who make it through later fall off the wagon, which is realistic enough. (Even one of the show's interventionists took the most recent season off because of a relapse of his own.)
This synopsis strips the program of its emotional element. The pain on display is real, and it's palpable. I am amazed by how often, and how much, I find myself caring about these broken people and their patient (or codependent) families.
But how much does the presence of a film crew alter the lives of the people on display? What kinds of filters are at work here?
We know there are at least two cameramen working many of the scenes, along with a producer. That makes three strangers hovering around the "authentic" family get-togethers and the "gritty" scenes on the street. How can people avoid playing to the crowd?
I can promise you, my next domestic squabble will go a whole lot differently than the last one if you can arrange to have a film crew moving stealthily around my family room.
This has been the subtext of television documentaries since the first reality series, the PBS show, "An American Family." That 1973 series followed the Loud family of Santa Barbara across a year in which the marriage broke up and the oldest son came out. I was 16 when it aired, and I thought, "Whoa. She tells the guy she wants a divorce on television? She couldn't wait until they went to bed?"
I remember watching that scene and being bothered by its restrained emotional content. I had heard about people with that kind of self-control, but I was the oldest of eight kids in a working-class Irish Catholic neighborhood in Brooklyn. I sure didn't know any of them.
But what else were these people going to be but restrained? They had all those cameramen in the living room.
Albert Brooks nailed this irony in his 1979 movie, Real Life. He plays a filmmaker who wants to follow the Yeager family for a year. In order to remain as unobtrusive as possible, he invested in a revolutionary camera:
". . . a startling breakthrough in technology. The smallest, most versatile motion picture camera ever made. From Holland. The Ettinauer 226XL. The Ettinauer is actually worn over the head. The camera is controlled by using body movement, and by operating this human-eye-like lens system. Isn't that something? And it can hear like a human, too, with these special omnidirectional microphones located exactly where we have our ears. The Ettinauer needs no special lighting, and it uses no film. Yes, all picture and sound information is recorded digitally on these integrated circuit chips, some no larger than a child's fingernail. When these chips are filled to capacity, they are removed from this housing and then mailed back to the institute, where they're decoded and then transferred to film as we know it. Only six of these cameras were ever made. Only five of them ever worked. We have four of those."
To this day I laugh whenever I remember the scenes in which Albert's cameramen, with their bulbous astronaut helmet-cams, slink "unobtrusively" around the room, getting in each other's shots.
I know Intervention works on me. I just don't know if it's authentic, or whether its authenticity matters.
I'd like it to matter, though.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
how do you really feel, mr. nabokov?
"Only ambitious nonentities and hearty mediocrities exhibit their rough drafts. It's like passing around samples of sputum."
-- Vladimir Nabokov (who never attended Friday Night Writers)
-- Vladimir Nabokov (who never attended Friday Night Writers)
Saturday, May 02, 2009
. . . perchance to figure out what the hell I'm doing
Do you dream in writing? Or of writing?
Many of my dreams involve athletic competition; I don't know why. I am hitting a baseball or running down fly balls in the outfield, or driving the lane in basketball, or walking the golf course. Often they are about the run-up to those actions: I am on deck, or stepping up to the first tee, and worrying about how I'll do. (And, no, I'm not interested in your take on performance anxiety or the Freudian implications of such dreams. I mean it . . .)
My favorite dreams used to involve sex. Now they involve another kind of grownup activity: writing.
These writing dreams usually feature me writing a passage, maybe a few lines, or maybe as many as fifteen, and the stuff is almost always laugh-out-loud funny. In fact, the lines actually make me start laughing while I'm still inside the dream, which is what wakes me up. I'll hold onto them as long as I can, and will often lie in bed laughing spasmodically at two or three in the morning. (Another reason I'm so popular in my house.)
Only rarely is the material usable (some of my story "Inspector 41" arrived in a dream), and often it doesn't make any sense at all. That is not the point. I feel better about everything when I wake up laughing. And I feel better about writing when I dream about writing. Usually.
Lately I've been struggling to wrestle the truth out of a chapter, and now I'm dreaming about it. I'm not feeling better yet, and I'm not seeing any results. I believe there's a lot of unconscious and subconscious work that goes into any good story. I don't need my writing dreams to feel good; I trust they're doing a job for me. But, man, I wish they'd get it done already.
Do you write in your dreams? Is the writing any good? Do you scribble in your journal as soon as you open your eyes, in order to hold onto those writing dreams a little longer?
Many of my dreams involve athletic competition; I don't know why. I am hitting a baseball or running down fly balls in the outfield, or driving the lane in basketball, or walking the golf course. Often they are about the run-up to those actions: I am on deck, or stepping up to the first tee, and worrying about how I'll do. (And, no, I'm not interested in your take on performance anxiety or the Freudian implications of such dreams. I mean it . . .)
My favorite dreams used to involve sex. Now they involve another kind of grownup activity: writing.
These writing dreams usually feature me writing a passage, maybe a few lines, or maybe as many as fifteen, and the stuff is almost always laugh-out-loud funny. In fact, the lines actually make me start laughing while I'm still inside the dream, which is what wakes me up. I'll hold onto them as long as I can, and will often lie in bed laughing spasmodically at two or three in the morning. (Another reason I'm so popular in my house.)
Only rarely is the material usable (some of my story "Inspector 41" arrived in a dream), and often it doesn't make any sense at all. That is not the point. I feel better about everything when I wake up laughing. And I feel better about writing when I dream about writing. Usually.
Lately I've been struggling to wrestle the truth out of a chapter, and now I'm dreaming about it. I'm not feeling better yet, and I'm not seeing any results. I believe there's a lot of unconscious and subconscious work that goes into any good story. I don't need my writing dreams to feel good; I trust they're doing a job for me. But, man, I wish they'd get it done already.
Do you write in your dreams? Is the writing any good? Do you scribble in your journal as soon as you open your eyes, in order to hold onto those writing dreams a little longer?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
owning my paranoia
This has nothing to do with writing, but something to do with telling lies.
I have to admit that had this swine flu outbreak hit the presses a year ago, I would have dismissed the blanket coverage as the desired outcome of an orchestrated strategy to gin up public panic and take everyone's eyes off the economy or the war or whatever Karl Rove didn't want us thinking about.
I'm still struggling with the math of the thing. One confirmed U.S. death (from among 300 million people). In Mexico, the presumed epicenter, 120 deaths (from a population of roughly 109 million). I respect that public health officials are shifting into crisis mode: that is their job. That is what they've trained their whole careers for. But would the rest of us be keyed up without all-news-all-the-time? And should we be?
I would be less nervous about a looming pandemic if the previous administration was still in office. Not because I think they'd do a better job responding to the crisis, but because I would remain convinced much longer that it was all a bunch of crap.
I don't know if that says more about the officials or more about me.
I have to admit that had this swine flu outbreak hit the presses a year ago, I would have dismissed the blanket coverage as the desired outcome of an orchestrated strategy to gin up public panic and take everyone's eyes off the economy or the war or whatever Karl Rove didn't want us thinking about.
I'm still struggling with the math of the thing. One confirmed U.S. death (from among 300 million people). In Mexico, the presumed epicenter, 120 deaths (from a population of roughly 109 million). I respect that public health officials are shifting into crisis mode: that is their job. That is what they've trained their whole careers for. But would the rest of us be keyed up without all-news-all-the-time? And should we be?
I would be less nervous about a looming pandemic if the previous administration was still in office. Not because I think they'd do a better job responding to the crisis, but because I would remain convinced much longer that it was all a bunch of crap.
I don't know if that says more about the officials or more about me.
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