We all have things that drive us nuts. That
bring out those little quirks in our personality we wish weren't there. In
my case I wish I had a greater ability to trust. I don't like my reaction at
having to face the never ending repercussions of my minimal trust ability. They
leave me feeling drained and confused. They are physical and emotional states
and feelings that I loathe.
So...trust me when I say, my latest experience
in the drained, confused, state hasn't been pleasant. We use the term so
easily. Trust me, even if it's not stated out loud it's an implied sentiment in
many of our interactions. So what had me tossing and turning in bed last night,
unable to sleep? I wish I could say it was a hot and horny man, but alas, no.
It was implied trust.
I've just finished the final edit and approval
for the upcoming release of Finding Angel. Being new to the publishing process
I really had only a minimal idea of what to expect once I handed over my
manuscript to an anonymous individual at the end of an email. When the first
edits arrived I discovered a new and interesting hell, the edits were a
nightmare. I fumbled my way through, changing point of view (POV) errors, and applying hooks to a couple
of the chapter beginnings and endings, adding some transitional paragraphs. As
I made the changes, I realized I had to trust my editor and the advice she gave
me to make the book a better read. Luckily I had no major rewrites, the story
is still intact, I didn't have major changes to make, so what was
there to complain about...nothing really. Well nothing except taking my over
active mind in hand and convincing myself that I was able to place my trust in
the editor. She knew the process, she'd done this before, she gave me positive
feedback about the work, and she obviously had an investment in making the book as good as
it could be. After all, editing is her job, her livelihood. I can trust her...I
willed myself to trust her.
I assumed the second and final edit would be a
breeze. I was so misguided. Trust issues raised their head again. The edit was
easy. I basically had to clarify the
meaning of a few words. Most clarification stemmed from the language barrier,
yes, even though we both speak English, Aussies and Americans phrase things
differently. So three days later it was done, finished. I read the manuscript again, and it's ready to send back. I
haven't sent the email. Why? Because this is it, no more second chances. I have
to trust that it's as good as it can be, that there aren't any mistakes and my
editor has polished the words until they sparkle. In my rational mind, I believe it
sparkles like a diamond, but what if there's a smear neither of us has noticed?
Irrationally, here's the problem. I am a veracious reader. I have some
authors that I must read, and I mark on the calendar when their next release is
coming out so I can read it ASAP. Recently, one of those authors had books go to sale with huge
editing errors. Missing pages, write at the end. Not just spelling errors, those can be ignored even though they
are noticeable, but whole scenes were left out during the edit process.
Continuity issues where names of characters changed from the beginning to the
end of the book. I understand that the process of writing and editing isn't perfect.
Nothing in life can carry that tag. I've read Finding Angel so many times I no
longer see the words properly, I just see the story and the characters I've
created. I'm part of the book, and I believe if you’re too close to a
situation you often can't see what's wrong with it. You need an outsider to
look into the situation and point out the errors, so you can change what's
wrong. In the case of Finding Angel, if there were errors, I have to hope and
believe my editor has caught them all. But, if a major, highly regarded author
can be let down in the editing process and have books go to print with large
errors, where does that leave me? It leaves me battling my trust issues.
I may not rock in the treetops all day long, hopping and bopping and singing my song... but I do tweet. Social networking, the modern day authors new nightmare. When I first decided to concentrate on being an full-time author, I had now idea what I was letting myself in for. Ignorance is bliss doesn't really cover what I've discovered, but it goes a long way to explaining it. Once my first manuscript was completed, I went on the biggest learning curve of my life. In olden days, or at least my idea of them, authors wrote a book, got published, did a few book signings & interviews, then went back to their cave to write something else. I realise it's probably an incorrect notion or simplistic view of the olden day, but movies are really all I have to go on. I should probably add that if you were a crime or suspense writer, in between the signing and writing, you probably solved a few crimes or mysteries along the way, rescued a damsel or two and saved at least one city from destruction.
But I digress...
Once my manuscript was complete, I started to contemplate getting published. I know, it probably wasn't the best way to do things. I should have actively sought a book deal when the story was in plot form, but why organise something when I didn't even know if my ADD brain would even finish the manuscript. After all, I have a pile of them. Incomplete and dusty pages of dribble from pre-computer days, along with the mess of neglected archived files on mass storage devises, collecting cobwebs in their own techie kind of way.
But again, I digress...
So, while trolling publishers and investigating the how-too's and where-for's of the modern day literary world, I discovered the unthinkable. There is a monster preying on the lives of the modern day writer. Whether your published or not, the shadow of the creature lurks, tracking your every move. It's tentacles slowly reach for you, attempting to invade your soul. The beast's mystical powers of deception lull your once alert sense of foreboding, allow him to caress you and draw you closer. Now your within striking distance, your jugular exposed. Fangs pierce your skin, injecting a venom that targets your mind, eroding your creativity and encouraging you to seek distraction within the monsters arms. Once taken into the monsters embrace it is hard to break free, sharp talons pierce your body, clawing toward your heart. If the creature obtains your heart, it's all over, you are lost. You become enslaved. Trying to break free causes pain, you must obey the beast, seek solace, submit to its ever controlling will. You have become ensnared in the social networking world and your life will never be the same again.
I hear you all scoffing... Yeah, right! Crazy woman! But deep inside you know I'm telling the truth.
I started my dance with the monster about six months ago. A lot of the publishers I approached insisted authors have an Internet presence. Whether you're published or not, you need an online profile. Personal marketing gone made, attract readers for a book that isn't yet accepted for publication. Realising the fight to avoid said Internet exploitation was a losing battle, I conceded defeat and opened my google home page. How do you build an Internet presence? I felt the dark shadow drift over me, a chill quivered along my spine, the caress of something near my ankle caught my attention and I looked down. The tentacle of the god of knowledge encircled my ankle and wound it's way around my shin. Of course, you allow the beast to approach.
I already had a facebook profile, it was amusing at times. I posted stupid things and made the odd comment on friend's walls. I didn't mind going on there every so often, seeing what my real and pretend facebook friends were doing. I did however, recognise it for the time waster it was. So now, in order to look more appealing to prospective publishers I had to revisit not only facebook, but other sites I previously chose to ignore. My first step was to create a facebook page to highlight my work. It took me a nearly a day to set up. By the time I had filled in all the information, chosen pictures, sent invites, and read all the disclosure statements, I had wasted more time than I anticipated. I slowly started getting people to like the page...sloowwwly. Deciding I must be doing something wrong, I mean, why didn't I have a million followers in a week, I looked at what else I could do. A tentacle, the god of inspiration, wrapped around my left leg. Genius....I'll write a blog. Time rolled by, a few days in fact. I had to find the blog site that suited me, then design the blog page. Again, more pictures, more info about me, my work... blah blah blah. The first blog post finally went live. Hallelujah! Praise the tentacle god of inspiration.
Eight weeks later, after posting on facebook, writing blogs, and sharing the blog to my facebook wall I had the strange feeling I should be doing more. There was a caress on my back, another tickle of inspiration as the tentacle god of seduction encircled my waist. I needed more social networking hits, more traffic to the blog, more facebook friends liking my page. I need to do more, to get more. Twitter, everyone talks about twitter. Sign up, write the profile, follow people, encourage people to follow me... more, more, more. Tweet this and tweet that. Link twitter to facebook, facebook to twitter, send the blog post to both. Now I'm getting the hang of self promotion. Now I'm getting word out about me. Now I'm connecting. The first offer of a contract, made me cry with relief. The second contract had me dancing around the house. Dancing hand in tentacle with monster, allowing the mystical powers of deception to fill my senses. Must tweet, post, blog. announce to the world I'm going to be published. When the email arrived asking for my website address I panicked. Then I felt the beast's warm breath on my neck, deception whispered in my ear. Its' easy, design a website now. A week later my website went live. Must tweet, post, blog, tell the world I have a website. The monsters tentacles pulsed around me, deception lulled me into a quiet satisfaction that I was doing everything as I should, I relaxed.
When the intervention came I tried to deny it. The lady of the industrial city didn't hold back her concern.
"If you can write the first book in four months, how is it you've only written two chapters of the second book in the last six months. You aren't going to make a living on one novel. When was the last time your worked on the book? You do need to write you know, isn't that what your supposed to be...a writer."
I write. I write every day! I tweet, I post, I comment, I chat, I blog... I WRITE! At the periphery of my vision I saw a man. He was pale, thin, the tone of his muscles less defined. He'd was dejected, alone, obviously neglected...it was Steve, my hero from the second manuscript. What had I done?
Suddenly the hot breath on my throat annoyed me. The tentacles of seduction, inspiration and knowledge, tightened painfully. I turned to stare into the monster's eyes. Deception radiated toward me, he was eyeing the pulse at my throat, lips snarled back to expose fang dripping with venom. OMG, I write social networking waffle everyday. I flung my fists at the beast chest, I struggled. I screamed out to Steve, his gaze lifted, and he smiled. I held out my hand and he rushed toward me, prying the tentacles from my body with his bare hands. Work with me, his unspoken message invaded my mind, allowing me time to think clearly. I imagined a sword, fire licking at it's chiseled blade, chains empowered with magic to secure any mythical beast who threatened the weak. Steve took up the weaponry and stuck at the beast. Tentacles lacerated, I fell to the ground. He swung the chain. Fangs shattered, before it's mouth was bound, tightly shut. Steve encircled the beast's body with he remain chain, tentacles strapped to it's body, legs shackled...immobilised.
Steve and I embraced, he administered a healing salve to my wounds and we walked away, together. But what of the beast. Steve explained I needed to keep him, a bound reminder of distractions that lay in wait, taking my focus off the prize. The monster quickly shrank in size, he sits on my desk, approaching my keyboard twice a day at the times I designate. He whimpers and looks at me forlornly until I allow him to feed. We visit the social networking site together, no more than an hour or two a day. So far the existence is a happy one. Steve and I have resumed work, his strength regained, his presence within my mind now firm and, as always, protective. I am once again the master of my own destiny...and Mistress to a little shackled beast who wobbles around my desk complaining the chains are too tight.
Submissions have been driving me nuts recently. Yes I've been doing them, apparently an author needs to do submissions to publishing houses if she actually wants her book to make it into print or even ebook format.... who knew...lol. I send off one, then get a thanks but no thanks letter and I send off another one to someone else. Trying to find a publisher for a novel is really the most frustrating thing I've done in a long while. Yes it's a fact of life if you choose writing as a career, I understand that but I'm not really finding pleasure in the dance I am now engaged in.
It wasn't until I went and had a sulk in bed the other day, that I realised finding a publisher is a bit like dating. I know my mind is strange but bear with me... I'm about to ramble and then hopefully reach a poignant conclusion.
When you meet someone your interested in and get to go out on a date you are faced with a few choices, and I'm not talking about where to go. I'm talking personal choices. I find the choice is basically summed up by the Paloma Faith song "Do you want the truth or something beautiful?"
You put on the outfit you keep for special occasions because it makes you look better that anything else you own. It might be that tight skirt that shows how perfectly rounded your butt is, along with the top that you bought when you went out shopping and your girlfriend said 'that make your tits look great, you so need to buy it.' You add the lace top stockings and your highest platforms that you sometimes refer to as your 'come fuck me shoes'. Next you get out the paint and move onto your face. You add a little foundation just to make sure the uneven tone is covered, the mascara and eyeliner highlights your eyes making them more alluring, the lipstick makes your lips look fuller and more kissable. You straighten your hair, ensure it has a nice shine..... by the time you get out in public you look like a new woman..... and for what? To impress someone you know very little about.
So he sits through dinner and talks at you (about himself of course) he burps loudly, looks at the asses of the other women who walk past the table and when he's disinterested in what you're saying, he stares at your tits. I mean really, you knew you shouldn't have worn that push up bra and top that makes them look great, what else did you expect? You console yourself that at least he's not yawning. By the end of the night you may or may not have decided to have sex with him, depending on how cute he is.
The next day after you've made him breakfast he looks at you and sees who you really are. Your hair is now a wavy mess with a few dry ends, because you showered late last night after he decided to cum all over your tits while having sex. Of course he was sound sleep so had no idea you'd even left the bed. You have no makeup on, your tits aren't as pert because you aren't wearing a bra and the fluffy dressing gown hides your shapely everything. Arh... finally the truth.
Then the dance really begins, he might call, he might not. He may ask to see more of you before he decides no you're not what he's looking for. If he's nice he'll probably let you know he doesn't want to hear from you again. If not, you just won't hear from him. So, after a designated timeframe, and its different for everyone, you move on. You go out, find someone else and do the dance all over again. Hopefully before you run out of options you meet the one person in the world who thinks that your truth is beautiful.
A dance with a publisher is much the same, minus the sex and need to shower of course. You show an interest in them by sending in the submission. You give them a part of yourself to look at, usually the first three chapters of your manuscript. You make that part of you look as beautiful as you can. You dress the story up in your synopsis, you have the hook line, you try to make it sound interesting within the guidelines they insist you work within. You give them the pitch and hope they respond favourably.
If the publisher reads on past the initial query and synopsis (i.e. they decided to spend the night.) In the cold light of day things might look different. There are one or two spelling and grammar mistakes (well sorry, after editing 60 million times by myself I'm cross eyed and might have missed a few things here and there.) The manuscript basically fits into the guidelines they have for publication but it doesn't have all of them (oops did I have a DP scene, when I shouldn't have?). The now wavy hair looked better straight.
If they like the beautiful packaging then you might hear from them again, but even then they could still decide that you're not what they are looking for. If they're nice they will probably let you know they don't want to hear from you again. If not you just won't hear anything. So, after a designated timeframe, and its different for everyone, you move on the the next publishing house. You start the dance and hope for a different outcome.
And, just as it is with dating, hopefully before you run out of options you find the publisher who thinks that your truth is beautiful.
