When I paid for the agent critique at the recent SCBWI Middle of the Map conference, I wondered if I was wasting my money.
I sent in a one-page synopsis, my first ten pages, and fifty bucks for the opportunity to chat for ten minutes with Barry Goldblatt, YA literary agent extraordinaire. As excited as I was about the whole thing, my skeptic’s brain told me he’d have to be pretty quick mentally and verbally for me to get my fifty bucks worth. He was. Without going into all the soul-crushing and yet enlightening details, let me tell you something every single pre-published author needs to hear: THEY KNOW! If you don’t have a 110% grasp on your character, even in ten pages, they know. If you chose the POV based on what you think sells best and not on what best fits the story you want to tell, they know. If you had pulled out every last hair in your head trying to come up with a perfect plot twist for the last three months with no success and then suddenly, brilliantly it came to you at the last second just before you had to submit your one-page synopsis, so you added it to said synopsis, thinking this wise king of literary agents would weep for joy at your cleverness, but three days later you realized it was the most cliche thing you’ve ever written--they know. I’m not sure I have the linguistic ability to tell you how creeped out I was when he basically questioned everything I was struggling with in this story. It’s like he’d been living in my head. Let me be clear, I did not send a first draft. These first pages had been rewritten, beta-read, polished, and edited. Even so, it was true. I didn’t quite have a complete grasp on my main character. I thought, however, the voice and the fun premise would buff out that flaw. While I did receive high marks for voice and premise, I didn’t sit down with Mr. Goldblatt for praise. I wanted critique-- brutal, honest, helpful critique. And that’s exactly what he delivered with a side of laughter and a few F bombs. Yep, this was a guy who spoke my language. In fact, at the end of my ten minute critique, I was ready to pack up, go home, and get to work. What more could I learn from a conference that Mr. Goldblatt had not told me in those few moments. Not only had I received expert insight and perspective on my WIP, but also on YA in general. I didn’t go home, though. I stayed. I had to. I was there with my critique partner, and she wasn’t all that excited about the idea of having to Uber the two-and-a-half hours home after the conference. And yet with all the conference notes and knowledge, I’m still stuck. I attended the conference with a half-written manuscript and two weeks later, I still have a half-written manuscript. Mr. Goldblatt suggested I consider changing the four perspective, first person POV to third person omniscient, depending on the story I want to tell. He’s the expert. I should make the change. I know this. And yet that little voice in my psyche that is devoid of anything resembling the sagacious, laughter-charged, New York edge of Mr. Goldblatt’s reminds me to write the story of my heart. If only the man actually did live in my head like Ratatouille in the chef’s hat, forcing my fingers to fly on the keyboard, tapping out the best-selling version of the story of my heart. Now that would be worth fifty bucks times fifty more. As it is, I’ll have to settle for my ten minutes of brain-picking. After all, it, too, was worth every penny.
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There is a lot of discussion on social media lately among writers about which authors can or should be allowed to create characters that represent certain groups. The argument seems to be that unless an author can create an authentic representation of culture or ethnicity or race or gender, he/or she should not create the character. Also, unless the author is immersed in that particular group, there is no way he/she can create authentic representations.
When I was young, my first best friend was a pretty girl with a sweet round face, an angelic voice, and an energetic countenance. She had this beautiful dark hair that I was jealous of. It was the color of the antique wooden beams that adorned the ceilings of my family’s Victorian. And it was thick! Mine was the color of dead leaves and about as limp as a pile of them after a drenching autumn rain. I loved going to her house and tasting the different food and hearing the different sounds. I didn’t know she was Mexican. I wouldn’t have cared if I had known. She was just this funny, beautiful friend whose skin tanned in the summer sun where my pasty white blistered. My favorite babysitter was the oldest daughter of the only family of color in my small town. I don’t recall why she was my favorite. I just know that my sisters and I got really excited every time we knew she was coming. I remember laughing and laughing and laughing whenever she was around. My dad coached her brothers in Little League football. I don’t remember them as our African American friends. They were our friends. Period. Right before high school, my family moved to a bigger small town with a much larger Mexican-American community. I liked going to mass at Our Lady of Guadalupe because it was this old, gorgeous, holy-looking place. There was always a guitar and only sometimes an organ accompanying the same ol’ hymns sung across town. I swear, the Body of Christ tasted faintly of nacho flavored Doritos. I thought my new friends had interesting names, but they weren’t my Hispanic friends. They were my friends. Period. After college, I married a man whose family immigrated from Mexico. My kids are white. My kids are Mexican. My kids’ great maternal grandmother hailed from the Seminole tribe. My father’s family came here from Europe. Our family is our family. Period. One of my daughter’s best friends in high school was a phenomenal gymnast, but she was tall--way taller than you’d think for a gymnast. If you looked at her athletic body, you’d think she played basketball. She didn’t. But, of course, she was Chinese, so you might not think she was athletic at all. You might think she had a Tiger Mom and that she was good at math. Neither was true. As a toddler, she was adopted by a white, Catholic family. Oh, and she has a little sister who was also adopted from China, and guess what? Like a lot of sisters from a lot of cultures and races and ethnicities, they are about as different from each other as can be. I have no idea if my daughter’s friend represents Chinese people, or just tall Chinese people, or just Chinese cheerleaders, or only Chinese girls adopted by white people who prefer their daughters to be cheerleaders instead of mathletes. She’s just my daughter’s friend. Period. In my life, there are Catholics and Protestants and atheists and spiritualists. There are alcoholics and tea-totalers. There are differently-abled and hearing impaired. There are educated and uneducated, successful and not-so-much. There are liberals and conservatives.There are sweethearts and assholes. The people in my life have never come to me as representatives of anything. They come to me as people. And so do my characters. Writing communities in social media warn against perpetuating stereotypes. On the other hand, they warn that our characters better be authentic representations of skin color/culture/ethnicity/neighborhood/occupation/gender/blah, blah, blah or we risk offending everyone on the planet. That’s not how I live. That’s not how I write. I don’t create characters who represent anything. I simply accept people as they come to me. In life and in writing, it doesn’t get more authentic than that. What is Pitch Wars? A couple years ago when I first heard of it, I imagined writers hurling flaming manuscripts and query letters at baseball mitt-shaped inboxes of eager agents. You’ll have to excuse me. The first image my brain usually conjures up is seldom the real thing. Sometimes it’s not even based in reality. I’ve endured a lifetime of strange looks from teachers, friends, would-be lovers followed by, “You got that from that?” (And then he’s gone. Not every man is strong enough to love a writer-brained woman, my friends.) In reality, my image wasn’t far off. The manuscripts might not have flames shooting from them, and the inboxes have probably not morphed from sporting equipment, but I’m betting the agents are eager. Their might even be a few Pitch Wars hopefuls hurling. (Though, I hope not.) The website describes Pitch Wars as a “program where published/agented authors, editors, or industry interns choose one writer each to mentor. Mentors read the entire manuscript and offer suggestions on how to make the manuscript shine for the agent showcase”. Let me tell you, it’s much more than that. If you are lurking in #PitchWars Twitterdom, I hope you jump out and join us. It’s too late to submit this year, but that doesn’t mean you can’t connect with the community. If you’ve already submitted, and you are freaking out over #PWTeasers, I hope you have a glass of wine or two and tease right back. Honestly, have you ever thought of those teasers as a fantastic learning opportunity? Seeing what excites the mentors reminds us how to hook a reader. Teasers can also remind us that not every reader is gonna like every book. If a mentor isn’t digging your concept or feeling your voice, partnering with that person would not be good for either of you. And that’s okay. Mostly, Pitch Wars reminds us of the big, inclusive heart of the writing community. When I read that some mentors are happily and voluntarily skipping through 270 submission and feeling blessed to do so, I wanted to offer more than a hug gif. I wanted to beam myself through their baseball mitts to hug in person. High five, shout out, virtual hugs, and kissing emojis to all who make Pitch Wars possible and to all writers who support writers with your free writing events, critique swaps, Facebook groups, and all that other goodness. There is nothing more powerful than the written word, and with that power…prepare for the cliche, because here it comes...with that power comes great responsibility. So glad to be sharing the load with you. Rejection is part of the road to publication. It’s a rocky road, a roller coaster ride and all those other cliches. We know this, and we still write on and on and on. My favorite rejection so far was from a publisher who sent what seemed to me to be a form rejection. Their company was growing very fast. They apologize for the delay. They’ve considered my manuscript, but it simply didn’t fit into the line up at this time. I should have known something wasn’t quite right about that one because I had been in recent contact with the editor. She was excited about the project, but needed it to shine more. She offered a few ideas, but mostly wanted...shine. So, I polished that baby like Annie’s orphans working on the top of the Chrysler Building. You can see why that rejection was confusing as well as disappointing. Later that day came the retraction. An apology, actually. It read First I want to apologize for the form rejection you received earlier today. There was a small miscommunication with the editorial director. Yes! New life! Chrysler Building, better don your shades ‘cause this girl was shining! But wait… Unfortunately we're going to pass on this one, and we wish you the best of luck placing the manuscript elsewhere. In the meantime, please keep us in mind for your next project! Basically, they wanted to clarify that the original rejection was...well, accurate. Today’s rejection from a different publisher was not so confusing but just as disappointing because I knew better. She was kind enough to include reasons for the rejection and advice for going forward. Still, when I read that email, I wanted to stand up and scream, “I know. I know. I know. You’re right. Okay? I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Geez.” It’s not like I sent the manuscript consciously hoping she wouldn’t notice, but deep down, I knew. Somewhere in that writing process I had asked myself about the very issues she had pointed out, and I justified it away. Look, see that clever dialogue in chapter two. That will distract from the fact that the couple isn’t together enough on screen. And see that. That show-don’t-tell-moment will blind her to the weak character arc. At a workshop I attended, the Great Donald Maass (isn’t that appropriate way to introduce the guy?) commented that when you begin receiving complimentary and advice-filled rejection letters, you are probably one guided rewrite away from publication. You’re in the top tier. Don’t give up. Today’s writer lesson is not new, but is also not used enough. Don’t be in a rush to submit your shiny manuscript. Bust it up. Dismantle it. Break it, if you must. It will be stronger when you put it back together. If nothing else, you’ll save editors and agents the time and trouble of having to send an email telling you what deep down you already know. The #ownvoice movement has me thinking about the voices of my male characters. Now, I understand this type of consideration is not necessarily the focus of the #ownvoice movement. It’s more like a side benefit, but anything that helps to improve the authenticity in our stories is a good thing.
I have several guys I check in with to help me create realistic dialogue and interior thoughts. One of them is my real life romantic hero. He offers pretty good insight, but the other day I realized that as a romance writer, I can’t always utilize his most authentic advice. The conversation revolved around the color of my heroine’s lip gloss. I asked him if he would use the word coral or peach. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. HIM: Coral? You mean like blue? ME: Blue? Coral is not blue. It’s like a peachy melon. HIM: No it isn’t. Isn’t coral that stuff that grows in the ocean? ME: Well, yes. But even that isn’t blue. It’s more like chalky white. HIM: Okay, why would anyone wear chalky white lip gloss. Then I looked like him like he’d lost his mind. HIM: No man would ever use the word coral or peach. We don’t notice stuff like that. ME: You don’t notice when a woman wears lip gloss We’ve been applying it for years just so we can be alluring and you guys don’t even notice? HIM: We notice that sometimes your lips look slimy or kind of sticky. ME: You mean glossy. HIM: Sure. And sometimes they have that glitter crap on them. ME: You mean sparkle gloss? HIM. Sure. ME: So, how am I supposed to describe her lips from my hero’s point of view? HIM: I don’t know. That she has them. Thanks, babe, for the male insight. I went back to the keyboard and revised my scene. The ex-boyfriend takes inventory of the ex-girlfriend whom he hasn’t seen for years. The first draft read like this: She rolled her shoulders back and held her head high. Her cocoa colored eyes tried hard to be emotionless. Her skin blushed pink. She’d be bright red later. No doubt she’d forgotten sunscreen, too. As always, her soft lips were just the right shade of glossy peach. The revised draft read like this: She sat, waiting for him at their old favorite table. Her hair was a windblown mess. Her skin was a painful, sunburned red and her lips--well, she still had them. I gave up and texted a picture of my heroine to my young adult son. Maybe it was a generational problem that kept my real life romantic hero from noticing things like lip color. Describe this girl, I asked my son. Immediately, he texted back: She has brown hair. I realize writers strive for authenticity, but I’m just not sure we can use this kind of realistic manly observation. Sorry guys, I’m gonna stick with what I hope men are thinking. That’s my version of romance writer #ownvoice. The philosophy helped me nab my real life romantic hero. I hope it will help me nab some readers, too. They say when the student is ready, the teacher appears. I say the best teachers learn from their students, as well. Last week, while on break, I experienced one of the most profound student lessons of my teaching career. This one, I’ll carry with me--literally . Last August, I accepted a new teaching position. My predecessor had assigned the summer reading, so I spent my first few weeks listening to students present book reports. They had chosen their books from a list provided by last year’s teacher. I had read only a few on the list, so I enjoyed the discovery their presentations allowed--for the most part. Most of the students had gravitated toward a book about a serial killer or a journalist with a brain disease. At about the fifth Google Slides talk on the same book, my eyes began to glaze over. Then Lucas stepped forward with a serious countenance and a confident tone. I don’t remember much about the details of his prestation, but I can’t forget the passion of it. His final words stayed with me for months. “If for no other reason, you should read Dr. Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air out of respect for the author. We owe it to him.” My classroom door had been open that day and my next-door colleague heard everything. After class, she came in. “What book was that student talking about? I think I have to read it.” Once Christmas break came and I had time to read something other than student essays, I did. I’m tempted to tell you now all about the book. I want to try to express the strength of Kalanithi’s thoughts turned into words turned back into my own thoughts. I want to somehow convince everyone to buy the book, read the words, open their minds. But I can’t. I agree with Lucas--we owe it to this author who so bravely and unbiasedly exposed his mind and soul to the world to accept the gift and take on the lesson. The interesting thing about this book--this student lesson--is that it has no answers. In fact, it’s an unfinished work. Ray Bradbury claimed that the best teachers instill curiosity in their students. If Kalanithi wanted to figure out what he should be when he grew up--what he actually was and how to embrace it--he might have missed his target. I’m not sure doctor or writer correctly defines it. Teacher--the person who creates in his students profound curiosity--is more correct. And here’s the curious thing about it--of all his roles, I think teacher is the most powerful. He’s no longer here to probe the brains of diseased and injured patients. He is no longer here to pen beautiful stories. Heck, he didn’t even finish this one. Even his role as father was short-lived and now non-existent. But as a teacher, he lives on. He inspired curiosity in Lucas who handed it to me. I’ve already transferred it a half a dozen others. Endless ideas now tumble through my mind. I, too, am searching for which one to grasp. As a writer, reader, parent, partner, I receive Kalanithi’s words differently. For now, I’m grabbing on to the lesson for the teacher taught by my student when he inspired in me the curiosity to read this book. It’s a powerful one. I hope I learn it well. I’m curious to see if I do. |
AuthorDee Linn loves words. When she was in the third grade, her exasperated teacher told her she'd probably talk to a pole, if she happen to be sitting beside it. Not much has changed except that now she says it in writing. She is a single mom of four, a teacher of teens, a cheater at board games, and a lover of life. She's a Kansas girl, but travels to all kinds of places in her head with characters living there, some of which she's sure she's created. Some, she's not sure how they got there. But they are way more interesting to talk to than a pole. Archives
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