The Tyranny of Choice

Paper or plastic or canvas or compostable microfiber
Yogurt in tubs or gallons or swirls or sold w/crumbles
Bread made of wheat, white, potato, oatmeal or seeds
Shoes named Vans or Sketchers or superstars, no laces
Cars called third countries or creatures, probably extinct
Nail polish in neon, like movies or hair dyes or novels

(God bless the writers)

Wash the merch down with microbrewed pilsner
or wine mixed with chocolate
or mixologist whiskey
or java-soaked ale

I want simple
Sunlight
Dawn
Awe
Laughter
True love
I want complex

or a wonder-led life
or a people unsuffering
or sleepless nights of creation
Wash the intangibles down with the salts of humility

(God bless the writers)

Words in good books or a poem that squeezes or an urge to do same
Thoughts that demand pens or bliss to be spoken or kiss to be taken
Emotions that trim wrinkles or replace burnt bridges or run off in song
Longings of the ages, pondered or buried, the answers no closer
Humor or stories or old pictures or yellow letters w/memories, forgotten
Kindreds who challenge or listen or forgive the missteps, the many

----
For drafts, click here.

The Internal Debate

My ongoing internal debate about the merits of writing fiction goes something like this:

Me: "God. This is great! I love this creative writing life. I can make up whatever I want, and no one has much of a say so, and did I mention, this is great. Whoopie!"

Mt. Washington in Central OR

My conscience, (The Big C, henceforth): "Hey, you there. Are you kidding me? No f**king around here. Get on to something more productive. You're at the height of your income-earning years. There's no way you are going to make money writing crazy stories about things you make up. Get a life (translate: job), girlie."

Me: "But not everything can be boiled down to monetary gain. This writing thing, it's life generating. I think I'm on to something here."

The Big C: "You think you're the only dreamer? Ha! Just go trolling around Amazon and you'll see how many people are generating life! A whole pack of crazies. Put that pencil down and go make some money."

Me: "You're harsh. Are you sure you know the meaning of life?"

The Big C: "You like bread? You like butter? How about that house you live in? I saw you eating shrimp last night."

Me: "Here. (I show a paper to The Big C) Here's a story I can sell. It's about a gator-hunting bootmaker. Here's another. This guy writes cowboy poetry. You know, they all use their creativity for something greater than a roof over their heads -- they create to live. Now, leave me alone. I need to dream."

The Big C goes quiet. For a while. I feed it some more paid articles. She shakes her head.

The Querying Gambit

Do the math: landing a book contract is the equivalent of winning the lottery. No bombshell there. I'll use a recent rejection letter to illustrate. I have omitted the name of the agency/agent but acknowledge that he/she tried to write an interesting 'No thanks' response:

Well, it's finally happened: after over thirty years of answering every query letter that has ever come my way, I've been forced to finally acknowledge that a new era is upon us all.  Before the arrival of e-mail submissions, I used to receive perhaps one hundred queries a week.  That was a lot of queries but it wasn't frankly unmanageable.  The XXX Agency now receives more than twice that on a daily basis and it's becoming impossible to attend to much of anything else!  I'm so sorry for the impersonal response, I hate to do this.

And I hate to be the receiver of said rejection, but my skin is getting thicker, so let's move on to the topic at hand. The chances of getting noticed by an agent and then subsequently landing a publishing deal are extremely miniscule. If I actually did the math (hey, I'm a writer), I'd probably conclude that betting on horses is more lucrative. After doing a quick calculation in my head over my coffee this morning, I feel honored that I even get rejection emails. Two-hundred queries a day, equals 1,000 emails a week (1,400 if you count weekends). If an agent spends two minutes on each query (muy generous), that comes to (wait for the calculator), 33-46 hours of reading queries and writing rejections. (Hey, I did the math.) When do they have time to do much of anything else?

From blogs and Q&As online, I've read that many agents hand-pick perhaps five to six projects a year to champion. Chicken scratch. And of those, a good number of those won't see a contract. Doesn't make a writer feel too great about the prospects of publication the old-fashioned way.

I have come to appreciate rejection emails. More often than not, I just don't hear anything. After six months, no response means no. The up side is I've only stuck a toe in the query bathwater. It is tepid, but my tally still fits on one page. Ho-hum.

I've had more success in contests, and I don't submit to many contests. The odds are better. Fewer submissions, greater chance to earn recognition. Even if I don't win, someone may actually read my manuscript and comment. Comments are invaluable. I'm elated that my book has made the cut to the top 400 romances in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest this year. I can always wear the button: ABNA, I Advanced! And as a dear friend reminded me, I couldn't have entered had I not written a book in the first place.