In February I applied to a Literary Boot Camp run by Orson Scott Card, author of Ender’s Game and Speaker for the Dead. Five intensive days of writing and rewriting with the king of ‘world builders’. Applicants were asked to submit the first page of a manuscript - just one page. I sent the first page of my YA novel - the same one that I’d been circulating to agents for a few months now without much success so I wasn’t holding my breath. Yesterday, I received an email from Orson Scott Card’s as
I’ve been a bit spotty with the daily word count on the new novel. Some days I wrote 4,000 words. Some days I wrote nothing - always with an excuse handy. It was an awful lot like my exercise excuses. Telling myself that I still had months and months to get in shape before summer and fit into those pretty beach dresses I had packed away in the back of the wardrobe. Each time I missed a daily 1,000 word target, I told myself I still had time. I could still finish this by the end of May.
I’ve made art for years. But I haven’t put in the writing hours. Not really. Not the way I should have. Not the way I do now. I was that gal who had a full membership to a golf course but only hit an occasional bucket of balls on the driving range, never practiced putting, then got frustrated when my handicap never went down.
Some thoughts on rejection from one mule-assed stubborn writer. When big disappointments land in my lap you won't hear me singing any feel-good-Sound-of-Music-phrases like, "When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window." It's also unlikely you'll find me counting my blessings or looking at the raindrops on roses. I'm the gal who takes to the sofa, pulls the blanket over her head and moans 'Why me? Why can't they pick me? Why, why, whiiiiiiine?'That's my way of grieving. I'm more li
I was only a few chapters into the novel, SWITCHED, before I had to stop reading. I had to figure out what the 'bleep' was going on. How could an editor let a book go to press in this condition? I could understand why they might buy the manuscript. The characters were intriguing and the promise of the story was a good one, but right from the start there were large chunks of writing that were clunky and clichéd. And those promising characters… they rarely grew beyond the two-dimensional.
I'll state my thesis up front - I read e-books and I support e-publishing. The concept has been on my mind a lot recently. I had a few interesting sidebar discussions about e-publishing at the SCBWI Europolitan conference in March. I'm toying with the notion of doing another graduate degree, this time examining print v e-publishing and developing models (I've always held a secret fantasy of being a publisher). Then I saw the following blog entry by Andrew Gray. I think it's worth sharing.
Favelas cascade down the mountains of Rio de Janeiro like rockslides. It was night when we landed. The drive from the airport to our Barra hotel took us past mountain after mountain lit by tumbling masses of white lights. I didn’t know it then, but these were the lights of the favelas.
Would you like some great Links for Children’s Writing and reading? I’m just back from Paris and the S.C.B.W.I’s first Europolitan Conference and I thought I’d share some of what was so special for me this weekend.
Like a horror film when you want to scream at the screen and tell the ingénue, ‘Get out. The killer is in the house,’ the agent figuratively tore those first pages to shreds. Later, I climbed down those metro steps like a zombie wondering what conceit had led me to believe that I could write a novel? How could I have wasted five long years working on a Masters when obviously I had no talent? I should fling myself, or at the very least, symbolically fling the novel in front of the train.