At some point this summer--after I finished the spring semester and before I began teaching the summer class--I stopped working on my current novel. I guess "delayed" is a better term. I always feel guilty and grumpy (the "two G's," as in Mom has "the two G's") when I don't/can't carve the time to write a few pages.
I've consoled myself by considering other kinds of writing (blogging, commenting, letter-writing, check-writing, password-typing, etc) as useful and necessary. But I do need to learn to balance my novel-writing time not only with family time, but also with non-novel writing time.
This whole marketing pre-publication business made me very uncomfortable this past week. "What?! Ask my friends and family to actually buy my novel? Egads." (It's what several marketing books and author sites say is non-negotiable. It makes me feel "eek.")
But I've crafted a note, with as much humor as possible, to my F&F (friends and family). Half the letters are sent. I have to get over feeling weird about it, I guess, and hope no one thinks our friendship is based on their expressing any interest in my work. Just wanted to document this tottering step in the publishing process.
Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label publishing. Show all posts
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
"What Form Rejection Means to Me"
The Rejectionist wants to hear what we writers think of Form Rejection letters...
What Form Rejection means to me,
This is my theme for English B.
I used to keep form rejections in a binder.
Three-hole-punched them
As a reminder
That someday I'd get published
and use "Dear Author,
Thank you for your recent submission,
but" for toilet seat covers.
I did get published, and now
I don't have the heart
to soil them. They remind me
that rejection (after rejection)
can be followed by something
miraculous
and sweet.
What Form Rejection means to me,
This is my theme for English B.
I used to keep form rejections in a binder.
Three-hole-punched them
As a reminder
That someday I'd get published
and use "Dear Author,
Thank you for your recent submission,
but" for toilet seat covers.
I did get published, and now
I don't have the heart
to soil them. They remind me
that rejection (after rejection)
can be followed by something
miraculous
and sweet.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Debut Novel, Debut Contest!
Surprise, Readers!
We’re going to start the countdown to publication with a good, old-fashioned contest. Who can resist a contest with free prizes? You’ve never won a contest you say? Well you’re in luck, because there will be several winners, and it could be your lucky day!
The prize: Any current New York Times Bestseller novel (a book of your choice!) and I’ll refund you the price of my debut book, Song of the Orange Moons. Pretty sweet deal, huh?
It’s as easy at pudding pie. All you need to do is pre-order my debut book (you knew there was a catch, didn’t you?), become my Follower of my blog (you can create a comment to this post, too!), and email your confirmation receipt to loriannstephens[at]gmail[dot]com, and you’ll be entered into the giveaway. That’s it!
1. Pre-order my book (or two or three, for your best friends) from Amazon, Borders, or Barnes&Noble
2. Follow me by clicking on “Follow” on the left
3. Email your receipt to me so I know where your order originated.
Then start browsing the bestseller list, because you know you’re going to win. You’re just lucky that way.
Please feel free to share this post with your friends, family, and colleagues. The more the merrier (and the more prizes I’ll send out!) And I promise to exercise fair drawing practices.
The contest ends in two weeks, on August 4th. That's when I'll email the winners and ask you for your specialized NYT book order. Good Luck, book lovers!
We’re going to start the countdown to publication with a good, old-fashioned contest. Who can resist a contest with free prizes? You’ve never won a contest you say? Well you’re in luck, because there will be several winners, and it could be your lucky day!
The prize: Any current New York Times Bestseller novel (a book of your choice!) and I’ll refund you the price of my debut book, Song of the Orange Moons. Pretty sweet deal, huh?
It’s as easy at pudding pie. All you need to do is pre-order my debut book (you knew there was a catch, didn’t you?), become my Follower of my blog (you can create a comment to this post, too!), and email your confirmation receipt to loriannstephens[at]gmail[dot]com, and you’ll be entered into the giveaway. That’s it!
1. Pre-order my book (or two or three, for your best friends) from Amazon, Borders, or Barnes&Noble
2. Follow me by clicking on “Follow” on the left
3. Email your receipt to me so I know where your order originated.
Then start browsing the bestseller list, because you know you’re going to win. You’re just lucky that way.
Please feel free to share this post with your friends, family, and colleagues. The more the merrier (and the more prizes I’ll send out!) And I promise to exercise fair drawing practices.
The contest ends in two weeks, on August 4th. That's when I'll email the winners and ask you for your specialized NYT book order. Good Luck, book lovers!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Still basking in the sparkling shadows of great writers...
My friend Samantha and I just returned from the AWP conference, which was held in Denver this year. We arrived on Thursday morning, ready to be overwhelmed by the 6000 registered participants. (6000!)
Although every hour brought it's "oh my God!" moment--and yes, both Samantha and I regressed to weird, hyperbolic, teenage swooning one too many times--there were some definite high points that deserve to be preserved in blog history.
Here are the Top 20 moments, in no particular order:
20. Free buttons, pens, candies, bookmarks, and other irresistible objects table after table after table (times 100)
19. The hotel bed at The Crowne Plaza, which I swear fit me like a uterus it was so comfortable--
And yes, I could have stayed in that bed happy as a fetus for 9 months.
18. The friendly Denver Homeland Security airport personnel, who didn't yell at me during my up-close-and-personal-bag-inspection for placing about 7 bottles of various creams in my carry-on without sticking them in the plastic baggy
17. Michael Chabon's interview with himself.
16. Seeing my freshman creative writing teacher again--Sheryl St. Germain
15. Witnessing Sam buy an $8 smoothie
14. Dreaming about Summer Writing Workshops next summer
13. Appletinis
12. Peartinis
11. Chatting at the bar with fellow writers, and finding two degrees of separation among all of us strangers.
10. Reimbursements
9. Sam getting all weepy over the fact that she and Michael Chabon share all but one favorite book in common, and only because she hasn't yet read that one book.
8. Buying a 1958 copy of The Paris Review: interview with Hemingway and Philip Roth's first published story
7. The Big Blue Bear
6. Free internet at the hotel
5. Hearing the lyrics to Bessie Smith's "Black Mountain Blues"
4. Being introduced to Etgar Keret's short stories
3. Rita Dove. Phenomenal. Inspirational.
2. "I. Love. Him!" (Samantha swooning over Michael Chabon's keynote speech. See visual aid.)
1. See that Jhumpa Lahiri is next year's keynote, which means I have no choice but to attend the conference next year in Washington, D.C.!
Although every hour brought it's "oh my God!" moment--and yes, both Samantha and I regressed to weird, hyperbolic, teenage swooning one too many times--there were some definite high points that deserve to be preserved in blog history.
Here are the Top 20 moments, in no particular order:
20. Free buttons, pens, candies, bookmarks, and other irresistible objects table after table after table (times 100)
19. The hotel bed at The Crowne Plaza, which I swear fit me like a uterus it was so comfortable--
And yes, I could have stayed in that bed happy as a fetus for 9 months.
18. The friendly Denver Homeland Security airport personnel, who didn't yell at me during my up-close-and-personal-bag-inspection for placing about 7 bottles of various creams in my carry-on without sticking them in the plastic baggy
17. Michael Chabon's interview with himself.
16. Seeing my freshman creative writing teacher again--Sheryl St. Germain
15. Witnessing Sam buy an $8 smoothie
14. Dreaming about Summer Writing Workshops next summer
13. Appletinis
12. Peartinis
11. Chatting at the bar with fellow writers, and finding two degrees of separation among all of us strangers.
10. Reimbursements
9. Sam getting all weepy over the fact that she and Michael Chabon share all but one favorite book in common, and only because she hasn't yet read that one book.
8. Buying a 1958 copy of The Paris Review: interview with Hemingway and Philip Roth's first published story
7. The Big Blue Bear
6. Free internet at the hotel
5. Hearing the lyrics to Bessie Smith's "Black Mountain Blues"
4. Being introduced to Etgar Keret's short stories
3. Rita Dove. Phenomenal. Inspirational.
2. "I. Love. Him!" (Samantha swooning over Michael Chabon's keynote speech. See visual aid.)
1. See that Jhumpa Lahiri is next year's keynote, which means I have no choice but to attend the conference next year in Washington, D.C.!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Penning the last word
My status on Facebook was "Lori: just wrote the last word on page 340," but I'm not going to kid myself. It's exhilarating. It's momentous. But it's never the last word when I come to the end of a manuscript. I know in a few weeks I'll be digging through the pages, trying to find the diamonds and polish them up, tossing out the rubbish, and reconsidering altogether the entire last chapter.
There's something unsettling and, frankly, scary about finishing a first draft of a novel. I don't trust my judgment. I don't trust my words. You'd think writing the last page of a novel would be cause for a great celebration, and it will be, sometime in the future. I'm going to be calling my publisher soon, to tell her the good news, but I'm even hesitant to do that. The novel has just been born. There's still afterbirth clinging to its heels. I'm a little protective, still counting its fingers and toes.
I haven't written a post in the blog for over two months because I've been working on finishing the novel. I think my next post will be about the adventures on creating settings, which have thrown me for a few loops on this last novel.
There's something unsettling and, frankly, scary about finishing a first draft of a novel. I don't trust my judgment. I don't trust my words. You'd think writing the last page of a novel would be cause for a great celebration, and it will be, sometime in the future. I'm going to be calling my publisher soon, to tell her the good news, but I'm even hesitant to do that. The novel has just been born. There's still afterbirth clinging to its heels. I'm a little protective, still counting its fingers and toes.
I haven't written a post in the blog for over two months because I've been working on finishing the novel. I think my next post will be about the adventures on creating settings, which have thrown me for a few loops on this last novel.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Getting the Call
I guess this first post should be about getting the call from the publisher who decided that my book would be a perfect fit for her press. I'd been published before--several short stories and poems in various literary magazines--but the only experience I'd had that involved publication and payment with actual money was a few years ago, with a lovely little short story magazine called Glimmer Train. My story, "We Cry for Us," which I'd written in graduate school, won second place (and a heart thumping $1000) in Glimmer Train's Fiction Open.
Fast foward four years and about 40 rejection letters later, and I'm sitting in my tiny office, listening to a woman tell me how gorgeous my story is, how she hopes I'll be able to publish it with her. I've heard about this call. I'd read about the whole novel-breakthrough business in King's On Writing. But it didn't prepare me for the euphoria I felt when I actually got the call.
About that number, 40, above. I didn't send the the entire manuscript out to 40 different publishers. (Frankly, I don't think there are that many publishing houses that accept unsolicited manuscripts anymore.) I did what every serious and ambitious writer does, but most keep as a dirty little secret: I multiply submitted. To be fair, I did inform the editors on my cover letter that the manuscript was, in fact, being submitted to other publishers. And I don't know if that hurt my chances of getting the coveted call. But I tried sending it to one publisher at a time, and I don't care what anyone tells you, you just can't wait 8 months for a faceless agent in New York to hem and haw over whether you're a good "fit" for their line-up without wanting to claw your eyes out.
So, I sent out a blend of cover letters, first chapters, first three chapters, and query letters to 20 small and large presses. I followed their particular instructions in my Little Presses encyclopedia and on their websites. I paid a small fortune in self-addressed stamped envelopes, packed my babies up, and hand-delivered those large manila submissions to the post office. About a year later, I had collected 19 rejection letters, which had been ritualistically three-hole-punched and placed in my Rejection Letter Binder. (Stephen King had warned me that a nail wasn't weighty enough to handle all the rejection letters a writer should expect, so I was prepared.)
I wasn't depressed or even sad. Some of the presses had closed shop before my letter reached them; others, resembling a kind of nepotistic, narcissitic commune, didn't publish "other people's" fiction; still others just didn't feel my story "fit" their needs. I got that. It wasn't until I received rejection #20, accompanied by 3 reviewers' comments that each contained 2 single-spaced pages of pretty harsh criticism, that I plunged into despair. Skipped right over Depression and shelved the manuscript from sight for more than 3 months. It wasn't until my beloved partner urged me gently but persistantly to resubmit, resubmit, resubmit, because this story matters. This story is beautiful. He believed in my writing. I did, finally, resubmit.
Twenty more submissions. Nineteen more letters that said, "Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately,..." and "We no longer publish...," sometimes in a form letter, and other times thoughtfully handwritten. I just needed one more letter, and then I could lay to rest my baby while she still had a tiny bit of dignity left. This was my state of mind when I picked up the phone and listened, dumbfounded, to the steady voice on the other end, saying all the things a young writer needs to hear. My heart was thudding. Thudding. When I hung up the phone, I opened my office door, let out a scream, and danced--danced --in the basement before accosting my collegaue across the hall and sharing the good news.
So that's it. That's how I turned from a short story writer into a "novelist" in a matter of minutes. That was over a year ago. Next post: the waiting game.
Fast foward four years and about 40 rejection letters later, and I'm sitting in my tiny office, listening to a woman tell me how gorgeous my story is, how she hopes I'll be able to publish it with her. I've heard about this call. I'd read about the whole novel-breakthrough business in King's On Writing. But it didn't prepare me for the euphoria I felt when I actually got the call.
About that number, 40, above. I didn't send the the entire manuscript out to 40 different publishers. (Frankly, I don't think there are that many publishing houses that accept unsolicited manuscripts anymore.) I did what every serious and ambitious writer does, but most keep as a dirty little secret: I multiply submitted. To be fair, I did inform the editors on my cover letter that the manuscript was, in fact, being submitted to other publishers. And I don't know if that hurt my chances of getting the coveted call. But I tried sending it to one publisher at a time, and I don't care what anyone tells you, you just can't wait 8 months for a faceless agent in New York to hem and haw over whether you're a good "fit" for their line-up without wanting to claw your eyes out.
So, I sent out a blend of cover letters, first chapters, first three chapters, and query letters to 20 small and large presses. I followed their particular instructions in my Little Presses encyclopedia and on their websites. I paid a small fortune in self-addressed stamped envelopes, packed my babies up, and hand-delivered those large manila submissions to the post office. About a year later, I had collected 19 rejection letters, which had been ritualistically three-hole-punched and placed in my Rejection Letter Binder. (Stephen King had warned me that a nail wasn't weighty enough to handle all the rejection letters a writer should expect, so I was prepared.)
I wasn't depressed or even sad. Some of the presses had closed shop before my letter reached them; others, resembling a kind of nepotistic, narcissitic commune, didn't publish "other people's" fiction; still others just didn't feel my story "fit" their needs. I got that. It wasn't until I received rejection #20, accompanied by 3 reviewers' comments that each contained 2 single-spaced pages of pretty harsh criticism, that I plunged into despair. Skipped right over Depression and shelved the manuscript from sight for more than 3 months. It wasn't until my beloved partner urged me gently but persistantly to resubmit, resubmit, resubmit, because this story matters. This story is beautiful. He believed in my writing. I did, finally, resubmit.
Twenty more submissions. Nineteen more letters that said, "Thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately,..." and "We no longer publish...," sometimes in a form letter, and other times thoughtfully handwritten. I just needed one more letter, and then I could lay to rest my baby while she still had a tiny bit of dignity left. This was my state of mind when I picked up the phone and listened, dumbfounded, to the steady voice on the other end, saying all the things a young writer needs to hear. My heart was thudding. Thudding. When I hung up the phone, I opened my office door, let out a scream, and danced--danced --in the basement before accosting my collegaue across the hall and sharing the good news.
So that's it. That's how I turned from a short story writer into a "novelist" in a matter of minutes. That was over a year ago. Next post: the waiting game.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)