Same Words, Different

This is fantastic:

Two distinct voices read by one, both "true" yet opposite, and every word the same with different meaning.  Amazing!

The Blind Leading

It may have become apparent that I have no idea what to do with this place.  I'm coasting on rhymes at the moment, trying to figure it out.  There are several swell blogs around to help people improve their writing--offering better advice than I ever could--so that's out.

I had a notion, once, that I could talk about various routes to publication and the future of books and publishing, but let's be honest, I have no idea.  I only know about the two ways I've been published and those only vaguely.  I share speculations as they cross my  nog, but that's all they are--and often ill-informed to boot.

I'd like to share daily news of my publishing journey, but 99% would say: "stiiiiill waiting".

I suppose I could talk about my work(s)-in-progress, but I don't particularly like to discuss those, and my editor seems to think it's a bad idea anyway.  Plus, anything I posted here would only look  worse than my current drafts do, which is to say: YIPES!

Sooo, I'm not sure which-a-way to go.  I guess I'll keep hobblin' along, with riddles, rants and randomness until a direction comes and takes my by the hand.  But then I'll probably tug back because I don't like being led.

All this to say: I adore you, dear lunatics, but I'm the blind, here, ya know?

How about you?  See anything?

How Much Buzz Could a Bookstore Build?

One downside I had to consider when signing with namelos was that my books likely wouldn't be available in physical bookstores.  Bookstores "buy" books only in the most fickle sense of the word.  They pay for them with the caveat that if the books don't sell they can return them at any time and expect to be repaid even when the money is tied up in the next book(s) in the publisher's pipeline. Bookstore returns can bankrupt smaller publishers--and, even worse--the returned books are usually destroyed.

With print-on-demand (POD) that isn't an issue.  Books are only printed when they are wanted, and they're printed fast.  I've purchased namelos books with Amazon Prime and they arrived two days later: professionally designed, attractive, and tightly bound (I got to enjoy the first crackle of opening a brand-new book--I adore that!).   Since books can be made so quickly yet professionally via POD (truly, I challenge you to tell the difference) it seems to me that's the way they should all be made.  For a struggling industry in a strained economy it makes no sense to pour money down the drain on ginormous print runs that don't always pan out with sales. Really.  But I guess that's the house that buzz built, huh?  Bookstores won't build buzz unless they can buy books with the eternal option to return them.  Oooh, tongue twister: How much buzz could a bookstore build if a bookstore could buzz books? Ahem, sorry, tangent--but! Bookstores can't return POD books, soooo--no bookstores for us!

Unless, of course, we do what these guys are doing.  Take a look, it's brilliant.  With big chains struggling along (when they're not dropping like flies) who knows how much longer there will even be places that have room to carry more than one copy of any book?  I can see this idea working out well with cozy indie bookstores, in particular.  I love the flexible minds exploring new ways to make things work in a changing industry.  *Clink*  To flexible minds!

 ------Hey, don't forget this contest, ending Monday! :D --------

What I Learned from a Form Rejection

There is a lot of advice out there for writers, much of it good.  One bit I took firmly to heart was that submissions should be targeted to agents or editors  when seeking publication.  You'll have better luck--they say--if you submit to someone who likes the books you like and works with books in the genre you write.  Makes sense, no?

I only sent a query letter to one agent: Suzie Townsend. Our favorite books were eerily similar (Enders Game, Time Traveler's Wife, etc) and, from her blog, I knew she supported and loved books similar to my own (Lucky, Speak, etc).  Basically, it seemed destined that we should work together (yeah, I'm superstitious that way).  But, apparently, it wasn't.

I got my form rejection a week after I sent the query.  It was crushing, of course, and at first I felt like I'd made a huge mistake even sending it.  I'd been impulsive.  And, worst of all there wasn't even a shred of feedback to know what the problem was as she saw it.  Maybe my book just sucked?  But then I realized something: If Suzie, to whom I'd targeted the submission so carefully, wasn't intrigued enough by my query and first 10 pages to request more, then that by itself told me a lot.   It told me that 1. My query wasn't strong enough--I hadn't managed to show what set my book apart from others. and 2. I'd started my novel in the wrong place. The opening wasn't gripping enough.  

Somehow that knowledge put me into the zone that all writers crave--you know the one, where your brain actually starts working?  Mine was like a laser on my manuscript.  All the separate pieces looked like little glowing nuggets that could be rearranged into a new order, a better order, a more gripping order. I then rewrote them enough that they transitioned smoothly and that seemed to shake loose the understanding of what elements of the story actually really set my book apart.  After that I was able to write a new, much better query letter, and voila!  I had a much, much stronger submission in my hands.  All because of a form rejection.

So, thank you, Suzie!  My editor says he doesn't foresee extensive revisions and I think I know why.

Has anyone else ever learned something by reading between the lines of a rejection?   If so, I'd love to hear about it.

Be a PAL

We all know publishing is changing, right?  It's changing, changing tra-la-la.  (Yes, I just punched myself.)

I'm excited to be under contract with a forward-thinking publisher.  Of course, it made me swoony that the contract was offered by Roald Dahl's editor, but the true appeal was that Stephen Roxburgh's plan for namelos made sense to me.  Traditional publishing is loaded with practices I find baffling, like a bookstore's ability to return books for a full refund at any time--after which those books are often destroyed.  It boggles my mind.  And how will that all pan out with the recent Borders store closings?  Scary.

Nobody knows exactly how things are going to change for the industry, but I love to read about ways in which it might adapt.  And I was thrilled when literary agent, Mary Kole, posted some publishing predictions for 2011 on her blog, many of which mirror elements namelos already has in place.  Perhaps namelos is more "cutting edge" than "on the lunatic fringe" after all. (Stephen's words--he inspired this blog's title).

I'm grateful that publishers like namelos are blazing trails at a time when trails need to be blazed, even as most publishing professionals appear to be desperately trying to salvage the current ways.  As bookstores topple and e-books soar, there's still resistance to any new ideas put into motion.  For now, namelos doesn't appear in the CWIM.  It's not listed for "PAL" status at SCBWI.org (though I've heard it will happen soon).  In fact, it's not listed anywhere it would need to be for a girl to be accepted into, say, established promotional groups for debut authors. I find that frustrating but also exhilarating.

It makes me all-the-more proud that my book will soon be another eye-catching mile-marker on the blazing trail of namelos toward greatness.

How I Got a Book Contract the "Wrong" Way.

My "namelos" book contract wasn't my first book contract. I have a book out already.  A book I don't mention often.  It's not that I'm not proud of it--I am.  But, in traditional publishing terms, the way it went down was illegitimate.  It was wrong, wrong, wrong.  This is how it happened:

1. I heard of a contest put on by the The Children's Museum of Indianapolis.  They wanted a picture book written about one of their exhibits.  A nameless, stuffed polar bear that had been there for 50+ years.

2. I emailed saying that I didn't know if it was open to everyone but I'd be interested in submitting something if it was.

3. I visited the museum and took pictures, then went home and started writing.

4. I didn't hear back, so I scrapped it.

5. The contest deadline passed.

6. I received an email saying that they'd looked over the entries and hadn't gotten one from me. Was I still interested?  I emailed back that I was and attached the first few pages.  They must have liked them because they gave me an extra two weeks to finish.

7.  I wrote and revised like a maniac and two weeks later I submitted.

8. They called saying they'd narrowed the submissions down to two and mine was one of them.  They wanted to meet me.

9. I got a call two hours after the meeting saying they'd chosen my book.

10. They asked if I had suggestions for an illustrator. I said: "Uh.....".

11.  They chose one and actually asked for my opinion (And I thought: This isn't how it's supposed to work--I've read ALL the books and publishing blogs, so I know)  But I loved Joy Allen's  work and enthusiastically agreed.

12. I signed a real contract and got a real advance.  It was all legit and stuff.  (And it was enough to buy a nice, new riding mower which was good since I exploded our garden tractor--flames 10 feet high, billowing smoke, exploding tires--the works.  We met some of our neighbors for the first time that day....)

13. My book came out!

14.  The nameless polar bear now had a name: Martimus.  They announced it at "The Snowflake Soiree" and unveiled a brand-new plaque in front of him that has a picture of the book (with my name on it).  I signed books for people because they actually wanted me to!  Wowza.

To top it off, my baby dressed as a polar bear:

It was awesome.

And yet, I rarely talk about the book for two reasons: 1. I feel like I'm bragging which makes me uncomfortable. and 2. (and I'm quite ashamed of this one) The museum published the book through "Authorhouse".  Let me make clear that I have absolutely nothing against Authorhouse or self-publishing.  In fact if  you choose to go that route then Authorhouse should be in the running.  They've done very well by me.  But still, there's a stigma, in traditional publishing circles, that made me feel my achievement was less "official" somehow.

Since then, the recent and ongoing changes in the publishing industry have made me ponder what it really means to be published, and why it's important to me.  It made me realize how silly I was being.  If books end up in the hands of readers, no matter the route, isn't that what's important?  I know it's what's important to me.  So, even though my path thus far has been untraditional, I want to "own" it.  My picture book contract was my first step onto the lunatic fringe, and I'm proud of it.

Next up: A "real" book contract--or is it?