We Lost Another Reader.

Not a reader of this blog. If we lost one of those, we'd be in negative numbers. I mean a devoted reader of fiction, those invaluable souls who keep us writers in business. Okay, by "us," I mean "people who get paid to write fiction." Maybe one day "us" will include "me."

His name was Carl and there was no one else quite like him, nor will there ever be again. He was born in Germany, immigrated to Charleston, SC at age 10 with a strong German accent he never lost. He fought in WWII against Germany and even provided translation after the fall of Berlin. His love of all languages inspired him to become fluent in at least a half dozen of them: Italian, French, Spanish, Latin (I know, not a spoken language), Ancient Greek and of course English and German (I'm sure there are more, but this is off the top of my head). This came in quite handy as the head of the Comparative Languages Department at SUNY-Albany, a position he eventually attained and held until retirement. In his spare time, he played chamber music and was a walking encylopedia of classical music knowledge.

He had strong opinions and he wasn't shy in broadcasting them--he didn't suffer fools at all, much less gladly. Woe be unto the individual who attempted to change his mind on a particular subject. Academically, I have never known a smarter person. Nor have I ever met anyone who owned more books, in more languages. He frequently read foreign fiction in its original language: Cervantes, Plato, Rabeleis, Goethe, Dante, you name it. In later years, he committed his time almost exclusively to large-print mysteries and would roar through one or more in a single day. Though I knew it wouldn't be to his liking, I printed out a heavily edited copy of my first book, a humorous suspense called "Ring of Fire," in 16-point type, although he never got around to reading it. I have a feeling since it wasn't officially published, he didn't think it would be worth the effort. He was probably right.

Though I'm sure he deemed my profession (advertising) hopelessly frivolous, his Latin and Italian proficiencies found their way into a couple of projects of mine through the years. He helped me write a tagline for a pseudo-educational institution and an entire radio spot in Italian for a local menswear store specializing in Italian suits. For this, and for countless other reasons, he will be missed.

His love of family was unrivaled, and he never failed to let us know how happy he was to see us on our frequent visits. I trust my sons are old enough to appreciate and remember his unabashed love for them.

Because of his amazing resilience and determination (and probably sturdy German genes), we had him longer than we expected, for which we're grateful. In the end, though, his suffering outweighed his desire to be among us and he left us with an indelible image of a full life lived on his own terms. If I lived twice as long, I could only hope to learn half of what he knew. His legacy will live on through his daughter (my wife) and his grandsons (our sons). He lived to see them become competent piano players and excel academically--music and education being the two things he valued nearly as much as family.

He was an extensive traveler in his day and we plan on perpetuating that family tradition as well, time and money permitting. Knowledge comes in all forms, and travel is one of the most mind-broadening experiences available.
A toast to you, Dad. On behalf of writers everywhere, we thank you for your lifelong patronage and for showing us all that you're never too old for a good story.

He did it, but can I?

Genre-hopping. Let's check in with Neil Young on the subject:

"I used to be pissed off at Bobby Darin because he changed styles so much. Now I look at him and think he was a f---ing genius."

I'll go on the record right now as being one of the planet's biggest Bobby Darin fans. In my book, he's second only to Sinatra. No one had the swing or swagger down better. Not Bennett, not Torme, not...well, hell, who else was there? Sammy? Nat? They had their moments. Harry Connick, Jr. and Michael Buble give it their best, and Harry comes close on occasion, but there's an over-earnestness to both of them. At least Harry can write and play. Buble is professional karaoke.

Back to Bobby: what else makes this guy so freaking cool? He wrote a ton of his own material. Take that, Sinatra. Problem with Bobby is that he was born a decade or so too late. By the time he cut "Mack the Knife," Sinatra's brand of swing was on the way out. So over the next ten years, he bounced around from swing to country to folk, writing his own stuff all the way. His last record contract was on the Motown label, for Pete's sake. How versatile can you get?

Now, I don't love-love his folk or country stuff, but I'll give him points for authenticity--that is, he doesn't sound like a poseur. He really pulls it off, no matter what he does.

Thing is, can I? I know the "comic suspense" genre pretty well, having written two novels in it so far. As I try to break through with both Ring of Fire and Battle Axe, I'm finding myself drawn to another, totally foreign territory: young adult adventure. I didn't read a lot of it as a kid (I don't think there was a lot of it when I was a kid), but it's a beyond-huge genre right now, thankyouveddymuch Ms. Rowling.

My son read The Lightning Thief last year and got hooked on the whole series. Intrigued, I picked it up to see what all the hype-la was about. I appreciated it, but didn't quite see anything going on there that I hadn't encountered over the years as a reader. Solid, but nothing groundbreaking.

Kinda like my writing, if I say so myself.

So instead of writing yet another comic suspense novel that agents "don't know what to do with," I thought I'd take a crack at something that's actually selling these days. And I've got a couple of built-in test readers just down the hall from my bedroom.

Wish me luck.

Prince Charles, you have my sympathy.

So I met Carl Hiaasen last night. Yeah, that Carl Hiaasen. My favorite living author. The undisputed king of that tiniest of sub-genres: comic suspense. Turns out he's not ready to pack it in yet. And here I was, ready to step in with my two comic suspense manuscripts and assume the throne.

The guy's friends with Jimmy Buffett--isn't that enough of an achievement for one lifetime? Does he really need to keep writing these...books? The tireless and exceedingly nice guy has just brought out a third YA (young adult) book ("Scat," which my son and I started last night and is very promising) and is working on another adult one as we speak. Which of course means less shelf space for me.

I had a nice, if brief, conversation with him. I do regret not pushing a business card on him with a link to this blog, or at least cramming my query letter in his jacket pocket. Still, I thanked him for all the years of entertainment and the inspiration.

Back to work.

The Query, as it stands.

So I'm getting some traffic with this.

After forty years, Dorsey Duquesne believes he’s finally found his mother. Too bad she keeps trying to kill him. BATTLE AXE, my 100K-word suspense novel, will appeal to fans of Carl Hiaasen, Janet Evanovich and Bill Fitzhugh.

When his father dies, the last thing Dorsey needs is a mid-life crisis. But when the funeral lures long-buried family skeletons out of the closet, his childhood is reduced to a carefully constructed set piece. His sense of identity dented, Dorsey hires a strip-mall P.I. to track down his birth mother—and finds a feisty German woman who not only blames him for the death of her lover, but whose only interest in a mother/son relationship involves picking out his headstone.

Under the spell of her rehearsed charm, he’s soon guzzling sedative-spiked beer and being pulled from her burning cottage by an oddly paternal village night watchman. Before his new “mom” can pen the final chapter of his revised life story, Dorsey must break her manipulative grip on his heart and realize that a family isn’t defined by birth certificates and blood types. Sometimes it's simply a matter of who's willing to take a harpoon for you.

Given your success with the genre, I thought you would be an ideal agent for BATTLE AXE. I’m an advertising copywriter and a writing professor at UNC-Chapel Hill, where I earned my journalism degree. I am also a well-adjusted adoptee and have recently met my birth mother. She does not, to my knowledge, own a harpoon.

Just heard back from an agent today that she liked the book, describing it as possessing "a great grittiness, humor and humanity, along with a nice tense plot." She also said she didn't have the right editorial connections to place it.

Going to a Carl Hiaasen book signing tonight. I plan to thank him for the inspiration and demand an apology for creating such a difficult genre to break into.

Take that, Elmore Leonard.

In his "book" (if can call a hardback with one sentence per page a book) "10 Rules of Writing," Elmore Leonard states emphatically:

Never use any word other than "said" to attribute dialogue.

Although I'm sure he would quibble with my use of the word "emphatically." Because it's an adverb.

Anyway, my son brings home this flyer from school recently that flies in the face of the great Mr. Leonard's advice. So who's right? The multi-million selling book author with 50 years of writing under his belt, or my son's fourth grade teacher?

Personally, I like a good dialogue attributer now and then. But then, maybe that's why I'm not published.

Round one to you, Mr. Leonard.

You're a Lucky Fellow, Mr. Smith

We interrupt your trek to the polls with this reminder of why.

Hey, you're a lucky fellow, Mr. Smith, to be able to live as you do,
And to have that swell Miss Liberty gal carrying the torch for you
You're a lucky fellow, Mr. Smith--look around you if you want to brag,
You should thank your lucky stars and I mean, thank all 50 in your flag

This bit of Capraesque patrioti-corn was recorded by Frank Sinatra in 1964 and features the incredibly dated backing of Fred Waring's Pennsylvanians. However, it stirs the soul to this day, particularly on this day.



You're a very, very wealthy gent--I don't care if you haven't a cent
You can still have things your own way, on each Election Day
If some poor suckers could choose, they like to be in your shoes
That proves that your good fortune's no myth
You're a lucky fellow, Mr. Smith.

I voted, as much as they would let me. Hope you did too.

Not for me--thanks!

Is this meant to encourage me? What other profession is based on your relying on people beating down your door and then you decide if you'll even acknowledge them?

I speak, of course, of the venerated literary agent. I've been sending out dozens of equeries lately, with maybe a 10% response rate. With a direct mail piece, this would be phenomenal. With a well-written, professional query, it's abysmal. But not unexpected. That's the norm these days--agents are flooded with equeries (and snail mail ones as well) to the point where they only respond if they're interested. But I wonder how much more productive we'd all be if they could take the ten seconds or so to paste in one of three responses and actually...respond:

1. While your writing is strong, this particular project doesn't appeal to me. However, feel free to submit to me in the future. (keeps the good writers going--maintains a connection that might pay off for the agent one day)
2. Based on the way this query is written, I don't have sufficient confidence I could sell your work. (tells the writer the query is crap and to not waste other agents' time with it--a public service to agents everywhere!)
3. Based on the story you're proposing, I don't have sufficient confidence I could sell your work. (tells the writer the story itself is crap and stop querying it outright--a service to agents everywhere and the deluded writer)

I could handle one of these. They're all form replies, they're all professional and polite, but at least it would give us clueless writers some semblance of direction. It would let us know if it's the story or the query itself that has problems. It would let us know whether or not to ever pursue that agent again. It would let us know if we should just hang it up altogether, if one is tempted to read between the lines.

It reminds me of a client I once had. I read him a few scripts for radio commercials and he roundly condemned them all. When I asked for a little direction, so I could improve them and bring them around to his liking, he said, "I don't need to give a speech about why I don't like 'em. I just don't!"

Oooookay.

"Not for me--thanks!"

Now, I ask you, what am I supposed to do with that?

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way from the Forums.

I allude, of course, to the 1962 Broadway masterpiece. The book is credited to Larry Gelbart and Burt Shevelove, but for my money, the show wouldn't have gotten off the ground without Stephen Sondheim's score and lyrics.

As sung by Zero Mostel.

Once called "nothing but a belch of a man" by my ever-derisive drama teacher, Zero took the role of Pseudolus, turned down by Phil Silvers and Milton Berle, and worked his big, fat, sweaty magic with it. He's occasionally out of tune, his dynamics lack any sense of subtlety and he's frequently out of breath. It's incredible. If you ever come across the soundtrack, give it a chance. But steer clear of the '66 film version, which did away with half the songs and fell all over itself trying to look like an episode of "The Monkees."

But I digress.

Just when I thought I was ready to forge ahead with my query, rejection after rejection proved me wrong. Having exhausted my friends, family and writers' group, I did what any writer would do under the circumstances: I turned to complete strangers. I used an assortment of forums and posted the current version of my query there and invited feedback. The comments came fast and furious. Over a week or two, I re-shaped it into something meeting with most people's approval--and keep in mind, these are, for the most part, people like me, not authors with dozens of novels to their name or veteran literary agents. But they can step back and be objective about it where I can't.

It’s hard enough being Michelangelo’s son. But find out you’re Michelangelo’s adopted son and you might as well chuck the chisel—genetically, you’re hosed. That’s how Dorsey Duquesne feels, slogging away on a guitar in the shadow of his saxophone legend father. He discovers why his tunes consistently blow when his emotionally distant mother breaks a marriage-long pact on the eve of her husband’s funeral and reveals Dorsey was “acquired” as an infant. His known world yanked out from under him, Dorsey becomes obsessed with the life he was denied.

Clinging to an anonymous letter and a shoebox of his father’s old demo tapes, he chips away at the secrets surrounding his so-called adoption. Answers arrive in the form of a strudel-baking redhead claiming to be his real mother. She sweet-talks her way into Dorsey's heart, family and wallet, but her charm masks a darker agenda. With the help of a one-eyed detective and a disabled medieval warfare fanatic, Dorsey overcomes his identity crisis while his new "mom" schemes to put him in the poor house—and in the ground.

With their help, I sent out this new, improved query and have already received a request for three chaps and another for the full MS. I drink to you, my faceless brethren.

And I link to you, too--see right.

Stop the Insanity.

What is insanity? According to Albert Einstein, it's defined as repeating the same action over and over again, while expecting a different result. What are we to expect by electing John McCain, a man who, in his own words, plans to continue the policies of the least popular president of my lifetime? Something different? I invite you to explain to me how.

All my life, I've avoided politics, finding it an alternately repugnant and boring universe. But when I saw the Republicans of the Corn last night drooling over Sarah Palin, I had to say something. To quote someone else who saw us through some hard times, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." If we let fear motivate who leads the country, we're no better than the residents of places who "vote" with guns to their heads. The way I see it, there are only two reasons to rally behind McCain and put him in office: fear or ignorance. I would say "stupidity," but ignorance allows for those who are simply unaware of the bigger picture. Fear, I've already touched on: these are the people who believe that because of McCain's military experience, he will make our country safer. Bush, of course, has no military experience, but he's "credited" with protecting us from a 9/11-type disaster.

The ignorant are those who must think the country's still in great shape. Those 30% (can it be that few? It looked like a lot more on TV last night) who think Bush's policies are the way to go for another 4-8 years. They must be ignorant, because informed or aware people couldn't look the facts of our current situation in the face and claim they're anything but bleak. Gas prices, the economy in general, housing, inflation, unemployment, the national debt, the environment, our international reputation: in the toilet across the board. The war is another matter altogether. Whether you supported it, were against it, believe in "the surge" or not, how has it helped you and your family? How has it helped our country? Oil prices are at record highs, the bill for the war has crippled our military and budget and while terrorists have been driven from Iraq, they've merely taken refuge in the bordering countries, including the one that attacked us in the first place--remember Afghanistan? Do you really think Iraq can exist as an independent, democratic nation, surrounded by tribal dictatorships? Really?

Lastly, may I say that it is possible to look beyond your party for the candidate who represents the greatest potential for your future? Ignore the fact that your party "has always been" the one that's stood for religion, gun control and the right to life. That's the fear creeping up again. What I saw last night was unity, all right, but unity based in fear. Unity against the strange and unknown. Not unity towards a common goal, which shoudl be improving this country and restoring our prosperity and dignity. As recently as last month, George Bush said "America has no problems." McCain agrees. Do you?

This country was founded by brilliant, open-minded people who realized the policies of those who came before them were destructive and oppressive. Our country has gone on to be the envy of the world and our democratic system, while cribbed from a 2000-year-old model, has stood the test of time. When you think about it, we have a pretty good track record.

Let's not be the country the rest of the world thinks we are. We can do better.

What do you do with a completed novel?

Even more useless than a B.A. in English is the unread novel. Now that it's done, what should I do? Celebrate? I kind of did already. I went for a run and listened to "When I Write the Book" on my iPod, fueled by adrenaline the entire way. Once that was out of the way, I immediately dove into the second draft. I know everyone says "take some time, put it in a drawer," etc. I will, eventually, but while the thing is still fresh in my system, I wanted to go back to the very beginning--for the first time--and see if anything stood out, good or bad. It's only now that I'm beginning to get a feel for the whole scope of the thing, like the sculptor who doesn't look at his creation until he's done, and then steps back for a once-over. And, most likely, a do-over.

I've been hammering away at my query, if only to be writing something that isn't the book itself. I'm also vascillating between titles. I started out with "Mother Sucker," then tried on "Another Mother" and "World's Greatest Mom." Lately, I've been kicking around "Worst. Mom. Ever." I know it's "contemporary," but as one of my friends says, maybe not in a good way. Any opinions? Here's the hook in a nutshell:

When a successful software mogul discovers, on the eve of his father’s funeral in coastal North Carolina, that he was secretly adopted forty years ago in a backroom deal in Germany, he is forced to grow up and get some real problems. Before his emotional dust settles, two women are battling for his affection—both claiming to be his mother. Feeling betrayed, he traces the truth back to a small Bavarian town, unaware that in his shadow lurks a figure wishing he’d never been born.

I don't know that this quite captures the "Carl Hiaasen" aspect of the book or sets a reader up for something offbeat, but it's concise, and everything I read about queries says "less is more."

Writer's group tonight. They've got the final seven chapters--we'll see how it goes.

Expanding the Cult

The Church of Buffett has two new disciples. I took my sons to their first concert Saturday and it couldn't have been a more perfect indoctrination. We were one of maybe 20 families in the "family section" of the lawn (no alcohol/no smoking), which had room for at least 50 more blankets. Guess the other concertgoers were determined to drink and smoke no matter what.

This was the set list:

Homemade Music
License to Chill
Fruitcakes
Pencil Thin Mustache
Miss You So Badly
It's 5 O'Clock Somewhere
Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes
Cowboy in the Jungle
Brown-Eyed Girl
Cheeseburger in Paradise
One Particular Harbour
Come Monday
Why Don't We Get Drunk
Bama Breeze
Son of a Son of a Sailor
Schoolboy Heart
Volcano
Makin' Music for Money
Tryin' to Reason with Hurricane Season
The City
A Pirate Looks at 40
Far Side of the World
Southern Cross
Margaritaville
Fins (encore)
Rainy Day Women #12 and 35 (encore)
Coast of Carolina (encore)

Very satisfying, especially after a 4-year absence. Made for a perfect start to the summer. Hopefully, we won't have to wait as long for the next visit, and it will definitely be a family event from here on out. Although maybe next time he won't use the f-word, which disappointed my son beyond belief. I didn't say it would be entirely wholesome...

A Mix Tape for Writing

For years, I've put together mix tapes for myself and other people. I've since moved on to mix CDs, of course, but the intent is the same. Some of my most prized mixes were assembled with one purpose in mind: to keep me running. Although my iPod made my entire collection obsolete, I still have all the tapes, sitting gathering dust behind my office door at home, with inside-joke names too embarrassing to cite here. The jokes were so inside, in fact, that only I would get them. How's that for warped? I became so accustomed to the running order of these tapes that to this day, I can't hear "The Ballad of John and Yoko" without expecting to hear Men at Work's "Underground" hot on its heels.

They did the trick, these tapes. Maybe it's why I'm much more dedicated about my running than I am about my writing. 4-5 days a week, 4 miles at a time, with very few exceptions. I run as much for the mental benefits as the physical ones. I write headlines for work (I'm in advertising), I sort out domestic issues, I make plans for the weekend, I even work out problems with the novel...all in my head. Of course, there's nowhere to write it down, and by the time I finish my run, the adrenalin begins to taper off and the enthusiasm cools considerably.

If there were the equivalent of a mix tape to inspire writing, I'd make one in nothing flat. Unfortunately, if I'm truly in a writing frame of mind, I can't listen to music, or at least not music with lyrics. When I was writing my last novel, which involved several scenes set in Greece, I listened to some Greek music to gear me up before/during writing (though it had lyrics, I couldn't understand them, so they weren't terribly distracting). So...is there such a thing? Did Jackie Gleason or 101 Strings put an LP out that I'm not aware of: "Music to Write Contemporary Novels By?" Any suggestions? Did our great writers of the past listen to anything to get them going, besides their elusive muses and the siren's song of the bottle?

As you can tell, I'm writing this as a way of not writing the actual book. But I have a new deadline looming, so the real writing will commence shortly.

Not cramping up yet...

I have a friend who recently ran a half marathon and he said he was plagued by a persistent cramp under his ribcage for much of the race. But he finished--and that's about 9 more miles than I'll be running anytime soon.

The new book, however, is just about halfway done (at least according to my hastily thrown-together outline). So excuse me for not blogging, but I had me some real writin' to do! It's feeling better and better, and it's gotten a good response from my writers' group. I have another 6 or so chapters to submit to them, which will take them through the first half of the story. Hardest thing has been finding time, because I don't know about you, but I can't write for 15 minutes here and there. If I don't have at least an hour cleared, preferably two, there's pretty much no point.

No news on the first book, which is most definitely not good news. I think one editor still has a sample or possibly the whole MS, but my (former) agent told me it was a small house and therefore ultra-slow. Hoping for a more receptive response with this book. First of all, it's shorter (well, duh, it's only halfway done). I'm projecting 100K or fewer words, which is about 7K shorter than the first book ever was. Remember, it started out as 185K. Discipline, thy name is outline. Also, I've been doing more research and reading a few more "how to" books (thought I got my fill of those last time around), and I've picked up quite a few pointers on how to keep things moving and how to keep the word count down in the process.

My wife's been reading it as I go and so far, her major criticism is that I give my characters "weird" names. I guess I can live with that. I just don't feel like writing about "John," "Liz" and "Bob." I prefer names with character built-in. Is that cheating? I named the villain in my last book "Wally" because I wanted something totally non-threatening and even innocuous, to contrast with the diabolical scheme he came up with. It's not like I'm calling people "Snake" or "Codsworth" or making names up. Hopefully, that will be he worst thing she has to say about the book:)

Now all I need is 12 more chapters and a title.

Just When I Think I'm Out...

...I get a pleasantly surprising email!

This is a good thing: my agent and I parted on good terms, and technically still have a few days left in our formal agreement. But naturally, anything that was undertaken before we agreed to go our separate ways is still covered by our previous arrangement. So guess what? Someone he queried quite awhile ago has expressed interest in seeing the entire MS. Yay, me. It would be amazing if this works out after all--lord knows I'd rather be writing my new book than finding another agent.

Submitted for Your Approval.

Well, not your approval, exactly, but that of my writer's group. Last night I surrendered all that exists of my novel-in-progress, "Mother Sucker" (working title): six chapters and about 25K words. I'd been working on it since March, but when my turn came up to submit, I only had about three chapters, which was hardly worth it, so I switched slots with a friend whose novel was already completed and used the intervening time to jam out three more chapters.

Part of the problem, if not ALL of the problem, is that I'm working without an outline. I can see maybe one chapter ahead, but beyond that, I'm groping. I may just use the time while they're reading the first installment to rough something out. I was giving the "no outline" (or "blank page," as Carolyn Wheat, author of "How to Write Killer Fiction," calls it) approach after my last outline resulted in a 185K word book. Too much planning=too much writing. But now I'm hitting block after block because I can't see far enough ahead.

What's the consensus out there: outline or blank page?

No Matter What Happens...I Must Not Cry.

After much agonizing, deliberation and advice-seeking, I have decided to release my agent from further representation of "Ring of Fire." Not only that, I've decided to retitle it and give it a thorough once-over. I'm working with "Dead Ringer" for now, even though I know the publisher has the final word over titles and cover art, etc. I like the juxtaposition of a serious, ominous-sounding title with whimsical cover art. Think Carl Hiaasen or Tim Dorsey. The cover tells you it's not a hard-boiled suspense.

Of course, according to my (former) agent and the editors he's contacted, my book isn't a suspense novel, anyway. It has elements of suspense, yes, but it also has a love story (ick!) and humor (double ick!), qualifying it as "mainstream" or "commercial." I don't mind at all, but apparently, selling a mainstream/commercial book by a first-time author in today's market is a fool's errand.

So what's next? Try to stay positive, keep working on Book #2 and start searching for my next fool...er, agent. I'll keep you posted.

The End of the End?

Actually, that's a song from Paul McCartney's new CD. There was a time when a new Paul McCartney CD meant a mandatory "album release party" (beer, pizza and all attention riveted towards my stereo speakers). After his last two CDs were so disappointing that the only thing that got me through the "party" was the beer, I opted to download and preview his latest, "Memory Almost Full," in quiet anonymity, on my iPod while I ran. Glad to say it's a step up from his last, critically acclaimed CD, "Chaos and Creation in the Backyard." All it took was for Paul to stop writing catchy, disposable pop songs for the critics to finally take him seriously. Of course, catchy, disposable pop songs are what I like most about him to begin with. Quick, which Beatles song would you rather have stuck in your head: "Penny Lane" or "Wild Honey Pie?"

The improperly-placed second to last song is called "The End of the End," and it's a nice little ballad, almost on a par with his better solo ballad work, albeit with better lyrics. It's got me thinking about my first book (I can call it that now, since I've started on my second). It's finally sinking in that it may not, in fact, sell. Or at best, be the second book in a two-book deal. My agent said he was optimistic that he would run into a bunch of promising contacts at Book Expo America in New York last week, the end-all, be-all yearly publishing event for agents, publishers, authors and booksellers. But when he got back, he said it was mainly throngs of people (mainly book fans) milling around, getting books signed and looking for free stuff. He said he made one contact, but other than that, he was going to concentrate on his list of small presses and see where that gets us.

He keeps saying the market is depressed and a mainstream book by a first-time author is a particularly hard sell these days, and I believe him. Things like podcasts, downloadable content, YouTube, NetFlix and...even...blogs are competing with the almighty book for people's attention spans these days. So as I type this, I'm undermining myself. And not working on my second book, which may one day be my first book, as far as the reading public is concerned.

Better get busy.

Writing Hard, or Hardly Writing?

Am I the ultimate hypocrite or what? I start a blog to chronicle my first novel's (eventual?) path to publication, update it sporadically, whine about what a tedious process it is, hint at starting another book...and then doing everything possible to avoid it.

As his career was on the downslide, long after he had peaked with "Sports" and "Fore," Huey Lewis put out a CD called "Hard at Play." Keep in mind it had been at least four years since his last flop, "Small World." The first single from the new CD was called "Couple Days Off." From a working man's perspective, it talked about how hard he was working, how he needed to "catch his breath," etc. The first thing that struck me was, "Dude, you had four years to put out this CD, and you're asking for a vacation??" Same here.

So as of today, I'm going to (try) to buckle down and not only update this thing more frequently, but actually do some freaking writing. When my blog posts are outweighing my actual fiction, something's wrong. I don't aspire to be a professional blogger. But "novelist," that's a job description I could get used to.

To that end, I wrote one page yesterday. It's not even very good, but it's done. And it can't be revised until it's been written in the first place.

The Results Are In...

Got the critique back from my writer's group, and I was none too nervous about it. After all, it was the first time anyone truly objective (other than my agent) has read the entire MS. By and large, it was well-received and enthusiastically praised. A big "whew" there.

Several people did have significant bones to pick with it, and rarely were they the same bone, so it will be tough to pick and choose what I should address. Some parts I had always had misgivings about were confirmed--the misgivings were justified. Those will be the easy parts to fix/remove. Other parts I was totally in love with were also called into question--not so easy. I've heard people say "cut out the thing you love most" and "without fail, you will end up throwing out your first chapter." Needless to say, neither of those two pieces of advice are particularly uplifting, particularly now, as I face the first chapter of my next novel.

But I'll have to say, both of them have come to pass. I threw out a scene long ago that I loved for comedic purposes, but it did nothing to further the story. And regarding my first chapter, it's been cut by about 75%, so it basically has been "thrown out." One final sub-plot, and what I was leaning on as the protagonist's motivation throughout the book, was deemed unnecessary.

Secretly, I was wondering if I could dial back on this or take it out altogether, but feared the rest of the book collapsing in on itself. "If the hero doesn't feel A, then why on earth would he do B?" kind of stuff. My group steered me out of what looked like a dead-end street, at least in theory. Now comes the re-write.

The good news is I'll undoubtedly reduce my word count--never a bad thing. The bad news is, once again, the novel's not "done." Anything to stall jumping into the next one!

Validation

My writers' group did some revolutionary "re-writing of its by-laws" recently. (Translation: we all stood around the kitchen eating brownies and complaining how long it took to get a full novel critiqued) Now, instead of submitting a novel piecemeal, three chapters or so at a time, over the course of a year and a half or more, members with completed novels (or just a big-ass chunk) are now permitted to submit the entire MS for immediate critique. Two consecutive sessions are devoted exclusively to one novel. Then everyone brushes their hands together in satisfaction and the critiqued author goes away for another six months or so.

Lucky me, I was the first to benefit from this new process. Everyone agreed that not only is it more helpful to the author to receive a critique on the book as a whole, it's more insightful and just plain more fun to read the book all at once versus three chapters here and there. Imagine watching one episode of "Lost" every three months and trying to make sense of it.

Shockingly, this was the first time my writer's group had read "Ring of Fire" in its entirety. I had gotten their invaluable input on problematic sections in the past (notably the backstory-riddled first few chapters, when the damn thing was still 184K words), but this was to be the true test of if my book merited agent representation or not. No matter that I already had an agent--if my group trashed the book, I had some revising to do.

Last night, I got their feedback on the first half of the rest of the book. They liked it. Cue swelling violins/relief music. Sure, they pointed out a few things that stuck out, didn't flow, etc., but nothing egregious plot-wise, character-wise, or structurally.

At least not in the first half. Next session, they tackle the rest of the book, through the end. Not out of the woods yet...