If you guessed that I just spent the last hour cleaning shards of glass and frozen coffee out of my refrigerator, you guessed correctly. See the photo above for your prize.
What? It’s summer, there are worse prizes than an ice cube. Big Senile Dog thinks they’re a treat. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog thinks they’re an abomination and fishes them out of her water bowl to leave them to melt on her wee wee pads.
Someone mentioned an upcoming writer’s conference in NY. I haven’t even looked at any in years, they’re just too expensive. But I was thinking. Maybe it would get me motivated. It’s in NY, no travel or hotel expenses, an opportunity to pitch in person…maybe. I looked at the website, I thought, I discussed with some of my writing buddies, I thought out loud to Husband and Nerd Child.
By late morning, budget realities had me delete the page from my bookmarks. Life, get over it.
So I got busy making the doggie gumbo I should have made yesterday. Which made me hot. Which made me remember I had a bottle of Stumptown cold brewed coffee in the back of the fridge. I know, the horror, pre made coffee. But hot! thirsty! holy shit what happened?!
The fridge has been temperamental in the last year or so. It likes to freeze whatever’s in the fruit and veggie drawers. Needless to say, less and less has been going into those drawers, and more has been stuffed on the shelves. Guess the freezing game is expanding to the upper shelves.
Husband’s eight containers of cut papaya are safe. My organic cherries I got on sale, lost. Along with two boxes of baking soda, and assorted half fruits left from this morning’s smoothie.
Is there a 12 step meeting for queriers? Except I’m not really querying now, just waiting for responses on requested material.
Every afternoon, when it’s 6PM and I don’t have any responses in my inbox, I think, “Tonight after Art Child goes to bed I’m going to have a drink, so I will relax and remember only that it’s out of my control at this point.” I even bought lemonade to go with the gin. Instead, by the time I would do this, I walk the beasts, have my 8000th cup of coffee or tea and go to sleep. Art Child and Nerd Child have enjoyed the virgin lemonade.
The other day a comment was made by someone on the writers’ forum, to the effect of if the manuscript is good enough and the query letter is good enough, you only need one agent to request…if that agent rejects, the manuscript isn’t good enough. The type of comment that always makes me freaking nuts. a) It reeks of sanctimonious superiority, and b) it isn’t true. There are many reasons why a manuscript can be rejected, and not all of them have to do with the writing/story. I didn’t respond to the post, because I know I’m feeling overly sensitive right now as I wait for replies, and didn’t trust myself to do more than splutter.
I was thinking about this yesterday, when I walked past a local church and saw several people waiting to go in the side door. I assumed for a 12 step meeting, but it could have been Bingo. Or something. Anyway, it had me thinking about the whole Let Go and Let God approach to what’s out of our control.
Step 12. Oh 12. That’s the spiritual awakening. What is the equivalent of the spiritual awakening here? It could be an offer of rep, but it could also be the acceptance of when it’s time to trunk the manuscript and move on. Maybe it’s the (to me) mythical ideal of writing only for oneself, being satisfied with or without validation. Damn. I’m gonna be asleep forever. Spiritual coma?
To decide to write a book, to do so, to tell people you’re doing it…all of this requires not just a leap of faith but big brass ones. To query, well, that means polishing them up to put them on display. But then once the work is out, humility.
For the moment, I will contemplate cleaning the bathroom, and decide what to cook with the goodies I bought at the farmer’s market this morning. And blast the iPod. Nerd Child always has interesting new (to me) music.
A couple of weeks ago I was having a conversation with a writing friend about the query process. Surprising, it isn’t like I’m obsessed or anything. Sigh. And by conversation, I mean I said something like, “It’s never going to happen, I have a better chance of winning the lottery, blahblahsuckageblah. And my friend said something lovely and supportive like, “Oh, Mrs Fringe. Don’t say that. It can happen for you, it will happen for both of us, you have to have faith.”
I don’t play the lottery on a regular basis, maybe I’ve purchased five tickets over the course of my life. I wasn’t disappointed when I checked the numbers for the same reason I don’t play regularly–I don’t expect to win. I’m no math whiz, but I can look at the odds and know this is not a sensible way to spend a dollar.
I was saying there’s a specific aspect to querying that’s completely illogical, no different than playing the lottery, and yet here I am–hoping to “win,” even sometimes believing I have a shot. My guess (I’m not looking up the numbers and doing math) is that my odds are even worse than if I bought a lottery ticket for every query I send. If you pick the “right” numbers, you win your money, less the government’s share. Fair enough. But if a wannabe claws their way through the slush pile with sharp words and a clear, enticing plot to receive an offer of representation from a reputable agent, that’s just the first step. Because the jackpot (for a wannabe who wants to be traditionally published) isn’t receiving an offer of rep, it’s seeing your book in print, in a bookstore. So step two is the agent querying editors, in hopes of a publishing offer. Only a percentage of agented debut writers/manuscripts actually see a publishing contract. Step three is (hopefully) revisions with an editor and an advance, and then if nothing goes awry–step four, publication. That’s the winning ticket. Golden ticket is if the book actually takes off and you see good sales numbers.
There’s a disconnect, and even a wacky old gal like myself can see it. Too practical to buy lottery tickets, but oh yeah, I’ll query. And I’m lucky. Lucky to be receiving requests from agents to see the full. I wonder if full requests are like winning $2 on a scratch-off ticket, just enough to entice me to keep trying. Each request is a step, but quite far from an offer of rep–not to mention the neuron marbles lost with every ping of my email as I check to see if it’s an agent response. Patience, Mrs Fringe. Patience and faith.
Because I don’t play, I don’t know–do people have systems for playing the lottery, formulas and equations, the way people sit with the racing form at the track? I admit, I used to enjoy going to the track, where I had an elegant formula for which horse to bet on, using the names I liked the best.
My query formula
Above is my system. Sure I use the laptop to write and edit, but it’s a basic composition book for notes on the manuscript, and keeping track of queries. With, of course, my lucky pencil. Yes, it’s true, it’s that one specific type of pencil, exclusive to a Staples near you (maybe, they could be in other office supply stores also).
I had pushed this line of thinking out of my mind, but this morning on Twitter, I saw a tweet from an agent I follow. I think he’s an agent, he tweets anonymously as Agent Vader. For all I know he’s another wannabe, or a she, or the real Darth Vader, or the most powerful literary agent in existence. I don’t care, as long as he doesn’t send me to Jabba the Hutt in metal underwear. He’s often funny, and offers many great one liners about this whole business. Today he tweeted, “Writing is art. Art is subject to perception. This is a lottery. Most people don’t win the lottery.”
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. But I’ve got this little pile of winning scratch-off tickets that say please send me the full. And I’ve got beta readers and family and friends and Fringelings who say keep going. I’m even fortunate enough to have a couple of experienced, knowledgable-about-writing-and-the-publishing-industry friends who have read my work and tell me to keep going. But I’ll be honest, seeing and hearing the realities of this business, the long, long odds that involve the magical combination of writing that’s good enough, story that’s good enough, landing on the right desk at the right time, making the right numbers on a projected Profit and Loss statement in a publishing house, these are equally important. I’m wacky enough to believe I have a real shot, but need to keep my eyes on the sanity of facts and odds at the same time.
(I’ve posted this song/video before, but can’t think of anything more appropriate)
Macbeth and Banquo with the Witches by Henry Fuseli (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
It was a long week here in Fringeland.
I’m still waiting to hear back about the fulls that are out for Astonishing, and still waiting to hear about the apartment. I could send more queries, but I don’t want to. Not yet. Frankly, I can only hold so many details about who has what in my wee brain before I’m overwhelmed, and this feels like my limit. Sure, I have it all written down, keep notes and dates, but still. Nothing like endless waiting to make you feel insignificant. Passive. For someone who writes, passive is a cardinal sin. Good stories, good characters, have readers turning pages because they want to know what happens next. Nothing happening, pouring the ninth cup of coffee? Yawn. If I were a character, I’d write myself out of the manuscript, or make horrible things happen to force myself to act.
Clearly, the answer was to start writing that story I’ve been thinking about. Never mind that I wasn’t ready to start writing. For a lot of people who write, that is the answer. So I opened up a fresh blank Word document, and started writing. I didn’t write the whole story, but a lot of it. And it sucks. Because while this method works for many, it doesn’t work for me. Not for short stories, anyway. I have to be ready, the characters need to be complete and clear in my mind, even if I don’t actually know exactly what they’re going to do until they’re doing it.
I have some very kind and generous followers here in Fringeland. Kind and generous enough that I would bet $5 that two of you read that last paragraph and thought to yourselves (whether or not you’ve read any of my fiction), “it doesn’t suck, Mrs Fringe is being too hard on herself.” Nope, I’m not. Sometimes I write things that I think are pretty good, and sometimes I write things that I know should be burned, never to be seen by readers. It’s part of writing, and in my opinion, it’s an important skill to have.
But between the unending waiting, the passivity and the suckage of that short story, I had a couple of those days. Odds are if you write, you have them yourself. The ones where you’re convinced that you have nothing to say, no grace when saying it, and every file in your thumb drive is evidence of your inability to phrase a coherent sentence, let alone craft a story someone would want to read. This then leads to, “that’s why I haven’t heard back from the agents. It isn’t because it’s conference season, or because there’s been 15 strains of crud viruses tearing through the city and I’ve seen many of those agents Tweet about being sick, and it certainly isn’t because they’re busy working for clients–you know, the ones that allow them to pay their rent, eat, and read queries and requested material. No, no. It’s because of the unbelievable level of suck in my manuscript.”
And then I had a day where I was laid out with the mother of all migraines. I’ve gotten them for years and years, very familiar, and this might have been the worst one I’ve ever had. My skull felt like a damn eggshell for about 24 hours after it ended.
Last night Fatigue came for dinner. Turns out I wasn’t yet ready to enjoy a beer, but still, it was a nice evening, and after Art Child went to bed I read him the next two chapters of Astonishing–our current Friday Night Madness routine. We’re past the halfway point in the manuscript, the tension is tightening, and Christina (main character), well, Christina is starting to really feel the effects of her drinking as she makes poorer choices, and the lines between real, surreal, and plain old alcohol warped perception become more blurred. Fun, the last scene I read to Fatigue ends with a quote from Everything’s Coming Up Roses from Gypsy. Fatigue is a cabaret singer with an amazing baritone, and after I finished–you know I didn’t sing the lines with my Edith Bunker voice–Fatigue sang them.
And I had this moment. Because Astonishing doesn’t suck. It was a good scene, a good couple of chapters, and there is enough there for me to still believe this manuscript will be the one. It was the right time for me to write Astonishing, and I think it is the right time for Christina’s story to be read.
I try not to blog about the kiddos too much on Mrs Fringe for two reasons. One, this is my spot to be me–all of me, not just mamaing, but certainly being a mom is a big part of me. Two, their privacy. This week is my girl’s birthday, though. And it’s a big one. So we took a trip downtown and went to the art store. A new one for us, haven’t explored it before. Flower Child was given all the time she wanted to look at each pencil, eraser, and every other thing that I don’t know what they’re called or how they’re used, but she does. And she saw the manikins. I know they’re useful, but all these little things add up in price. She saw this hand, missing one finger, and asked me if I thought they’d give it to us for fewer dollars because it had fewer fingers. I told her to ask the manager. She did, and he did. Thank you!
Of course, she has a long list of things she would love for her birthday. But…budget. And as hard as I tried, I couldn’t summon a unicorn. We do the best we can. One of the things on her list was a name change. She wants to be called Art Child here in Fringeland, instead of Flower Child. I can do this, and I think I should. Here’s a drawing she’s been working on for the past week.
I love this. Not quite finished, but I say this definitely = a name change, don’t you?
I continue to be blown away by her developing talent. She pours her dreams onto the sketch pad, uses her charcoals to smudge them into something visible, something tangible, something I can feel.
I’ve been thinking about dreams a lot these days. How, as someone who writes, a wannabe, I take bits and pieces of what I see, hear, and feel. I inhale them, taste them, smoosh them together, let them harden, and then tap them with the keys on my laptop until they crack and the cracks become stories. Written dreams that turn into personal dreams of connecting with readers, publication. At this point in my life, dreaming isn’t enough. A head in the clouds doesn’t protect you from the potholes under your feet. Work needs to be done, mamaing needs to happen, life has to be lived.
When we left the art supply store we walked down 23rd St. I looked at the old YMCA and wondered what happened to the dreams of the young men who stayed there years ago, before it became a trendy Crunch gym.
Yup, the one that inspired the song.
But for now, I want Art Child to dream. I will watch out for the cracks in the sidewalk.
Friday night I was on the couch watching Bill Maher–nothing unusual, I’m always watching him at that time, though I confess I often fall asleep before the end, and watch the rest in reruns later in the week. Hey the weeks are long, and it’s my night to have a beer, I get sleepy. In any case the interview was with two of the members of Pussy Riot, that kept me awake. Brave women.
Then it was on to the panel discussion, and something something happy/happiness, and Ana Marie Cox (political columnist, commentator, and founding editor of the blog Wonkette) said no, she wants fulfillment, not happiness. Maher said he wants to be happy, not just fulfilled. I’m not sure I heard much else past that, I’ve been thinking about it ever since. With the most cursory of research, using my buddy Google, I found this is not a new idea. It seems like the current definitions involve fulfillment being more of a long term state of being, satisfaction, and happiness being short term, connected to a finite thing, experience, or emotion.
Makes sense to me. We all know the studies, hear the platitudes, no one thing or person will make us happy. As in permanent state of being happy. I believe this. On the flip side, I believe one thing (or lack thereof) or person can result in sustained unhappiness. Unemployment, hunger, poverty, homelessness, a miserable marriage, these things can create long term unhappiness until and unless they change.
Tears of a Clown (Photo credit: daybeezho)
The thing is, I also don’t think any of these achievements, relationships, resources, or experiences can provide permanent fulfillment. We have to continue reaching out, working, experiencing, connecting. When my children were young, I felt fulfilled. There were still things I wanted, experiences I wanted and thought were coming, but overall, I was satisfied with life at that time. Time passes, children grow, life happens, and I’m not so satisfied with where I am now, but I have no desire to go backwards, nor do I wish things had stayed the way they were. The sometimes silly chaos of babies and nursing and giggles and every moment a discovery and but why and pleasefortheloveofGodgotosleep is not a state I’d want to live in forever.
Yeah, I’m in pursuit. Of fulfillment, happiness, rainbows, I don’t know. But I’m in pursuit. Are you?
I’m in this strange in between space. Between waiting and doing and deciding on the waiting and the doing and the deciding. This leaves too much time devoted to thinking. And remembering.
This morning I was talking with a friend about my love of the beach. Now pretty much limited to summer time, when I was young I used to go year round. In fall and winter I would sit on the rocks of that Brooklyn beach with my radio (and then walkman), spiral notebook and pencil, and write poor, angsty poetry. Of course then I didn’t see it as poor or angsty. But yeah, it was.
Strangely enough, though I don’t write much poetry anymore, when I do it’s still poor and angsty. And when I do, I still enjoy the process.
a lousy poem, by Mrs Fringe
Unplug that old Frigidaire with the frayed cord and the rusted coils Coffee, screwdriver, gin Prepared
Words of frost six inches thick trap the right phrase only the wrong fits Flathead now an ice pick Chink clunk
Ice drips, words melt until eventually The pan overflows with gray sentences Seeping through asbestos tiles
Happy Friday, everyone–and an extra special Friday it is, spring break starts this afternoon for my girl.
Mrs Fringe and Husband were informed a 3 bedroom has opened up in the building. We’re going for it. Again. Sounds good, right?
It may or may not come through. We’ve been this close before a couple of times, and life happened. There’s a little part of me that’s crying. If it really comes through, and we take the apartment, it will cost us money, a lot of work, and acceptance that I’m not leaving New York anytime soon.
As I’m typing this, my little email notification popped up, there’s a new listing in Oahu! Yeah, yeah, I can and do dream. Why would I take this apartment if I know it takes me further away from leaving the city? Because for whatever life hasn’t taught me, I’ve learned a few lessons well. One of them is I don’t know what next year, next month, or even tomorrow will bring. So if there’s an opportunity in front of me now, I need to take it. Get it while you can and all that. And hey, a 3 BR apartment in Manhattan that’s practically affordable–not to be taken lightly. Besides, I made my buddy Mrs Smitholini promise about a million times that when I die, she’ll take my ashes to Hawaii. So eventually, in some form or another, I’ll get there.
I saw a neighbor earlier, she asked me if Big Senile Dog was still alive because she hasn’t heard him. He is, but the truth is when I woke up this morning I thought he wasn’t. As I’ve said before, he always wakes me up, cries until I get out of bed and go to the bathroom, and then he goes back to bed as soon as I start making my coffee. This morning he cried, but then stopped. All was quiet when I was in the bathroom so I went to check on him, and he was all curled up, not snoring, on his doggie-pedic bed. Still alive, but slowing down a little more each day.
Looks like an impossibility, no? I stood on the terrace drinking my cafè con leche, camera in hand and the blue and gray and pink and white of the sky made me feel inside out, upside down. I could have been looking into an ocean as easily as up to the sky, if it weren’t for the water towers and smokestacks of neighboring buildings to orient me.
This morning’s sunrise was a surprisingly accurate reflection of how I feel as I’m reading The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud. So perfectly simple, natural, it’s a deeply complex piece written with such honesty it makes my heart stop every few pages. The words and phrasing aren’t pretty but they’re beautiful (if that makes sense to anyone other than me). Her main character is pure in her anger– no coyness, no stereotypical qualifiers, I’m not reading into it, she tells us exactly how angry she is and how she sublimates that anger in order to function–much the way I know those deep pinks above, stunning as they are, represent a big storm on its way later. I took the photos so I can look at this sunrise again tomorrow or next month or next year, but they won’t give the same wow they did when I stood there this morning.
There are many writers I admire, for craft, plotting, characterization, descriptions, but. There aren’t many writers who have made me feel like I’m holding my breath, chest and head hurting but I’m afraid to exhale, afraid to keep turning the pages because then it gets me closer to the end. I don’t want it to be over, and I also don’t want to find out if it was wrapped up in a neat and tidy package where everyone gets to live happily ever after because sales-marketing-feel good-life is a cabaret.
*this, by the way, is why I don’t write book reviews on the blog. Not too many people looking to buy a novel want to know how a book made me feel, but the feelings are what’s important and memorable to me.
Some novels I read and know no matter how much I enjoy them, they aren’t my type of story to write. Thrillers, horror, so fun! My imagination doesn’t go in those directions. Some novels I read and think yes, I should be querying and pursuing publication, my work is competitive. This is a whole other category.
This is the type of book I will remember the name of, will recommend to friends and acquaintances for the next ten years. I’m guessing there are a lot of people who won’t like it. Anger, especially women’s anger, tends to make people uncomfortable. It’s also the type of novel that makes me wonder what the fuck I think I’m doing. A strange feeling, hard to state clearly because it’s inspiring at the same time. There’s a little back room in my brain where I’ve been drafting a character for another story, and he’s starting to knock, wanting to move forward. As much as I’m loving The Woman Upstairs, feel it was money well spent, it also makes me want to stomp my feet and shake my fists because this is what writing can be, but my writing is not. Cliche as it may be, the word that keeps coming to mind is heartbreaker.
Must mean it’s time to get the Led out before I get back to reading and before the rain comes.
After a teaser of spring yesterday, this morning is pure damp and gloom.
This week I thought quite a bit about social media, the concept of “platforms” and followings, blogging and tweeting. Mostly tweeting, because so far it’s the thing I’m having the hardest time catching the rhythm of.
I keep saying this, but I just don’t get it. I hop on dutifully most days, but usually end up feeling like the girl who needs electrolysis and a better girdle at a 1961 dance. There are the cool kids, the nerdy kids, the popular rah-rah we’re running your student government kids, and the wallflowers. Then there are the spammers. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop it! I will usually follow links from new followers, check out blogs, etc. But if you’re tweeting multiple times a day for days, weeks, months on end about how I should buy your book, just stop it. I will start to remember your name/title of book, but only to make a note not to purchase it. But they say it’s a good thing to do, have a Twitter account and tweet, so I keep trying. I favorite, I retweet, I reply, occasionally I send out a tweet. Somehow it isn’t shocking when no one cares what I ate for dinner. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s not going to be the thing that gets me/my writing noticed.
Is blogging going to help me? I have no clue. As I query, some agents want to know about “web presence,” a more common term than platform when querying fiction. My stats won’t make anyone drool, but hopefully won’t make them cringe, either. If anyone looks closely enough, I think it could help that I tend to have long term followers who are engaged (thank you!). Maybe an agent or two will like the content, think I’m someone they’d be interested in working with. Or *gasp* become a follower. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll click onto the blog and be disgusted by my appalling language. (If so, they probably wouldn’t be into my fiction, either.) Maybe they’ll think, “Wow, this woman is a fucking fruitcake, I’m steering clear.”
If you hadn’t noticed, I like blogging. Mrs Fringe isn’t an overnight sensation, but I’ve got Fringelings, and gather more on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. Many can relate to that feeling of living on the fringe. As a wannabe writer, I should be keeping a blog about writing. Yawn. Pretty sure I’ve said this before, but I find most blogs on writing to be tedious. Writers, their individual lives and processes? Interesting. A good blog with an thoughtful or entertaining voice will compel me to follow links and click the little buy button for a book. Does this make me a voyeur?
No longer needed (Photo credit: eric.r)
Could be. Blogging lets me ramble with no pressure. I look at the blogs that hit it big, and the blogs that barely get any views, and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, it’s hard to see why one way or the other. My buddy kk blogged about this yesterday. I enjoy different bloggers and blogs, like making connections through reading and commenting. I don’t read and comment as frequently as I did when I started. Honestly, it gets harder to do the more followers I have, and I apologize to those whose blogs I’m not stopping by often enough. Every view, every like, every comment is important and valuable to me, thank you. It’s a process, I’m learning the curve. So I’m saying to kk and anyone else trying to figure out this blogging thing, relax. Figure out what you most enjoy blogging about, the voice that feels the most comfortable.
It’s Friday again. Not sure if Fatigue will come for Friday Night Madness, his pup has been sick. But if he does, we’ll have dinner and our usual routine discussing the trials and tribulations of being a wannabe in New York, trying to make it; one pen/voice/monologue/dance routine trying to hold firm and be noticed among millions. Funny, because I grew up here, pretty much always lived here, I always knew I wasn’t special by virtue of being a wannabe, having a dream I didn’t want to give up. Maybe the internet and social media have done the same for everyone everywhere.
mrsfringe 