day five and four months later

Okay, so I'm not technically writing on day five, which would have made me actually achieve my goal for writing every day of the conference. However, I am writing about day five, which is nearly the same. (And don't give me grief about it being four months later. I came home to two extra, not-completely-rotten-but-far-from-perfect kids living in my house for the summer. And after they left I had other excuses, not the least of which being the focus of this whole little post here today).

On the last morning of the conference we took turns having one on one time with Brandon out in the hallway where we could ask him questions/talk about our writing/have a staring contest. Because of my deep-seated, long-standing need to become invisible in situations where I feel inadequate, when people were writing down which order we were going to talk to Brandon in, I never really raised my hand. Well, not very high, and certainly not with any kind of vocal attention-getting techniques attached. So I was last. I think everyone was supposed to get something like 8 minutes alone with Brandon, but it's not like there was a timer or anything, and it's not like he's going to quit talking mid-sentence if somebody did come out and tell him exactly when time was up. So by the time it was my turn, I think I had maybe two minutes. I may have taken three. Anyway, while others were taking their turn and I was looking at the clock realizing my turn was going to be extremely short, I was trying to think of the most important question I could ask him. I don't know if I came up with the most important question, but by the time I went out in the hallway, I knew which one was bothering me the most (aside from the obvious 'why did I only get two freakin' minutes?')

So what does Michelle ask well-known, accomplished authors when she has their ear all to herself?

How do you know when it's ready?

That's the question I asked. I finished my dragon story several years ago. I gave it to people to read and they said it was good and to send it out. Now, granted, those people were family and friends, but they were family and friends who actually know a bit about the business of writing. My uncle is an actual editor, though an editor of non-fiction, schoolbook stuff. He said that there was nothing glaringly obvious that needed to be fixed and that any corrections would be personal to the editor who got it and couldn't be guessed at ahead of time. I have to say that makes a certain amount of sense. And Ethan, well, Ethan is co-authoring a book with Brandon Sanderson for pity's sake (though he wasn't at the time, it's true). I did send out one query letter to one editor (both Ethan and my sister knew her and said I should) and though she was not interested, she gave me some suggestions that sent me off on the not-quite-major overhaul. A couple of years after that, I started going to a class/writing group. The teacher was CRAZY about my book. Thought it was the best middle grade fantasy he had ever seen from a completely unknown, never-done-this-before person. I had my manuscript critiqued through chapter four and he wanted to start seeing query letters. I couldn't keep taking the class, so I kind of sat and twiddled my thumbs for a while, then last year I went to the writing conference. An actual author of actual children's books looked at my very own first chapter of my story. And told me to change it. (I should probably note that the very original first chapter was in the real world at bed time, which the editor I sent it to didn't like. She wanted it to start in the magical world to capture the kids right off. The children's book author at the conference thought it was too confusing starting in the magical world, that it needed to start in our world so the kids would be grounded in 'reality' before they went off trying to understand some made-up place.) I went from real world to Hiraeth to real world again, all on the suggestion of other people who didn't quite 'get it' the other way. (For the record, I now have a prologue in Hiraeth and the first chapter in the real world.) And at this conference, this year, they wanted yet another first chapter, which turns out to be the ORIGINAL first chapter, but without the kids going to bed (because who wants to read about that, right?). (Also, Anne was completely right about that. She has been telling me FOR YEARS that she wanted the original first chapter back and thought I never should have left it.)

So, Mr Mull, with all of this conflicting input from people who supposedly know what they're talking about and at the very least are intelligent, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to know when to send in my manuscript to somebody? When do I stop listening to other people, and how much weight do I give their comments if I do listen to them? (Quite frankly, of all the people who have actually looked at any part of my actual book, Brandon Mull is the ONLY person who writes/edits/does middle grade fantasy. Nobody else has. Either they do fantasy but not middle grade, so they have no idea what is expected of middle grade books, or they do middle grade but totally don't 'get' fantasy. And it really kind of breaks my heart a little bit that I didn't get any real feedback from Brandon about my manuscript. Just a little.)

And now for his answer, which was crazy short (his 'assistant' was standing a few feet away, waiting to take him to lunch, but even so, the answer is so brilliant it wouldn't have taken more time anyway).

He said, DUM DUM DUM--

Trust yourself.

Seriously. Who'da thought?

When your manuscript is as good as you can make it, when you're only making it worse by fiddling around with it, send it out.

And how, Mr Mull, is one supposed to know when that has happened? Well, that's the tricky part. That's getting to know yourself as a writer and what you are capable of, and it comes with time. He said he certainly didn't know those things when he first started sending things out, but now that he's been doing it a while he has a better feel for when he's at that point. And I would dare say that once you have been through the editing process with an editor (or agent, even) you learn things that you really can't pick up on your own.

That answer fits in nicely with the other voice that's been in my head all these years. It comes most loudly from Dave Wolverton (I subscribe to his Daily Kicks) but I've certainly heard it from countless sources. Send out your best stuff. Polish and polish and polish some more. Don't figure that just because you've typed "The End" that it's ready to go.

So that's where I'm at. I've listened to comments and suggestions, which is good, because I've made improvements to my story because of them. However, this time around I am trying to listen to myself more. Am I saying something the best way possible? Is my plot exciting and clear? Are my characters lovable/hatable? Are they growing? Over confidence has certainly never been my problem, but I'm hoping that I am at least developing self-awareness.

Saint David's Day

My neighbor is an artist. It's not just that she can paint and make pretty things. She actually sees things differently than anyone else I know. She's either an artist or an alien. Since I've never been inside the brain of either one, I'm going to stick with artist. It has nicer connotations. Last month she had an art show at a local theater. I didn't know about it until the last week of the show, and wasn't able to make it until the very last night. Unfortunately, when we got there we found that they were holding auditions for a play in the same room as the art show, and Penny was sneaking in between auditions to take out her pieces as she could. Darn actors (and I'm pretty certain they are aliens). However, being my neighbor, and a very nice lady (not an alien), Penny gave us our own personal show at her house yesterday before she finished putting all of her art away. A writer can learn a lot from an artist.

First I have to say that Penny is amazing. Her house, which has the exact same floor plan as ours, is as utterly different from ours as can be, and it doesn't even have that much to do with the fact that her children are grown and mine continue to trash the place. It is the home of an artist, and if you don't know what that means, then I can't help you. Her home itself is art.

I would be hard pressed to say which of her art I like the best. Her paintings are beautiful, some of them based on other, famous paintings, but somehow they are more vibrant and alive than the originals (she is particularly fond of van Gogh and his Starry Night, which never touched me as much as it does now, seeing her affection for it). She also makes . . . statues? Object? Things? Out of . . . stuff. I might love those the best. She has a series of people made out of cork screws that I dearly love. Those . . . statues are what make me think she's an alien. I flatly don't have the ability to draw or paint, and I don't know how other people do it, but I 'get' that they do. You look at something and you recreate it in a picture. That makes sense, even if the thing you see is only in your head. But taking wing nuts and steamers and funnels and spoons and circuit boards and cheese graters and . . . stuff I don't even know the name or function of and turning them into things . . . That's magic. That's creativity I can't comprehend. That's alien and beautiful and makes a little ache inside of me that I'm not like that too.

When I was young I wanted to be a poet. Truth to tell, I wanted to be Robert Frost reincarnated. His words make pictures in my head and those pictures take my breath away. I wanted to do that for other people. I wanted to make pictures with words that would make people see what I see, because what I saw was so amazingly beautiful (it was western Oregon, of course it was beautiful). I did poetry for a while, and I really enjoyed it (though I don't know that I was ever Robert Frost reincarnated). Then I took a class in college that wanted me to write a story along with all the poetry we wrote. I've written very little poetry since, but I write a lot of stories (or at least I start them . . .) I've told myself stories my whole life, and goodness knows I've read them, I just never really wrote them down before. Now I do. And when I was looking at Penny's people, that little voice that seldom leaves me alone said "There are stories here."

That is how I see the world. Where artists see form and color, I see characters and settings. Penny has boxes and drawers of 'stuff' she has collected, just waiting to be turned into something else. I have snatches of conversations, news articles, pictures somebody else took, waiting to be turned into something else, but something made out of words.

Penny showed us a series of paintings she did of the creation. They are beautiful and inspiring and made out of cardboard. One of them had a foot right in the middle of it, a cardboard foot right at the center of creation. It was perfect. As Penny was talking, she pointed to it and said that a friend of hers pointed out that the piece of cardboard looked just like a foot. Penny had never noticed it. She certainly hadn't done it on purpose. I got all excited inside. That happens to me all the time. I'll write something, only to find out later how vital and important it was to the story. I don't know if that makes me completely incompetent or utterly brilliant, but I think I'm sticking with brilliant for now. Penny certainly is, and it works for her.

Penny sold some of her pieces at the show, which is both good and confusing. I don't know how she had anything left to come back with. If I had the money and the room to put it, I would clean her out and she'd have to start all over again. She was both happy and sad to have sold her stuff, and some of her pieces weren't for sale at all. That's when I had another heart-pounding moment, and really the reason I had to write this today. She said she hates working for money. She has to do it for love, and if somebody buys it later, that's okay, but she has to create because she loves what she's creating. And it all made sense to me. I have been struggling for weeks--for months, really--trying to get my book ready to submit. Ready to sell. I have been to conferences, workshops, classes, read blogs and web sites. Only submit your best stuff (even though we all know once an editor gets hold of it there are going to be changes). My sister gave me until Valentine's Day to submit, because it's written isn't it, and all you have to do is send it in. I've wondered how on earth a story about three siblings and their dragons is ever going to sell. Sell. I got hung up on that word. I love my story, but I've been focusing on selling it, not loving it more. When Penny sells her work, it's gone from her. I assume she's taken pictures or something, but she's only got the one, and when it's gone, it's gone. She loves it until somebody else comes along and loves it. I've been trying to make my story good enough for somebody else to love it, which is silly when you think about it. Once my story is published, and it's out there in the world, if I don't love it, I'll still have it on my computer where I can change it if I want to, even if it is only for me. I need to make my story what I love now, and then we'll see what happens. Changes will come again later, I'm certain, but I have to love it first, the best I can, and when I'm doing it just for me, it takes so much pressure off.