Month: January 2017

There is no There to Get to

I tend to be a stream of consciousness writer, in that I write whatever it is I’m thinking. I don’t labor as long as I’m putting ideas on paper, and there’s a quiet ease that ensues from not looking over my own shoulder. This is how I began writing in the first place. I began by keeping a journal I knew nobody would ever see. No one suggested I keep a journal; I simply felt compelled at a young age from the resounding depth of that interior chamber that tells a person who they are. In truth, I have a running inner monologue that deciphers the world, and it is this I call upon when writing. There has never been a time when I didn’t write. I’ve used it as a way of interpreting the world for as long as I remember. What began as a desire to understand myself evolved into a daily habit, then one bright day, I turned through my journals and discovered, not only had I been documenting my life, I had a particular way of experiencing its vagaries. Once I realized this, my writing came into focus. I thought maybe I could forge a career. I sought to articulate at such a pitch that there would be no misunderstanding. I began paying scrutinous attention to word usage, craft, and flow, reasoning that the more clarity I brought to language, the better the chance for a reader’s understanding. Here’s what happened as I stayed the course: I fell in love with the act of writing. I learned it is a deepening process predicated upon development, with no there to get to, only the experience of the personal path.

There was a time when I was confused by this. I thought calling myself a writer meant I had to achieve a sanctioned plateau that gave me permission to continue writing. I was wrong about this, and have only recently figured out why. The world didn’t have to tell me I am a writer before I became one. I didn’t recognize I became one the day I followed the call by putting pen to paper in my journal. No number of published books or lack thereof will alter this salient truth; not for me or anyone else. Being a writer begins with giving yourself permission to be one. However you choose to experience it is ultimately in your own hands.

I believe all writers care about writing for the same reason, which has something to do with the desire to compare notes in this business of living. Whether we’re published, or by whom is not the point, the point is all writers are on the same path, propelled by an inexplicable urge to communicate, however or wherever it is they tell their story. It is enough, to me, for its own sake. The real merits of writing lie intrinsically in its pursuit. For a writer, there is no there to get to, there is only the fulfilling, soul-driven act.

What Price an Author’s Politics?

 

I don’t believe I’m the only one disenchanted with the current state of affairs on FaceBook. Rather than launching a campaign in broad strokes of generalities from a supercilious pulpit, I will keep things simple and try my best to articulate where I’m coming from as an artist, for writing, to me, is a high art.

 

Like legions the world over, I joined FaceBook to stay connected with many people I’d lost touch with over the years. I grew up in Memphis, which means I’m a Southerner, and Southerners are raised in packs attendant to other packs. The domino effect of this reaches into the hundreds. And I care about all my pack members, so I considered the advent of FaceBook a gift that kept me connected, now that I’m a transplanted Southerner living in California.

 

And then I cultivated a writing career. I, like other writers, was therefore obligated to do my share of marketing and promotion for my books, and Facebook is, perhaps, the most viable avenue to do so. In short order, my list of “friends” grew longer, and I, wanting to help my fellow writers, turned around one day to discover I was connected to unfathomable numbers of authors I would have never known otherwise. And it thrilled me. I will always be fascinated by those who create, be they a writer, musician, dancer or painter. Give me your art, says I; it softens the blow of the human experience. In my opinion, there is such beauty in this world, and it is the artist’s God-given aptitude that points this out. It has been my pleasure and honor to help promote other authors, and there is safety in numbers in this business of living, if one is lucky enough to come across others of their ilk. Like begets like, or so it seemed to me, but lately I’ve become soul-sick and heart-confused while looking at FaceBook, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of why.

 

I feel hoodwinked, led into the miasma of a bait and switch. I came to Facebook because of friendship and art, but now it seems I’m being held prisoner for political ransom. I know the arguments: freedom of speech, a forum for “voice,” and all the other rights people stand up for. I’m not suggesting any of this is wrong, but I do question its appropriateness. Just because one can doesn’t mean one should, and the irony for an author is pontificating politically automatically polarizes their followers. There’s no sense in not admitting this, and those that don’t might be assuming their followers completely agree with their views, yet if this is the case, then why preach to the choir?

 

I think authors should seriously think through posting their political view on FaceBook, and weigh it for the potential ramifications to their career. After all, the way an author shows up in the world begins with deciding how they want to be perceived. I had this question posited to me recently, when my literary agent asked me to articulate “my brand.” It’s going to matter when my next two novels come out, and currently there is wisdom in establishing and investing in my base. I’m thinking the more streamlined and specific I can be, the better.

 

Readers align with us for stories. Reading stories gives many suspended quarter in a hectic world. Readers don’t necessarily need to know who the person is behind the story. If an author is doing it right, their stories will speak volumes to answer the question, without detracting from the author’s mystique.

 

I’m not saying I long to be seen as mysterious, only that I like the idea of my stories speaking for themselves. As for who I am, I’ll let the readers decide, and willingly leave politics to the political pundits.

 

 

 

Fellow Authors, You’ll Love This Article!

What Being an Editor Taught Me  About Writing,      January 17, 2017  By Anna Pitoniak

 

I’m an editor at Random House, but for the last several years I’ve been writing around the edges of my day job: mornings, nights, weekends, wherever I can grab the free time. I began my first novel (which is publishing today) while I was working as an editor, and I credit my job with giving me the courage, and the tools, to tackle writing a book. The truth is that spending one’s life reading good writing—not just reading it, but thinking about what makes it so good—is the best way to teach one’s self how to do it. For some people, this might mean enrolling in an MFA program. For me, I was lucky enough to learn by observing the other editors around me, and working on manuscripts as they went from rough drafts to finished books. It was the best writing education I could have received. Here are a few of the things I learned along the way:

http://lithub.com/what-being-an-editor-taught-me-about-writing/

 

 

 

On the Writing Path

,And so the game changes.

It’s been a fast moving beginning to 2017, but I’ll digress to say that 2016 ended with a cliff hanger, which meant while most people were reveling in the holidays, I waited for the new year to begin and decided I might as well work  on my fourth novel, so I wouldn’t climb the walls over the fact that my third novel was at issue! But things are on track now, and I recently signed a contract with Julie Gwinn, of The Seymour Literary Agency, for representation. There are irons in the fire as I write this, but far be it from me to jinx anything, so I’m going to share a bit about my literary journey over the past few years, in hope that it will lend insight and encouragement to my fellow writers.

My first attempt at writing a novel began after I moved back to Los Angeles from the west coast of Ireland. Upon reviewing the daily journals I kept there, I realized, if I could craft it well, I had a great story. So, I dove in and completed the manuscript of what eventually became “Dancing to an Irish Reel,” then queried agents interested in commercial fiction, literary fiction, women’s fiction, and everywhere else that would potentially be interested. I had a few bites, yet after a year, it occurred to me that I was an unknown, with little to recommend me as a writer. I switched focus, submitted and was published in magazines then, through what can only be called sheer chance, I caught the eye of the editor of Malibu’s local newspaper, when a white Dove landed on my kitchen patio, and I sent its photograph with a little story of the turmoil the presence of this seraphic creature created amongst our two dogs as it took up roost on the patio for eleven days. Astoundingly, I was offered my own weekly column. Writing this 1,000 word, weekly column taught me the art of brevity, and I acquired a firm grasp on the art of the flow. Yet still, no progress with my novel, so I decided to write another novel, whose premise is a personal interest of mine, and whose idea came to me when my husband and I checked into an historic hotel in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. I’ll go on and say it here and risk scrutiny: I’m telling you, this hotel was haunted. I knew it because the fine hairs on my arms stood up as I gazed around its lobby. My imagination ran rampant. I knew in my bones that this particular hotel had its origins as a private residence, and after checking with the concierge, I learned I was right. And so I wrote a novel in two time frames about a woman who checks into an historic hotel and comes to realize she has lived before, so familiar is she with every nuance of the setting. I titled the book, “A Portal in Time,” searched high and low for agents and publishers interested in paranormal mystery, and had the good fortune of being offered a publishing contract, without the involvement of an agent. A Portal in Time turned out to be a crash course in not only the publishing business, but in the wonderful world of marketing and promotion. Next, I did what anyone would do, I submitted my first novel’s manuscript to A Portal in Time’s publisher, and Dancing to an Irish Reel came out in March of 2015.

Somewhere, in the swing of all this, I entered The San Francisco Writer’s Conferences’ writing contest, and came in as the contest’s runner up. It was a 3,000 word, non-fiction narrative set in the South, where I grew up. And so I decided I had something to build upon, turned the piece into fiction, and filled it out to 83,000 words. The manuscript is a Southern Family Saga, and in no way fits what my current publisher publishes. And so I began again. Something very promising happened with this manuscript, yet rather than going into what became a false start, I’ll simply say fate intervened and everything came to a halt. I picked myself up and  pressed on with querying agents. Enter Julie Gwinn of The Seymour Literary Agency. I’ll leave you here and report there is great hope for my third book, yet I will reiterate I am not one to jinx things, and I’ve learned a little something about the folly of counting chickens!

I’m sharing “my story” to remind all writers to persevere because I’m still doing so. It’s a long and winding road ( thank you, Paul McCartney) and I’m thinking it’s also unpredictable. The important thing is that all writers recognize that it is enough to be on the road. I’m fond of saying the good news about a writing career is there is no “there” to get to; there is only the fulfilling path.

And while I’ve got you, let me leave you with something the publisher of my first two novels posted. For those of you who are Catholic Christian writers, this one’s for you, and my wish is it creates an open door to your publishing dreams:

https://getvinspired.wordpress.com/2017/01/17/well-be-accepting-pitches-at-the-catho/

Sending great blessings to you all, and, as they say in Ireland,” slainte.”