Oh, hello.

It's been a month. Heh. Things have been full of me spiritually regrouping, so to speak. Now it's National Novel Writing Month, so I'm currently working on that right now. 50K words in a month sounds pretty daunting, except I've done it for the past for years, starting in 2004 with Being Plumville. That worked out fairly well, didn't it? ;). I've won every year I've done it. 2005 was The Blueprint, although that novel isn't done, and last year it was Manna Tree, which is. This year's NaNo is called NaNo07. It has no title, but I'm thinking that I tend to like historical settings for NaNo, except for last year's of course. This one is set in the mid 1850s, surrounding the events of Bleeding Kansas. That's all I'll say about it at the moment, but I got the idea during my day job as I was proofreading an American history textbook. Go figure. Anyway, right now I'm currently ahead of pace, and hopefully it'll stay that way.

At any rate, this is just a note to tell everyone I am still alive and writing my own original fic. Want proof? Here's the first single-spaced page of NaNo07. It's not beta'ed or spell-checked or anything, as one of the rules not to edit (yes, I do fudge it a little, sue me!) I hope you enjoy!

Sav


~~~~~~

One

The heavy dark clouds had besieged the sky like an invading army, and its cavalry of freezing rain, sleet, and snow attacked with merciless precision. Deborah thought she’d left the farm early enough to beat the storm, but Mrs. Fogg had started talking so, asking how Miss Luella was getting on; and if Mister Grayson was going to try for Kansas City and a proper doctor now that he had gotten that wheel on his wagon fixed; and she how couldn’t wait for another one of Aunt Flora’s buttermilk pies. She’d bounced on the balls of her feet, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she gave wary glances to the sky through the window just above Mrs. Fogg’s head. Nevertheless, she had nodded and given appropriate mews of agreement when Mrs. Fogg had poured the brewed remedy in the brown glass bottle and promised to pray for Miss Luella’s cough to go away. The illness had gripped poor Miss Luella since before Thanksgiving, and the remedy had been the only thing that had managed to ease it. Though the remedy hadn’t been low, Mister Grayson had wanted to get more before the storm arrived. It had smelled like a big mean one; yesterday, the air had been so still and silent even Miss Luella’s coughs had whimpered out her body as if afraid to hurry tempest along. Deborah would’ve fetched the remedy yesterday, but Mister Grayson had to go into town to pick up supplies for the oncoming storm, and Mrs. Fogg lived three miles in the other direction. Mister Grayson didn’t feel comfortable leaving his wife with only Aunt Flora to look after her, the woman older and not as mobile as Deborah was, and since the ground was already snow-dusted from an earlier, yet gentler snowfall, Deborah would be much more able and quicker to retrieve help. Had Mister Grayson not sold off her husband Isaiah a few months before they had moved here year ago, he would’ve stayed with Aunt Flora and Miss Luella while she went off to Mrs. Fogg.

At the rate she was currently going, however, Deborah doubted she was making any better progress than Aunt Flora would have. It felt as if she was sinking into snow and earth and not moving forward at all, instead just marching futilely in place. Cold speared its way through her threadbare wool coat. The snow melted and pooled in her too-big brown pegged brogans, saturating her holey socks and making water squish between her toes with each step she made. The remedy bottle tinged from each pelt of freezing rain, but the squalling winds soon drowned out the sound, joining the snowy brigade and conspiring against her quest home. They lanced frigid precipitation against her naked face, though she’d gratefully her nose and ears had lost sensation early in her trek. Though she’d tried to hide her hands in the sleeves of her coat, they still tingled with the retreat of feeling. She had to get back, though. Miss Luella still needed the remedy, and with this storm going like it was, it would be a long time before Mrs. Fogg could gather more ingredients for another brew, or for anyone to go to Mrs. Fogg’s cabin to get more should she make more. Not only that, Miss Luella had always been so kind to her and Aunt Flora, and Deborah didn’t even want to think about what Mister Grayson would do should his wife become worse. He loved Miss Luella dearly . . .

Deborah’s calves and thighs burned, growing leaden, as if the muscles swelling and constricting simultaneously against the fierceness of the storm. Her head ached, frozen raindrops and snowflakes falling upon her head like mallets. Another squall and an unseen ground hazard sent Deborah stumbling into the snow. Icy shock seized her body, and though her brain demanded her arms to lift her body, she was too exhausted to heed the command.

“Oh, Lord, help me,” she whispered, forcing her panic into a tight ball deep in her belly. She prayed the bottle didn’t break, though she wouldn’t be able to tell because her entire body was soaked and she could no longer feel her hands. A traitorous sob stole from her mouth, but she clamped her chapped lips close together so that more wouldn’t follow. She was stuck outside an unforgiving tempest and had no idea where she was. She didn’t know if she’d past the point of no return . . . didn’t even know where that point would be. Everything around her was gray, white, and dull. She recognized nothing.

Overwhelmed (in less than a good way)

Yes. My book is out in the universe thanks to iUniverse.

Now I feel at a lost, stumped, and downright mentally exhausted. All I keep hearing now from my family is "what's the plan?"

I know I need a marketing plan. I really do; I'm not so naive not to know that. However, I couldn't even begin to know where to start. Outside of my (apparently hit-or-miss) web site, my blog and my google group, as well as telling all of my friends via e-mail, facebook, IM, and the various other messageboards I'm on, I pretty much was relying on word-of-mouth to help me along. I am not a planner. I am a writer. I understood when I first decided to thumb my nose at NY establishment that I would have to bear the brunt of everything, but as someone who works, is working on way too many other novels, and is just so god-awfully shy, I'm feeling daunted, quite frankly. I do not think of my writing as a hobby at all, but I'd like one minute for me to catch my breath before I go hawking my book to people who don't know me, probably don't care to know me, and, in light of the present racial culture out there, would probably think my novel is the Black Plague, Small Pox, and the Bird Flu all rolled into one. Added to that, I've only gotten two reviews on my book (outside of people who know me personally telling me what they think of it.) That review on B&N is looking awfully lonely, and Amazon has nothing up. Be careful what you wish for, Sav. I know, I know, but I have no idea how many books I've sold outside what iUniverse is telling me, which is a grand total of one actual book and seven e-books. I KNOW I've sold more than that because my friend just texted and said she got a book, as well as two people from TST telling me they just purchased it. I sent it off to Writer's Digest Self-Published Book Awards, so hopefully I'll get good news from that, and in general, I feel very lost, flopping around; a grounded bird. Yes, I've been busy at work, but the inspiration to write other things is gone. I have VS and GS and TF (poor, poor, neglected TB) but nothing is flowing. I need time to unwind, but I need a marketing plan.

Did I mention I don't have one? I thought I should again.

I have a new appreciation for professional writers now. I just do. Much props.

RJC Recjection #Whatever

Normally, I don't post the text of the rejection letters I receive, but this one struck me for a number of reasons.

~~~~~~~~

Dear Savannah:

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to review a portion of your manuscript, Reconstructing Jada Channing. I apologize for the long delay, but I’ve been simply overwhelmed with submissions all year. After careful consideration, I don’t feel this is a project I can take on at this time.

As I conduct a legal practice in addition to my work as an agent, I am forced to be very selective in both the number and kinds of literary projects that I take on to represent. Although I am eagerly looking for quality commercial fiction, I ultimately concluded that your writing was not strong enough to make this a clearly marketable project. The beginning is slow and the references to the cultural race ethnic gap became redundant. However, you should certainly not interpret my decision as the final negative assessment of your manuscript. As you know, this is a most subjective business and most agents, I believe, take on only those projects that they personally feel strongly about and most confident of selling. Other agents may well assess your manuscript differently.

[Deleted Paragraph to Protect Name of Agency]

I wish you the best in finding strong representation for your work, and thank you again for giving me the opportunity to consider this project.

~~~~~~~~

My immediate thought was, "If she thought it was redundant in this one, she would've hated Being Plumville." I swear to my mama, that was my first thought. My second thought was redundant? Where? Granted, in the first chapter I can see how one would think that, but given Jada had JUST done something she'd been told ALL HER LIFE not to do, I would think you'd have the act and subsequent repercussions of it on loop, no? I actually scanned the first three chapters, and after the first one, there really isn't anything "redundant" about the racial/cultural/ethnic gap other than IT EXISTS and it is something the characters have to mitigate as they move along in the story. I would like to think it wasn't sloppily thrown in there, or that there were outside forces other than those "pesky" gaps, but seriously, that is life, and more importantly, the characters' life. If an agent can't handle that, then I'd rather him/her not represent my book, either.

My third thought was, "what does 'clearly marketable' mean?" To which the follow-up to that was, "which market is she talking about?" And then we go into the whole "black authors pigeon-holed" arena and my head starts to hurt.

Finally, I was wounded. Not gonna lie. It's a major blow to my ego, especially when my readers for the thesis at university had given it strong comments. Now, I don't expect for everyone to like my writing or my stories, but for her to say my writing wasn't strong enough . . . I'm just going to have to respectfully disagree. Do I think I'm the best writer out there? No. But I've seen books published that make me scratch my head, and I think my work can AT LEAST hold up to those.

This rejection makes me even more confident I did the right thing with Being Plumville in self-publishing that. If people can't handle RJC, then Being Plumville was really a lost cause. And what about my so very neglected The Blueprint, which is the prequel to RJC? I just . . . I don't know. I'm really at a loss. What does this mean for a black writer looking for an agent, especially for IR, or even novels that mention race in a real and honest way in 2007 and not in 1907 or some earlier time when it's more palatable. Yes, the agent to whom I submitted the story was white, but I have discussions with fellow black authors who don't like race-driven romances either. Yes, race is a factor in RJC, but it isn't THE factor, at least I don't think it is. Maybe I'm too close to it, and this is my baby. Blood, sweat, tears, mini-breakdowns, stress . . . that's all in this novel, and I'm proud of the final product. Even as I'm re-reading it yet again to proof it yet again, I just think, for me, this would be something I would buy had someone else written it.

Or maybe, the agents are on to something and I just don't want to admit it to myself. After all, I'm the newbie here. They have a better feel for the market than I do (oh, we go back to that whole "who is the market for black folk" thing). Mainstream=white, we all know that. But I don't see why mainstream wouldn't want to read the story. The professors who read my thesis was a white man and a Japanese woman, and they liked it. So . . .

"Not strong enough" that one really pisses me off. Yeah, dammit, I'm going to toot my own horn and say my writing is strong enough! Can it be stronger? Of course, but I don't think it's weak. And trust, I have folk who will GLADLY tell me I suck on the regular. And, "as the final negative assessment of your manuscript"? Does she plan on me getting more negative feedback? I mean, I'm sure I will, that left a sour taste in my mouth, even with the "disclaimer" that others may see differently.

So far they haven't. Boo to them.




I don't know. I'm upset, but more, I guess, because it seems there is little willingness to take on projects that make people uncomfortable. Both RJC and BP are not comfortable novels, and perhaps my problem is I'm trying to pub them as romances and they just aren't. Maybe they're just novels that have a love story, but how does one market that?

Eh, well, at least I finally got an answer. And she did say more about why she wasn't accepting my work than the standard rejection form, so I'm grateful for that. And she is one in an ever-growing list of agents who say "thanks, but no thanks" but I'm waiting for that agent who says, "Eh. Why not? Let's give it a go." I'm standing by my personal promise NOT to self-publish this one. Even if it takes thirty years, I'm going to try to go the traditional route with this one.

*claps hands* Onto the next would-be agent!

The Blueprint

This was my NaNo for 2005, and I don't even think it's halfway done. This is a particularly hard story for me to write, much like Trust Fall but for very different reasons. The Blueprint is my prequel to Reconstructing Jada Channing, which essentially lays out all the foundations, motivations, and histories for Jada and by extension, Candace (and to lesser degreees Lucille and Harry) about why things were the way they are in RJC. It's a hard tale, one in which I have to be brutally honest, and one in which I find myself getting frustrated and sometimes even disliking my characters. Yet, they all have a point, they all have hurts and they all have complicated lives. The fact this is not a romance also leads to the possibility of unresolved points or even negatively resolved points. Clearly Candace still has issues over things that happened in her past in RJC, and yet I find it easy (if frustrating on a personality level) to write her. Dorcas is also easy to write. It is Calliope who is so difficult, but considering who she is, that is to be expected. I don't know. I have to do this one in spurts, because I guess the heaviness leaves me daunted and overwhelmed at times. I just want to do their story justice, and make them people with one could empathize. I'm doing my best, Ames Women. I'm doing my best.

bana