For example, I heard this story recently: A man tries to converse with a friend who is a writer, and is incredulous when he gets no response. In fact, the writer simply sits and stares off into space. The writer’s spouse tells the man, “Don’t worry, he’s not ignoring you. He’s just working.”

So I smugly, and with probable great delusion, think to myself, I am working. I’m thinking about it, aren’t I?

What? I’m thinking deep thoughts, here. Deep thoughts. Deep. (Zzzzzzzz…)

The fact is, a writer’s inner life and workings certainly do inspire the actual physical scribbling upon the page (or upon the computer screen, as is more apt these days). I find that my thinking is an invaluable facet of the final product that eventually manifests itself as words. Imagination has to come from somewhere, doesn’t it? It must invariably and obviously come from our thoughts.

It’s terribly difficult to find that place, though, which is why I think a lot of my ideas come to me at night, when the very air itself is silent. I wake, and ideas whisk their way into my head, and most of the time I think, Okay, remember that one. You’ll remember it. No worries. No need to write it down. It’s that good. Heh.

And then, the next morning: What the hell was that idea, anyway? Damn. Oh, well.

(Here I must interject my recommendation for any writer to have by the bed a notebook and a good pen, and/or a hand-held tape recorder.)

Finding the silence that creates reflective imagination is certainly hard to come by, but if one can sort things out amidst noise and presence, then one has something more valuable than gold, indeed. This is the thing to strive for, then. A calm in a harried world. A source of inspiration within chaos. And then, a chance to get it down before it scuffles off again.

And, at least around our house, a pig flying by would be most encouraging, too.

Nothing.

“Mom?”

I peeked out from behind the screen to see my daughter’s small head in view. She was holding seven books, some plastic play food, and pick-up sticks with clay placed strategically upon the ends – no small feat, that. I marveled at the quality of her maneuvering skills.

“Yes?”

“Will you read with me?”

*Sigh.*

“Of course, honey,” I said, tucking away the reluctance like a penny slipped into a back pocket. “Come on.”

Into her room we went, and as we did I realized that it was probably for the best. Obviously, my forcing it wouldn’t make the words flow any easier – at least, not today. I was grasping at straws – or at least, at pick-up sticks. With little bits of clay stuck on the ends.

It hadn’t been that long, had it? As I read “Ten Little Monkeys,” my mind wandered, and I thought about how long it had really been. Like old married couples who dutifully keep track of the number of times they have sex in any given month, I was keeping track of how long it had been since I’d written anything spectacular. Or anything at all, for that matter.

Too long.

Afterwards, long afterwards, I sat down once again. This time, all children were in bed, and all distractions were gone – save the dog, who lay at my feet, groaning the occasional exhausted doggie-groan.

I didn’t want to do it. But I did it, anyway.

I read my manuscript.

It wasn’t all that bad. I thought some parts were good, even. Surprisingly. Shockingly.

But, I thought, not good enough, were they? And who was I kidding? What made me think I could actually sell this thing? What made me think I was a writer, anyway? Whoever said that anyone would want to read my work – let alone, buy it? Was I destined to be a writer only in my head, in my dreams – writing to the void, to the empty universe, for myself only?

But when I thought about it further, I found that it didn’t matter, much.

It didn’t matter, I thought, that no one would read it. What mattered was I had to write it. All of it. I had to write it down, had to express it, what it meant to me to be human, what my characters were thinking, feeling, the things they did, the mistakes they made, the love they lost, the triumphs they experienced. I needed to express all of this because it was my life, my way of processing my truth and relationship to the world, and to hell with worrying about who would read it.

Who cares, I thought, my mind beginning to wildly awaken, Who cares if anyone reads it.

The first sentence came. And then another. And I had a paragraph. And then my fingers couldn’t keep up with my mind, the words slipping out faster than I could physically handle, ideas coming so fast that I had to type everything as it came, even if it didn’t make any sense within the context of the sentence. I had to get it all down before it was lost.

My self-consciousness had gone. In its place was a river, a concentrated tunnel – as good as it gets. And only later, when I went back to read it over, did I realize that a bit of it was junk. And a bit of it was mediocre. But most of it was real, honest life.

And wasn’t that really the whole point?

At the risk of sounding positively redundant, I thought I might share what I’ve learned, so far. Which isn’t much, honestly. Just a measly bit of experience, really. And probably everything that you’ve heard or read before. Hence, the redundant nature of the whole thing. I mean, do you see what I’m getting at?

At the risk of sounding egregiously repetitive, here are my thoughts on the subject. Feel free to disengage at any point. But if you hang in there with me, I’m anxious to hear your thoughts on the matter, too – if you’ve had any querying experiences that might add to the conversation. Or in this case, the bloggersation.

Ø      Research. I’m big on this. Big. I’ll research anything, and I’ll research it until my eyeballs are about to implode from immeasurable reading. It’s one of my favorite things to do. (Research, I mean – not having my eyeballs implode).

It’s vitally important to know the agent’s preferences before sending off the letter. That means not only what genre they accept, but what genre they’re accepting right now. Many agents have updated websites with this information included. For example, if you are looking online and find that an agent accepts science fiction, look a bit further. You might visit their personal website and find that they, in fact, no longer accept science fiction, but are now way in the groove of chick lit and memoirs. Sending a query introducing your sizzling sci-fi novel will do you no good here, even if some website somewhere said that they will accept it.

Take note of where you get your information. Use reliable sources.

Looking up their client list gives you a good glimpse of the kind of thing they’re interested in. Or better yet, read the credits of a book that falls into the same category as yours, and see if the author mentions their agent. Research that agent online and then follow up from there.

Sometimes it’s possible to get a handle on the personality of an agent by reading their website and/or blog. It’s important to feel as if you can connect with your agent on a human level – so if an agent seems to work very differently than you do, you might re-think sending a query his or her way.

Ø      Follow the submission instructions. To a tee. Don’t send your first chapter when they are asking for the first ten pages. Don’t send your synopsis as an attachment if they specify that they want you to copy it into the body of an e-mail. Don’t send any excerpts if they are only requesting a query letter. You might think that your sample chapter is an absolute knock-out – and perhaps it is. But an agent won’t want to work with you if you can’t follow directions.

Ø      Be polite. Don’t come across as a total egoist in your query letter. Don’t compare yourself to J.K. Rowling or Khaled Hosseini. Don’t write that your book would translate well to the big screen.

At the same time, make sure you come across as confident and professional. Make sure you thank them for their time. And after a rejection, please don’t write them asking why they rejected you. Don’t have a hissy fit and tell them that they’re missing out on a great deal and that your book will be the book of the century, just wait and see – so there. Don’t take it personally. Thank them for their time and consideration. Wipe away your tears, sweetie. Then move on.

Ø      Leave out the fact that you’re working on the sequel. The agent doesn’t really care about the sequel. All that an agent is concerned about is your one book that you’ve completed, right now. Focus on that. It’s okay to mention that you’re working on other things, but try not to make that be a focal point – a qualification. And for God’s sake, don’t mention a sequel AND the fact that it would be great for the big screen. Slush pile city.

Ø       Make sure the agent is reputable. Yes, there are agents out there that will take your money and give you nothing in return. But you should never give an agent money up front. A reputable agent won’t ask for a dime until you sell your book. Preditors and Editors is a great resource, which lists agencies alphabetically and offers recommendations and warnings. I also like the Absolute Write Water Cooler. You can read about agents in the “Bewares, Recommendations, and Background Check” section. Informative, and sometimes hilarious.

Another good bet is to go with an agency that belongs to the Association of Authors’ Representatives, or the AAR. Although there are good agents who are not members of the AAR, you can be sure that if an agent is a member, he or she is in good standing.

Research, research, research! I just can’t say it enough. Sunken eyeballs be damned!

How about you? Do you have any thoughts to add? Have you had a different experience in querying agencies and agents?  

The photo you see above is not unlike my own head, at the moment. Full of cobwebs and broomstick straw, all intertwining and lacing around and about until things become quite muddled and I draw in my breath as if the very life of me is being sucked out into the abyss – as if I’m floating into the end zone of virtual insanity. Or at least, extreme nail-biting and perhaps a nervous tic, or two.

Honestly, there are so many things going on in my head that I’ve neglected querying agents for too long, along with everything else, and it’s time to Get Back To It. This querying business hasn’t gotten the best of me yet. Nor will it, I suspect, until they rip the yellowing manuscript from the clutch of my cold, dead hands.

To have so many things whirling around in life is unsettling, if not a bit numbing. Most times, one walks through the day in a zombie state, complete with vacant eyes, and mouth ajar, as if to catch some random insect or drifting speck of dust that might float on in. No wonder, then, that one emerges feeling somewhat stiff and sore – as if one has been stuck for centuries in a man hole, with no proper way out.

Which is why my son’s latest name for me, “fresh egg,” is so transforming and metaphorically uplifting that it’s almost painful. “Mom,” he says, “you’re a fresh egg.” And then he hugs me. Maybe a couple of times, even. (Which I’ll gladly take, what with him getting older and almost into the don’t-touch-me-don’t-look-at-me-please-pretend-you-don’t-know-me-old-lady stage).

The name is so appealing that it attaches to my psyche like a rainbow-colored gluestick, propelling me forward into a more creative state. I am a fresh egg, aglow and complete with new energy and a smooth, hard shell, perched gracefully in a nest of twigs and feathers, attentive and warm in the sun’s soft light.

I perform the perfect oval egg-dive into the quiet space I call “querying agents for fun and profit,” and there I wade, engulfed in a love of research, undying tenacity, and a general obstinance – three qualities that make querying so damn doable. It’s as if my small boy has whispered magic words to me, the words that pushed me out from under myself and into a point of action – those two small words, “fresh,” and “egg.”

Those are the words of the angels of creation, the words that gave birth to this sorry old cranky rooster, the words that conjured up thoughts of starting again, and again, and again. The words that I’ll gladly scarf down for breakfast, any day of the week. Served not scrambled, but sunny-side up.

A.    The final (ha ha) draft completed
2.    My query letter ready to go (ho ho) to an agent, and
III   …(crickets)…

Eh? What’s missing? Oh, yeah. The synopsis. The old, demanding, pain-in-the-ass, albatross-like, heavy as the Sears catalogue, pull-you-into-the-ocean-like-you’re-wearing-cement-loafers, effing synopsis.

I’ve been working on this thing for awhile, I guess. Or, I’ve been talking about working on it a lot, while I chisel away at it in semi-regular bursts. I know I’ve been talking about it a lot, because my dear little daughter has now named one of her make-believe characters “Synop-sey.”

I like Synop-sey, actually. She’s much nicer than her cantankerous cousin, the delete-key-wielding Synopsis. He’s infuriating, that Synopsis – always leaving bags of dog shit on my doorstep, and then running away, chuckling madly. Synop-sey plants soft butterfly kisses on my forehead, and then skips off to make me some strawberry tea. I love Synop-sey. And strawberry tea. And butterfly kisses.

But, Synopsis? Not so much.

I think I do him a disservice, though. As much as he offends, he’s also a necessary evil – a kind of noodgie guy who continually clonks me over the head with his well-meaning, but annoying reminder that, “Hey – you have to finish me, do me, write me, hit me up, before you can do that other thing. You know what I’m talking about, baby. You need me, need to liberate me before you do the query letter thing. The agent thing. Come on, now – you know how it is.”

And I do. I do know how it is. It’s one of those tasks that writers must manage, must shoulder before any leap off the cliff of agent insanity occurs. So, it’s what I’m immersed in., like it or not. And, I can’t let it freeze me up, as it is wont to do, so I have to stop procrastinating and get to it. I have to stop doing things like…like…

Well, like blogging, for example.

But, still. I’d much rather be hanging with Synop-sey, reading back issues of Writer’s Digest while lounging on the hammock in the yard, periodically looking up at the clouds and the fading sunlight with delicious carelessness. Although she does keep me from doing my work – which, in itself, might give me cause to abandon her for the moment. I’ll be back at some point, though, as I sit and wait for replies from agents, swigging back tea and probably wine, taking butterfly kisses and further clonks on the head, swinging from the stars and barking at the moon.

So, in the spirit of my zealous and adorably overly-ambitious sister-friends, all of whom I love dearly, I am writing up a list of things I have “on my plate,” as they say. (Gosh, how I hate that term. Give me a harsh glare if I use it again).

1. Finish my book (duh).
2. Find and secure a job, which actually pays money (duh).
3. Actually work at the job I find (AND I must insert a *final* duh once more. Gosh, how I hate that word, “duh.” Give me a wilting stare if I use it again).
4. Clean the house (or at least play at wafting about with a broom).
5. Launder the never-ending piles of clothing.
6. Play with/do projects with the kids (this should probably go further up on the list, but I suppose the numbers here aren’t necessarily in order of importance).
7. Paint certain parts of the house that need painting desperately (woodwork, half-done windows, the manic yellow color in my study that I habitually, and uneasily, stare at).
8. Clean up the yard, rake, etc.
9. Finally finish up the compost pile so that it’s usable, so that I discontinue my ritual of simply throwing all those apple cores and whatnot out the kitchen window (What? The birds eat them, you know. And the deer).
10. Run/bike/otherwise move my relatively inactive, lazy self.
11. Finish sorting out our stuff that we don’t need/use anymore, and give it to Big Brother/Big Sister.
12. Clean out the storage space in the basement. (Ha. And, ha. You’d laugh, too, if you saw it).
13. Finish ripping wallpaper off the walls in the bathroom in the basement.
14. Volunteer at the local non-profit.
15. Attend Arts League meetings.
16. Squinch my wet hair up in strange ways before bed, so that I wake up to a bad hair day the next morning (What? It helps my creative flow, apparently, to look somewhat like Einstein).
17. Discover the cure for cancer.
18. Facilitate world peace.
19. Stop using so damned many parenthesis.
20. Cease making useless, boring lists and posting them on my blog.

I mean, do you see what I’m getting at?

Frankly, I don’t know how people do it. Manage time, that is. But I do have a solution for #1, anyway. And that is…(drum roll)…get up early!

I know. It’s not rocket science. But truth be told, I hadn’t entertained the thought before, mainly because I wasn’t certain that it would work. I thought I might just opt out, just sleep through that dark, hazy, sort of dreamy and still time of morning. But, the truth is, that is my best time. My most creative and prolific time. It must be taken advantage of.

And, if I get THAT done early on in the day – if I feel as if I’ve accomplished THAT – well, the other things might just fall into place, non? I think I might have stumbled onto something, here. The old writer-gets-up-at-five-in-the-morning trick.

It might even make me healthy and wealthy, too. Although, I sincerely doubt that it will make me any wiser. More likely, it’ll just make me cranky and haggard. But with a soothing cup of tea, and a silent, hopeful room, I might be able to get some serious work done. And see the sunrise, to boot.

*crickets*

Um. So, now what? After the inevitable and (admittedly) obnoxious show of patting myself on the back and bragging to all of my friends, now comes a sort of wilted sigh. And with it, a slight stepping away.

Oh, I was gung ho, initially. I began my re-writes with gusto and confidence, my swagger on in full regalia, incorporating my readers’ edits, adding whole paragraphs to particularly weak sections, attending to detail and fleshing out character history, correcting consistency issues and toning up dialect, etcetera, etcetera, and so on, blah, blah, blah.

Soon I found that my finger hesitated as it hovered over the Word icon on my desktop, and in that final instant – that microsecond of decision fighting indecision – I would instead move the mouse over two inches and click on the Outlook icon – or worse, Firefox. (shiver).

I found myself coming up with reasons why I couldn’t look at it, at any given minute. I’m tired. I’m hungry. My creative spirit isn’t as it should be, right now. The moon is full, and you know what they say about that. My finger hurts. The new episode of House Hunters is on soon, and I need to see it. You know, in case I need to buy a house. Or something.

The plain fact is, I need the distance. I know it’s good for me. It just makes me slightly nervous, as I’ve stopped and started with this manuscript so many times, and I’m a-feared it might be awhile before I go back.

Hence, I’ve made a small kind of personal deadline with myself. By the end of the year, it will be in halfway decent shape, enough so that I might feel comfortable starting to contact agents. This is my plan, and will remain my plan, so long as we both shall live.

It’s a good one, no? Better than the other plan of taking a step back, then another, and then running off in the other direction to cavort with all the other projects I have rolled up my sleeve. And believe you me, there are plenty in there. In fact, my sleeves are getting rather cramped and bulky with projects. People have stopped me on the street, asking why my arms  are all bunched up all over the place. “Oh, those are projects. Just waiting,” I say. “I’m going to cavort with all of them, once my book is ready.” And then they walk away slowly, periodically glancing back at me in concern and discomfort.

…Are you still with me?

I’m grateful to have finished the thing at all, frankly. It has been some time – since the birth of my last child, which was three and a half years ago. So, it’s been three and a half years. (See how I worked that out? Pretty tricky. Math has always been my strong suit).

The very fact that I made my FIRST deadline, which was end-of-summer for the first draft, still has me falling silent in amazement. Aside from finishing it, I think the thing that stuns me more is that I actually made a personal deadline. I stuck to it. I have stick-to-it-ive-ness, which is an adjective I thought I’d never, ever use in describing myself. (Actually, I never thought I’d use that word at all. Sorry. And also, sorry for all the parentheses).

I would encourage any writer who is having trouble getting back to a draft to incur readership to get things rolling again. It was the one thing that absolutely SAVED me, the one thing that got me re-writing – the insistence of a dear friend who wanted to read it. He wanted to read it. In every e-mail message he wrote, he added at the end, “OH, and by the way. When am I going to get to read your book?”

Well, it played on my – oh, vanity, I guess you could say. But also…well…isn’t the point of the whole writing thing having someone read it? Just the thought of someone else reading it gave me the courage and hope and chutzpah to carry on with it. I started from the beginning again, re-wrote like a crazy person all the way through what I had down already, and then the momentum carried me through to the end. I would recommend this to anyone facing an incomplete and languishing manuscript. It was inspiring. I am grateful.

And, I’m grateful for my delightful muse, who still pesters me with her gorgeous face, and sometimes even comes out fully from around the corner so that I can see all of her – all her limitless energy, encouragement, and design. There could be worse things than this. It’s work. And I love it. This is the life for me.

What happens if you write something, and it gets read by someone whom you know and love, and that person becomes upset because they believe you are writing about them, and that you’ve made them sound less-than-appealing?

And here’s another thing.

What if they’re right?

What happens when a writer writes on his or her own life, tells the truth in all ugly detail, lets loose and really conveys life and all personal experiences? Do people categorically get hurt? Do lines get crossed, without fail?

I’m not sure what to make of this. And, I’m also not sure what the answer is. Certainly, writers have historically written on their own family drama. Look at Eugene O’Neill, for God’s sake. You can’t get much more autobiographical than that. And, how did his family react? Were they mortified? Humiliated? Did they take the next boat to the Virgin Islands, to live their days in hovelled seclusion?

No. I think they pretty much stayed in Connecticut and continued on with the alcohol and morphine.

But, what is to be done when one has the need to tell a story – and the story happens to be based on a real experience? Do we, as writers, have to edit to the point of a safe anonymity?

I feel as if, when I write, I don’t want to edit myself, and I don’t want to leave anything out, for fear of the possibility of offending someone. But at the same time, I DON’T want to offend anyone – that is, anyone I know personally. I could give a rat’s ass if I offend a stranger. (In fact, bring on the offended strangers. It only means I’m hitting on an emotion, rather than just emptily harping around).

I suppose that you can’t please everyone. And if you write in the same cordial manner that you would, say, champagne-toast a newly-married couple, then you might be well-received and politely applauded, but at the same time you might be oh-so-bland – like white bread slathered with unsalted butter. Me, I’d rather be Lobster Fra Diavolo. Or maybe, a really well-seasoned jalapeno popper. (Mmmm…excuse me a moment, while I go get a snack).

The bottom line, I suppose, is to write from deep in the pit of your stomach, with as much self-possession as possible. And, if someone gets offended in the creative process, then maybe apologize. And move on, while staying true to the illusive muse, the creative process, the reason we all do this in the first place.

Which is…why, exactly?

Not to offend, not to call somebody out, not even to practice pseudo-self-analysis by getting your panties all in a-dither.

But to simply convey your own personal truth and perception of the world, and to connect with at least one other person in this matter.

And, hopefully, everyone on earth will be happy with that.

Hey – give me a break. I JUST started. And have to say, it’s an amazing thing, this running. It’s so very Zen-like, and, as my dear runner-friend told me (who runs marathons, by the way, so she should know), the brain is trained as much as the body. So, if I am getting tired too quickly, I can train my brain to step beyond my body. Hurdle over it, even.

It seems to work.

Another interesting phenomenon I’ve found is that, especially when I’m not intent on looking at the stop-watch (a tiresome habit, that), I find myself writing in my head. To the pace of my feet – in rhythm. It’s almost like writing music, each syllable in sync with the tapping of each foot as it hits the pavement.

I’ve (thump)
been (thump)
run (thump)
ning (thump)
late (thump)
ly (thump)
Or (thump)
should (thump)
I (thump)
say (thump)
walk (thump)
run (thump)
ning (thump)

Aaaand scene.

(I’ve been adding “Aaaaand scene” lately in my posts. I like it, apparently. I actually stole it from a friend, who I’m sure doesn’t mind if I use it here. At the risk of being vexing, though, I’ll try not to use it too much).

While walking, the words come much more gently, and I can think paragraphs through, although they are, for the most part, lost when I get home. It’s all part of the Buddhist thing. It’s art, temporarily.

I almost feel like bursting out aloud in verse, just to solidify the whole impermanence of it all. You know, words wafting away into thin air. I will likely NOT remember all the clever turns-of-phrase, the startling revelations, the unpredictable profundities. (Ha ha).

But damn it (I think, as I traipse down the street), all you birds and squirrels had better stop and listen now, because SOMEONE is going to hear this stuff. If not, I’m just some insane lady walking along talking to herself.

As opposed to some insane lady walking along talking to birds and squirrels.

In all honesty, I DON’T talk aloud while I’m walking (and now you can breathe a sigh of relief). Rather, I am, at times, chattering in my head – which is actually not Buddhist in the slightest bit, so I don’t know where I get off calling it that.

However. Sometimes in the quiet moments, the moments when I’m just in my body, focused, when my brain turns itself off and I’m just there, watching my arms pump, and feeling my breath coming in delicious gasps, and keeping my gaze up – in these moments, I am, frankly, not writing, not talking, not chattering, but simply just being. And this is the moment that is true artistry.

And clears my head for more writing, once I’m at home.

I tell you, it’s a beautiful thing.

A) Writers love everything.
B) Writers are the gatekeepers of vast and varied and often useless information
C) To be a writer, one should strive to be a dilettante, in a most refreshing and resourceful way
D) I over-think everything. (This last is my own personal reprimand to myself, so please ignore).

I am no longer feeling apologetic for the variations present in my life, such as they are. There are simply too many wonderful things around in the world to be explored, and I will not shirk my curiosity for fear of straying from some make-believe niche that someone (quite possibly myself) told me I cannot do without.

My primary loyalty is to my own thoughts and ideas, so I will continue to spout them forth – much to your chagrin, perhaps – so that I might have a place to air out everything in a relatively constructive way.

That being said, this continues to be my “writer’s blog,” so I’ll continue from that perspective. But other things might wander their way in, and I’ll certainly welcome them and let them stay. Perhaps give them a snack, and a cup of tea. And then get back to the business of writing, and writing on writing, on topics such as:

A) The journey of a first-time novelist
B) The blog, and its benefits in curing writer’s block – which might bring me to…
C) Writer’s block, and its contemptible behavior (Right now it’s running around throwing all my things on the floor and laughing mercilessly. Oh, wait. That’s my children).
D) Harnessing the imagination
E) Creating infuriating alphabetized lists, with seemingly random list items
F) Rambling on and on, when the post has obviously played itself out
G) I promise you, this is the last you’ll hear from me on this subject

Aaaaaand scene.