Go Get Yourself a Writing Group!

I will spare you a post on how I hurt myself terribly watching a "Stellaluna" puppet show yesterday at the Craterian Theater.

I will spare you from knowing how I added insult to injury by dumping curry powder all over my stiff, 40 year-old self this morning.

Instead, I will plug Christy, who has to set aside writing this week to attend the Gun & Knife Trade Show in Las Vegas.

Christy met me yesterday morning (pre-puppet show accident) in pouring rain at the bottom of Lithia Park. We walked ourselves to the top, mulling over the very last part of my Drain revision.

The thing is, I was rehashing all the edits Christy had given me (that I didn't take) a while back when we'd met for tacos. Like a good writing partner, she asked me first what I was thinking, and somehow held back uproarious laughter as I spit out everything about making the conclusion exactly the way she'd suggested.

We walked and talked, then after I hurt myself at the puppet show, I came back and re-wrote the last two pages of my story.

A good writing partner is hard to find. I know it. And I have four of them.

Thank you, Christy. Bring me back a bayonet!

Here's The Query

If it can help you at all, please take a peek at the query letter that led to the contract. There are two things I want you to know: that I got some help on this from a real author who knows how to kick some query bottom, and that there's a typo -- a typo! Thank you, Holly, for taking me anyway.

Up next: How the Story Has Changed Since


Dear Ms Root,

I've read on many website interviews that you're seeking YA Paranormal Romance. Thank you for considering my 51,000 word Drain.

This manuscript was solicited at a conference by an editor, who nominated it for SCBWI WW's "Outstanding Work in Progress."

Additionally, this summer, my fictional piece "Bakersfield Baptism" won first place at the Pacific Northwest Writer Association's Literary Contest/Conference.

Currently, two prominent editors are considering two of my YA manuscripts.

Thank you again for reading.


Someone is going to drown. There is definitely that.

When a school prank goes fatally wrong, sixteen year-old Kat Atkins sees it. Before it happens. A self-defined “accidental emo,” Kat has been shuffled through foster homes. But in The Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, Kat discovers that she has a “gift.” Right. Like being able to see a drowning is gift-worthy.

As Kat struggles between maintaining her independence and learning to trust adults, as she falls hard for local baseball hero Steven Scarpaci, and as she tries to save a bullied boy from the school beast, Kat begins to unravel a mystery from the banks of the Umpqua River, where despite her best efforts, a life will be washed away forever.

Drain delivers with voice and irony: a book about the curses that come with certain gifts, and about the gifts that can be found in those curses.

Per your the Waxman Agency's website, the first ten pages are pasted below. I am grateful for your time.

All Best,

Jennie Englund

My Dad, Super Editor

Last night, my dad called with his edits on my revision. This is the first of my big things my dad has ever read. And I'll tell you what: he was incredible!

"I liked it so much, I was sad when it ended," he told me. "Your wrote stuff down and I'm seeing it in my head. It's amazing!"

There was lots of love for Drain. And there were some good tips, too, especially about car stuff like fuel lights, back seats, and putting it in Drive.

He caught a big problem with some characters' names: Willy Ray, Wade, and Billy Wade. Yes, I really had them exactly like that. Duh.

Halfway through the story, my dad had emailed me this: "I really like Kat so nothing bad better happen to her!"

There were tips on character, on preserving mystery, on word choice. My smart Poppa also brought up probability stuff and likeliness.

It was so great, having a 63 year-old man's insight into a literary YA novel. I loved working with my dad on this.

Last But Not Least

Setting is somehow the last thing I put into and polish up in my stories.

From the very beginning, I do have a definite idea about setting, but I don't add much of refine until plot and character are completely flushed out. I think the reason is that I have to know my character first. Then I can write her world as she sees it.

For example, in Drain, my MC (16 year-old Kat) tries to find a quiet place to sort out everything:

I walk away, back toward the church, unwrapping a Jolly Rancher and popping it into my mouth. Outside the gate, I hold the iron spears in both hands. The metal is cold and smooth.

The gate swings open widely when I push it, but the big wooden church doors don’t budge. It’s starting to rain harder, though. Water from my hair is dripping onto my eyelashes. So wandering around the outside of the church, I keep my eyes open for a crack or a crevice I can sink into for a while, at least until the downpour stops.

But after I’ve circled the building twice, I can’t find an opening. I can’t find anything, except some kind of a tomb outlined with seashells.

On my third walk around the church, a flight of steps catches my eye. It’s hidden by dense gardenias, and suffocated by ivy, and it heads down into a cellar or a basement or something. This is just the place, I’m sure of it.

Stepping lightly down the narrow steps, I find a door with an antique knob: tarnished brass, and bumpy, with a key hole underneath. When I twist it slowly, it turns. I crack the door and peek into the darkness. It’s a tiny room with a cement floor, and a big Gothic cross with blackened silver and spirals and vines leans upside-down in a corner.

Widening the door, I find a few chairs stacked on each other, and leather hymnals crammed into a book shelf with empty glass jars.

I sweep my hand along the wall, flicking on the light, a dim single bulb.

From way down here, I hear the tower bell ring five muffled rings.

I’ll give myself an hour.

Closing the door on myself in the little room, I slump against the wall, and I turn the cross right-side up, and I breathe in the leather from the hymnals, and I close my eyes.


This was all put in last. After the story was written.

The setting lends itself to Kat's loneliness, her inner conflict.

She's searching for an opening, literally and figuratively.

She's looking for a place of comfort.

In this scene, Kat is the only living thing among forgotten books and empty jars. And yet she feels at home here.

It is right here, right in this scene, where without even telling her audience, Kat makes a critical decision. Did you find it?

It's when Kat turns the cross right-side-up.

She makes a choice then to serve a greater purpose. She will sacrifice everything she's ever wanted for it.

So setting enriches plot and character, but it also strengthens tone.

This is a sad scene. But there aren't many modifiers or dialogue to show that. It's all in the time, weather, sound, surroundings.

Nightmare

Oh my gosh, I had such a bad dream last night: I had sent Holly back my manuscript with the last 20 pages unrevised.

This is because I've been asking myself the last couple days if I did everything she asked me to.

Accept grammatical changes? Check. Post up certain chapters? Check. Add context for MC's first day of school? Check. Emphasize MC's moment of decision and the result of it? Ummm....

Did I do that?

I can't remember. My writing group says I did. Dave says I did.

But I don't know.

The re-revision didn't take weeks and weeks, like I thought it would. Like it did before.

My writing group said it was because I had already done that huge revision. Dave said the same.

Should I trust them?

My New Agent Is

the talented, bright, kind, hardworking
Holly Root
from the Scott Waxman Agency!

I'm super excited to work with Holly;
we're already quite a team. The
suggestions she gave my first draft
of Drain made it
sing!

Whee! This is fun! And I'm so so so so
grateful!

I. Have. An. Agent!

It was the kind of call I'd been hoping and hoping for. She thought the revision was "amazing," the voice, "beautiful," the writing, "rich and deep."

I had to work for it. A few months ago, this agent had given me three big suggestions: make the story seem like it could or could not have actually happened, flush out the male characters and their subplots, make another stab at the overall metaphor. Then see if a new conclusion wrote itself.

And while she was suggesting, (and I was scribbling down every word,) I agreed with everything. The ideas were already flowing.

"Did she tell you to write a new introduction?" my husband asked sceptically.

"No," I told him.

But once I unravelled the whole end, I had to do the beginning over. (I know you know exactly what I mean.)

It was a lot of work. A lot. Hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. While my students' research papers on terrorism were pouring in. While my boys had Fifth Disease. While Daney went on field trips.

I cried to my writing partner, Anjie. "I'm not living," I told her. "This story, it's all I can think about. I'm not a good mom."

"Stay with it," she told me. "Stay in the zone. If you feel the story, you have to go where it takes you."

My kids were understanding. And after a couple months, I was back in Starbucks with my incredible writing group, sharing the last five pages.


I love this agent. I love her. She knew this revision took hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. I confessed that I was able to do it because my unbelievably supportive husband fed me. And shoved me out into the rain to take walks. And started the shower for me when I came back sopping wet and frozen, but ready to write some more.

I love this agent because she gets us writers. Because she says she loves my work. Because she was so right about all those suggestions. Because on top of all that awesomeness, she's a good person.

So there is That Call. From New York City. At six AM.

And it takes everything I'd ever heard it does. Tenacity. Revision. Hard work. Querying.

And patience.

It takes a lot of patience.

But I promise, That Call is so worth every speck of waiting.

The End!

Over the weekend, I drove 700 miles to find my conclusion.

I didn't know what it was, but I knew who had it: my brother-in-law Ryan, a native- New-Yorker-turned-student-teacher who's 36 as of last week.

So I left the kids behind and headed to Buca di Beppo in Sacramento. My sister Erika, my dad, and Ryan all chatted over the Saltimbocca, but I waited a long time for my turn. Because I had a question. When it was my turn, I read the one-sentence summary of my work-in-progress, and I asked how the whole book ends.

Erika and my dad came up with some good stuff, but my eyes were on Ryan. When he sat there, quiet for a full minute, rubbing his chin with his thumb, I knew he was onto something.

And then he laid it all out.

I cried.

I mean, seriously. I seriously cried, and the Bucca staff all came over with cake, clapping and singing "Happy Birthday" to Ryan, and I was bawling, and he sent them away.

I can't tell you the big reason why I was crying yet. But I can tell you the little reason, which is that this was the end! After one year and three different endings, this was it! It sang!

In fact, when I threw the kids and suitcases and Game Boys and iPods back into the car and pretty much flew back to Oregon, I realized that this was what I'd been writing all along.

For two straight days, then, I wrote without stopping. I didn't eat, or sleep, or take phone calls.

And last night, I cried and cried again, as I scribbled out the last three chapters.

Tonight, I brought it to my fabulous writing group. "It's okay if you hate it," I said after reading it aloud. "Because this is it for me. This is the end."

And the end passed. I think I can say it even got some big thumbs-up!

Now, why Ryan?

Why not all my author-friends or friend-friends or family I emailed, begging for help?

Because Ryan has one thing I really lack. Clarity. He can see things clearer more than anyone I know (besides my great man, who gives excellent advice on day-to-day living, not so much literary insight.)

Ryan has the ability of stripping off layers and layers, revealing the essence. Exactly what Drain needed.

So, Ryan, you incredible, smart, authentic guy, next time, the Saltimbocca's on me. That, and the crazy tiramisu.

Drain, Watergate, & Plantar Fasciitis

"What was the Vietnam War about?" Daney, 11, asked as we hit the California border, fourteen miles from home.

Already, I was thinking about my Work-In-Progress, Drain.

"Did we win that war?" Rees, 8, asked.

"Most people would probably say we didn't," I told them. "I'm thinking about my book, though."

"Why didn't we win it?" Dominic, 12, pressed. "Didn't we have better weapons?"

And so my W-I-P was shoved aside so I could talk to the kids about the war, which then turned into a discussion about the Peace Movement, which somehow turned to Watergate.

"So Nixon got in trouble because he lied?" Daney said. "But all the presidents lie now. So he wouldn't get in trouble now, right?"

After 20 miles, I told the kids that if they wanted to know any more about Nixon, they could ask their Poppa when we got to his house.

There were a few quiet miles, two and a half maybe. I was just starting to get back into thinking about Drain. Until Daney asked why the achilles tendon is such a tender part of the human body.

"Achilles. The god," I answered.

Of course that wasn't enough. It just opened this huge discussion on Greek folklore and whether one of the gods was responsible for the plantar fasciitis I had suffered from three years ago, and what is plantar fasciitis, anyway, and why exactly did it hurt.

We were in Redding by then.

The kids wanted In & Out. So until Anderson, they were busy chewing their double-doubles-plus-pickles-minus-onion. Which bought me some thinking time.

"So can I tell you guys this new ending I might try in Drain?" I asked them.

"We're tired of talking," they all said, turning on their iPods and Game Boys.

Winning Week in the House of Pain

I LOVE this week! There's only been one day in it so far, and I've already won two things.

First, Jennifer Laughran with the Andrea Brown agency chose my entry as one of the winners in Authoress/Miss Snark's critique contest. You can read the first 250 words of Drain here.

You'll notice two typos: no space between the first paragraphs, and a run-on sentence. I'm mortified! And yet, despite some technical problems, I won a ten-page manuscript and query critique.

It was an honor to be part of the contest. Look at all the wise comments Miss Laughran left on each entry! Incredible!

And now, for my second win: a signed copy of Holly Cupala's Tell Me a Secret. Holly is A.Dorable. She was a speaker at the SCBWI WW Conference over a week ago, and I signed up at her table to win a copy of her mystery. Here's a picture of Holly and me. I know, she's a twig! The cutest little stick in the world! And I can't wait to get my eyes on TMAS.

Not to be smuggy or anything, but our home here in Ashland could use a little lift. My boys are suffering from chicken pox (yes, they were vaccinated), and my man had a root canal today.

Isn't it funny how things go?

Finding Nemo's Lovely Bones

Last year at the fab SCBWI Conference, Delacorte editor Krista Marino plugged pitches that marry one existing title with another. Like ___ Meets ___.

This year, HarperCollins hottie Jordan Brown reinforced the same thing.

I couldn't think of anything last year to apply to my WIP. But this year, it totally came to me.

Drain is "Finding Nemo" meets The Lovely Bones.

I know...that's pretty out there.

But "risk," right. The thing we heard over and over and over again.

(The picture is an ANGEL fish. Get it???)

WWYK

I can thank my aunt for the serious interest my second manuscript, Drain, is generating. She'd been telling me, Write What You Know.

My first book was about everything I didn't really know: boys, Division I recruiting, crime. It was interesting to write, and I had a focused macroperspective, but I had to talk to a lot of boys, especially athletes, and coaches, and judges, and probation officers, and criminals to be able to deliver it.

Afterwards, I wrote Drain during the hardest three months of my life. Of Daney's life.

Newly diagnosed with epilepsy, the nine-year-old had launched into a long serious of daily grand-mal seizures. She was ambulanced and hospitalized and tested and treated. And even with the medicine, she's had two more seizures.

Now, Dave and I are not strangers to tragedy. Since we were 18, we've pulled each other through deaths and sickness and surgeries and other things that will wait for another post.

But this one killed me; I couldn't get past seeing Daney shake and stop breathing.

My writing group let me take two weeks off. And when I came back, crying, with Daney all loaded up with books and sketch pads and Calico Critters because I couldn't let her out of my sight, they gave me seven days to return with something.

I told them there was no way.

But the next Wednesday, I brought Daney again. And the first few pages of Drain.

I didn't really know what I was writing: the story of a Seer. Her voice was hollow. She was all alone, despite all the people around her. She suffered over not being able to change things.

It was starting to sound pretty familiar.

I didn't know what I was writing, but I was Writing What I Knew.

Next time, I would love to write a quirky book: lighthearted and funny.

It's not in me right now.

But it will be.