Dear Diascribe Faithful,

The original intention of this blog was to show the process of going from unpublished to agented to published and all the highs, lows, and bumps along the way. Unfortunately, it’s taking a bit longer to go from agented to published than originally hoped and for now I need to focus all the free time I have, what little there is of it, on writing the Next Big Thing. So…for now (and hopefully not for long), farewell.

I leave you with my latest rejections (which officially round out the list of everyone who got to see my first novel):

Dear Victoria,
I am sure that by now you have given up hope on hearing from us about THE WARRIOR’S SON, by Aaron Brown. I apologize that it has taken us so long to get back to you, as Kate left for her maternity leave there was quite a bit of manuscript jostling. I truly enjoyed this manuscript. Although we are going to pass, I wanted you to know that I loved the curious voice, the hilarious antics of Caleb and the details of his life are equally humorous and affecting. His relationship with Bigger is surprisingly touching and I wanted to continue reading. Unfortunately, I felt that the pace was too slow and I grew frustrated waiting to find out what had happened to Bigger and how it fit into the rest of the story. I felt that the rising action should have happened more quickly, so we get at least some sense of how Caleb may have ended up in the position we find him in at the beginning of the novel.
I am sorry we have to step aside, but if Aaron wishes to revise and re-submit I would gladly re-consider. I also would like to introduce myself and hope that you look to me in the future with any submissions you have.

And…lastly…from the editor who wanted it if he could only get approval…

Victoria,

I apologize for taking so long to respond, especially as I’m going to pass on this. It’s a very hard decision for me, but, ultimately, it boils down to my inability to rally the troops here. I love the story, and Caleb and Bigger’s relationship is as touching as it is quirky and humorous. It’s an epic story of a unique friendship, and I quickly found myself completely wrapped up in what was going to happen between Caleb and Bigger. Brown’s a talented writer, and he does a great job of maintaining the reader’s interest here. It is a difficult story, though, and at times it’s in danger of spiraling out of control. This presents a challenge, and while I got some great reads here, I couldn’t get everyone on board with it. The narrative goes in many different directions, and, in the end, it doesn’t all coalesce into the compelling whole that we’d like. Thanks, though, for letting me look. I apologize again for the delay. Please do keep me in mind for future projects. It seems that we have quite similar tastes, so I’d love to find something to work on together.

What to write?

I could easily write a gossip-filled analysis of the social goings-on at this year’s Pikes Peak Writers Conference–complete with names, dates, and mortal sins committed. After all, it was a weekend full of drinking, cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, drinking, young-meat stalking, agent-and-editor-meat stalking, drinking, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriages, drinking, propositioning, ass-kissing, ass-grabbing, ass-smacking, slander, infamy and–did I mention?–drinking. And that was just Saturday night. In the lobby. Between 11:52 pm and 11:54 pm. Mostly involving Cicily Janus.

But it would be too easy to write a column about such sordid topics. Besides, I have a dim recollection that something else happened this weekend during the non-drinking time. Something involving…umm…oh yeah! I remember. There was cussing, flirting, rumor-mongering, boundary-pushing, talk of gay porn, lesbianism, and open marriage, drinking…and that was just Jene Jackson’s book pitch. Which brings me to my point: gratitude.

For the last few months I’ve often vented my frustrations about waiting to hear from publishers and getting the occasional rejection. And yet, I’m ahead of the curve. This conference included so much relaxing and ribaldry for me because, for the first time ever, I wasn’t desperately working on a pitch or scheming about how to get to the right table to say the right things to effectively make an impression on an agent who was surrounded by hundreds of fellow writers doing the exact same thing.

I was, instead, lucky enough to have my agent at the conference. Meeting her for the first time in the flesh was a great privilege and joy, reminding me how lucky I am to have her in my corner. In other words — Aaron — quit all your damn whining. And yet, I still feel wretched whenever I think of the struggles  ahead–not only to find a publisher, but also to make a book successful enough to give me a bonafide career–things which still feel as out of reach as sobriety and good judgment were on Saturday night.

Meanwhile, my still-to-be-agented-friends would doubtless lie, cheat, steal, sacrifice, kill, and give their third virginities to trade places with me. And that’s just Deb Courtney (who will no doubt be agented soon–so please, Deb, don’t kill me…as for the 3rd virginity…we’ll talk).

If I had more time, I would continue this entry with case studies of three writers at different points in their careers to illustrate how long and strange this journey is and how curiously different yet the same the perspective is from any given stage (unagented, agented, published). Since Thursday is almost over, though, I’ll just go ahead and put that off to next week.

In the meantime, did anyone see outgoing PPW prez Chris Mandeville with the Navy boys on Friday night?

Dearest readers,

I had hoped to have an entry before conference got underway, but my daycare is closed today and conference starts tomorrow. Please check back for a conference follow-up next week.

Thanks!

Writing, as they say, is 1% inspiration, 99% sussuration? — no — usurpation? — no — constipation? … perhaps I should look it up … aw who am I kidding, I’m too lazy to look it up. Besides, the quote is probably not even about writing. It’s probably about cooking or origami or that type of genius typified by the invention and occasional theft of new and exciting technologies related to sound, light, projection, and flouroscopy. The point is … I’m too lazy to remember my point.

Still waiting on word from the publisher…. My agent tells me the editor who wants to acquire my book is getting second and third reads — a process that apparently takes infinity. In the meantime, I’ve enjoyed being reminded by friends and loyal diascribe readers (both of them) of all the many rejections other writers have received. So, in the spirit of celebrating the way the publishing industry has so often failed to embrace greatness on first read, I present the following tales of rejection.

NOTE: Instead of conducting careful research and then artfully crafting these stories into a cohesive whole, I’ve gone ahead and just cut-and-pasted willy nilly from Wikipedia. I hope this is legal. If not, please address all complaints to my attorneys, Chris Mandeville and Bill “Papa Bear” May.

#1:

“The novel was rejected by twelve publishers. It was finally accepted by the Bobbs-Merrill Company publishing house, thanks mainly to a member of the editorial board, Archibald Ogden, who praised the book in the highest terms (“If this is not the book for you, then I am not the editor for you.”) and finally prevailed.^[23] Eventually, The Fountainhead was a worldwide success, bringing Rand fame and financial security.”

#2:

“It was then rejected by nearly twenty book publishers before finally being accepted. One editor prophetically wrote back “I might be making the mistake of the decade, but…” before rejecting the manuscript. Chilton, a minor publishing house in Philadelphia known mainly for its auto-repair manuals, gave Herbert a $7,500 advance, and Dune was soon a critical success. It won the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 1965 and shared the Hugo Award in 1966. ”

#3:

“In 1995, Rowling finished her manuscript for Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone on an old manual typewriter.^[34] Upon the enthusiastic response of Bryony Evans, a reader who had been asked to review the book’s first three chapters, the Fulham-based Christopher Little Literary Agents agreed to represent Rowling in her quest for a publisher. The book was submitted to twelve publishing houses, all of which rejected the manuscript.^[29] A year later she was finally given the green light (and a £1500 advance) by editor Barry Cunningham from Bloomsbury, a small British publishing house in London, England.^[35][29] The decision to publish Rowling’s book apparently owes much to Alice Newton, the eight-year-old daughter of Bloomsbury’s chairman, who was given the first chapter to review by her father and immediately demanded the next.^[36] Although Bloomsbury agreed to publish the book, Cunningham says that he advised Rowling to get a day job, since she had little chance of making money in children’s books.^[37] Soon after, in 1997, Rowling received an £8000 grant from the Scottish Arts Council to enable her to continue writing.^[38] The following spring, an auction was held in the United States for the rights to publish the novel, and was won by Scholastic Inc., for $105,000. Rowling has said she “nearly died” when she heard the news.”

#4:

“For two years, Butcher floated his manuscript amongst various publishers before hitting the convention circuit to make contacts in the industry. After meeting Butcher in person, Ricia Mainhardt, the agent who discovered Laurell K. Hamilton, agreed to represent him, kick-starting his writing career….Six months after Butcher was signed by Mainhardt, Storm Front, the first novel in The Dresden Files, was picked up by ROC for publishing. It was released as a paperback in April of 2000.” (For those of us who attended last year’s PPWC — we know that it took several unsuccessful novels before Jim Butcher got The Dresden Files underway. What I don’t recall from his speech last year was that he was only 25 when he wrote Storm Front. Bastard.)

#5:

Okay. I’m bored and disillusioned now. While I’ve found several other rejection stories over the last five hours I’ve spent reading Wikipedia instead of working on anything productive, none are quite as compelling as those above and there are a great many famous authors who did just fine without being repeatedly rejected. Perhaps being rejected is not as sure a sign of success as…say…success. Perhaps I should consider the hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of authors who ONLY receive rejection letters. And what about those writers who get published and even get a nice advance, but then fail to sell out their advance and then fail to get another contract? Ever. Or authors who publish book after book, year after year, and yet never make enough to commit wholeheartedly to writing, instead needing to work as janitors or customs officials? Yes, what about dear Herman Melville who died penniless and ignored on my birthday in 1891 and whose obituary in the New York Times named him Henry Melville?

Which brings me back to my original point…perspiration. When good ole’ Thomas Alva Edison, or–as I like to call him: Thomas Alva Edison–made his quote about genius being largely a function of perspiration, he was probably referring to exertion-related sweat–the pure and manly kind that comes from hard work and dedication. But what about the cold, sticky, slimy wetness that comes of fear and trembling, disillusionment and disappointment. Perhaps Thomas Alva Edison should have said: genius is 1% inspiration, 90% manly perspiration and 9% flop sweat — or 1% inspiration, 2% manly perspiration, 17.3% stick-to-itiveness, and 437% holy-crap-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life- I-have-two-kids-and-a-mortgage- and-I-don’t-even-really-want-to-be-a-writer-when-I-grow-up- because-I-can’t-take-the-godawful-loneliness- oh-the-terrible-loneliness- besides-I-feel-a-call-to-do-so-much-more-with-my-life- such-as-becoming-a-Unitarian-Universalist-minister-or-maybe-even-a-taco-barker-at-the-state-fair sweat.

I expect every writers group has their own shorthand–a vocabulary able to sum up mountains of meaning in molehills of words. In my writers group, there are some very efficient phrases like 1) “good point,” 2) “I see” 3) “okay, I’ll get right on that,” and 4) “thanks,” which mean, respectively 1) “lousy point,” 2) “you totally missed what I was trying to accomplish with this clever twist on convention and yet, based on how monumental a task it would be to correct your glaring imbecility, I’ll pretend I actually appreciate your foolish critique,” 3) “I’ll change that when the sun has blistered the anguished recognition of your own foolishness off the shriveled-up face skin on your corpse” and 4) “I hate you.”

But there are others we use that are slightly more instructive. Two of these come from a writing professor that 3 of us had in college and 1 from the fertile brain of Todd Fahnestock who, as with everything he creates, stole it off another writer.

1) The Pig (courtesy of Todd Fahnestock with thanks to Ken Follett): After reading “The Pillars of the Earth,” Todd noted that the first eighty pages or so are primarily concerned with a man trying to reclaim a lost pig. Todd went on to note how Follett makes the reader care tremendously about this particular pig, flipping pages in rapid succession to see if the man will get his pig back. In the process we get sucked into a very richly detailed world and get hooked by a plot that has exactly nothing to do with said pig. Giles Carwyn, (Todd’s writing partner for the wonderful Heartstone Trilogy), would point out that the pig is what is technically known as a “bridging conflict” in which one is caught up by an immediate but short-lived danger/problem/adventure in order to get from one major part of the book to another (or from the opening into the principal action). The point of this all is that whenever I hit a lull in my dramatic arc I start rooting around like a pig in pig poop (in a Todd&Giles sex fantasy–for those of you who’ve read Heir of Autumn) for a pig of my own.

2) The Raft (courtesy James Yaffe, formerly of The Colorado College) I don’t even remember the precise context any more, but Yaffe often critiqued stories by telling us whether he was or was not “on the raft.” Perhaps he was referring to Huck Finn and how even when the only action in the story was two guys floating on a raft down the Mississippi, Mark Twain made damn sure we were right on the raft with them thanks to the humor, poetry and evocative nature of the language. In our group, being “on the raft” means that you’ll keep turning the pages and enjoying the sights just so long as the writing and storytelling maintain the same quality.

3) The Bus (again, courtesy James Yaffe) I think I remember the context for this one. Yaffe always told each class about this very nearly perfect story he once read about two star-crossed lovers who were brilliantly fleshed out by their author such that the reader was completely transfixed wondering if and when the two would finally get together. Everything is flush with building tension until the final scene when the guy walks out of a coffee shop ready to risk everything to win back his love and…he gets hit by a bus. To Yaffe, this was pure laziness on the part of the writer and Yaffe could not abide laziness. He would have been perfectly happy if the couple made it or didn’t, just so long as the resolution grew naturally from the set-up. He would have also been fine with a surprise twist at the end, as long as the twist had some basis in the reality of the story. Throwing in a random accident, however, was the ultimate evil. In my own writing, I have often struggled with endings, and even despite Yaffe’s warning have still managed to muck things up. But then I learned the ultimate truth that made all of my writing exquisitely flawless in all ways. All you have to do is … Ohmigod! What’s that! Oof!

…

Didn’t like that ending?

I see. Good point. I’ll get right on that. Thanks.

It’s been roughly five weeks since I got the wonderful/agonizing news that my book was being presented to the board at Harper Collins for possible acquisition. Since then, I have never been more than a few feet out of range of my phone. I monitor my email by the minute. And yet…no news is still just no news. I realize I need to be relaxed about all of this. What ever will be will be. It’s not easy, though. If the decision from the board goes in my favor, it will be, arguably, the single most life-changing piece of news I’ve ever received.

Well…there was the bit about my wife getting pregnant. Twice. But while that was life-changing (both times), it was also something we were expecting. And the only comment it made about my general worth as a person was that I was, like the vast majority of men, not infertile. Getting published on the other hand means that a lifetime of dreaming and aspiration has not been (entirely) ill spent. It means that I’m not a fool to be pursuing a career that most of my family considers reckless, silly or just plain dumb. It means that a door will open, maybe just a crack, but enough for me to begin shoving myself through.

I’m not imagining I’ll haul in a massive advance and be able to quit my day job or that Oprah will be calling me  to discuss my place in her book club–I simply imagine that I’ll be able to walk into a bookstore in a year or so and find my work in the company of that of so many of my heroes. I’ll be able to hold my book in my hands–to see my name on the cover page–to run my fingers over the text and know that ten years of work has had a tangible result. I can call myself a writer, or author, or novelist, and then back that up with something I’ve actually gotten published. I can be what I have always dreamed that I am. That probably sounds horribly maudlin and reeks of pathos, but it’s the best way I can describe this yearning.

Alas. For now, the waiting continues.

I love my writer’s group. I love them like a family. The kind of family you see in prime time television. Not quite the Cosby Show perhaps, or even Everybody Loves Raymond. More like… Hmm. Let me think about it a moment and see if I can come up with a more precise analogy. In the meantime–some facts about our group:

If we’d been perfectly consistent, tomorrow night would mark our 200th session, as we’ve been meeting roughly every two weeks since the summer of 2000. Of course, we haven’t been perfectly consistent, so we’re probably approaching something more like the 150th or even 125th meeting given the reschedules, postponements, and temporary gaps that have occurred over the years. And, of course, when I say “we,” I’m stretching the definition a bit. Todd Fahnestock joined in 2002, followed by Giles Carwyn, Chris Mandeville, Morgen Thomas, and, most recently, Leslie Hedrick. During that time, the other founding members all went on to other places and other things, but the soul of the group has, in my mind, been maintained.

Every writer’s group is different, of course. Some meet online, some in person. Some focus on improv writing, some on revision. Some are supportive and uplifting. Others make fun of you at least once per meeting for each of the previous 142 meetings over the last eight years.

Our typical agenda goes like this. Every two weeks, on Friday nights, we meet at a different member’s house. The host cooks a big meal and we spend the first two hours (at least) eating, talking, and making fun of me. This is followed by another 3 to 5 hours of reading aloud and commenting on each other’s work (and, when appropriate, making fun of me).

We’ve experimented with time limits, but typically reverted to a general free-for-all in which each person reads as much as s/he wants and then we make comments until we’re all talked out. While long, the process does, generally, leave each person with far too much information to assimilate and the desire to give up writing forever and go to work in a war zone, slaughterhouse or forced labor camp where one could hope to find a shred more human decency.

Eureka! The television show we most resemble: America’s Most Wanted–only with a bit less compassion and a bit more ritual homicide. I joke, of course. None of us, not even Morgen Thomas who I do not live in constant fear of, has ever killed. More than three or four people. Ritually. At a time.

Ha ha. I jest, of course. In truth, our group is immensely supportive, but part of that support is that we’re painfully honest and often highly critical. This forces us all to strive constantly to improve and has, I think, made us all better and more prepared for the challenges of publishing. Giles and Todd have recently finished their third book in a 3 book contract with Harper Collins. (If you haven’t already discovered “Heir of Autumn” and the sequel “Mistress of Winter,” you should immediately hop over to Amazon and order your copies.) The rest of us, meanwhile, are getting much closer to our own contracts and I fully expect to celebrate our 300th (roughly) meeting as a group of authors all of whom are published, successful novelists.

(Okay. They just left. Please, if you’re reading this, call 911. I’m locked in Morgen’s basement, bound by strands of human ligament. Wait! They’re coming b…)

I am to jobs what last week’s featured guest on Jerry Springer was to his 11 wives, 31 children and 2 girlfriends: trouble. My résumé resembles a hobo’s wardrobe–ill-fitting, mismatched and full of holes. I have been a bookstore clerk, an office lackey, director of multimedia development for a software company, a waiter, CEO of an internet startup, a moving estimator, center manager for a tutoring company, a model, project manager for a web development company, (okay–the model thing is a bit of a stretch–I was nine years old and I did an hour of modeling for a math text book–but I got paid $75, which was a fortune to a third-grader and damnit, it made me feel good), a substitute teacher, executive producer of a youth television show, a journalist, regional academic director for a leading test prep company, and a landscaper.

Just as Buford Leroy Jones III earned the devotion of his many chubby trailer tramps, I have seduced many an interviewer into hiring me. While Buford Leroy clearly excelled in charming the extra large panties off his beloveds, I have always been a star employee in my first few months, winning rapid raises, shining reviews, and the respect of my superiors. Inevitably, however, Buford and I remember our real purpose, our one true love. For him, it’s the newness of a fresh-won fanny. For me, it’s writing.

At a certain point, I simply can’t stand not having sufficient time to write and I tender my resignations. I then spend as many weeks or months as I can writing as much as I can before my financial fears catch up to me and I am forced to seek out my next great sugar mama. And yet, as bumpy a ride as it’s been, it’s been a good one–a fulfilling one–and for all the voices that’ve reminded me how foolish the writer’s career is and how silly I am to leave good jobs for total uncertainty (or rather: certain poverty), I simply can’t help myself. In the words of the inimitable Buford “I gots to get my thang on. I just can’ts help myself.

P.S. — No news is no news from the publishing house. I continue to wait eagerly for word, but have given up expecting anything any time soon.

Not wanting this diascribe to be merely a dumping ground for vomit writing, I have published somewhat infrequently. As a means of generating traffic and regular readership the effectiveness of this strategy rates a little below a schnauser mating with a tennis shoe, and a little above the war on drugs. Therefore, I shall be embarking on a bold, new direction in diascribblation.

Starting this Thursday (the 13th), all future entries will appear on Thursdays (at some point). If you are one of my regular readers (either one), you can now rest assured that you only need to check in weekly for updates. If you are one of my irregular readers (i.e., Reader #3 as I like to call you), now you too can become a regular reader, entitled to all the rights and privileges thereof, namely…umm…weekly updates.

During his wonderfully well-polished and well-delivered seminar last weekend, Jeffery Deaver said that he’d heard it said that being a writer is like always having homework. How apt! During my first few months in my first real job after college, I reveled in the thought that the end of the workday meant the end of work for the day. How nice that was, after sixteen years of school in which I routinely procrastinated and subsequently constantly worried about homework…to finally relax. But then, growing quickly bored and annoyed with my job (a pattern that has come to define my “career”), I decided I had to make it as a writer. Ten years later, Jeffery Deaver’s statement reminds me that it has been a full ten years since I’ve been able to fully relax–to feel like my work is done for the day at the end of the day and that I’ve earned some time off. Instead, every moment not spent working on my writing is a vaguely troubling moment in which I regret my lack of progress. Then, when I do write, I’m always in a hurry to get as much done as possible since I’m already SO far behind. So, thanks Jeff, for reminding me of that.

I would also like to thank Mr. Deaver for helping me better define my work. I’ve struggled for some time to accurately identify what it is I write. Is it literary fiction? Is it mainstream? Experimental? Is it post-post-modern, neo-deconstructionist, disestablishmentarian seriocomic realist fantasy? No. Thanks to Mr. Deaver, I now know exactly what I write. I write ham toothpaste. Or rather (protests my inner vegetarian)–I write broccoli toothpaste. When friends in my writer’s group suggested that my work seemed to belong to a new genre, I’m not sure that’s the classification I would have preferred, but perhaps it fits.

Mr. Deaver’s point, and it was a good one, is that if you want to make it as a writer and lead a writer’s life, it’s best to think of your work as a commodity. Your job as a writer is to craft books that appeal to the largest possible audience and that consistently meet people’s expectations for enjoyable, page-turning stories. Having just finished reading “The Blue Nowhere” (staying up late to get to the end), I am very impressed by Mr. Deaver’s ability to do just that. I’m also impressed by the discipline the man seems to have in regards to his work. From what I could tell, he treats his profession very…umm…professionally. In fact, I’d almost guess that he’s the kind of guy who gets to the end of a well defined workday and feels he’s done with work for the day. Imagine that? In case you’re wondering, I’m not in any way trying to cast aspersions on Mr. Deaver’s commitment to his work, nor am I being the least bit sarcastic. With sincere admiration, I can see that Jeffery Deaver has found a way to succeed in an industry with a .0001 percent success rate. This is why I hate him.

Ha ha. I am kidding of course. In no way do I feel jealous of Mr. Deaver and his 24 books, many of them bestsellers. I don’t envy his trips around the world on book tours, his movie deals, his…Motha’-fu#$@ @@#$%#%!&*&(*!@##@$!…numerous writing awards. Indeed, I wish him continued success in all his endeavors and I very much (honestly) look forward to reading the next book of his that’s sitting on my night table.

While I don’t think I’ll ever write the literary equivalent of Crest or Colgate, I do think I can learn a great deal from Jeffery Deaver’s approach. One of his most significant pieces of advice was “Promise and don’t deliver.” I’m an impatient person. When I write a conflict, I often resolve a great deal of it as quickly as the story allows. I do this in part because I’m always in such a rush when I write since I always feel so far behind. Still, regardless of the reason, this lets me and (unfortunately) my readers, put my books down. But, I can fix that.

I can also fix my workflow. The trouble with feeling like I’m always behind schedule, always a week late on a homework assignment, is that I rarely feel I have the time to take the time to do things right. In school, one of the reasons I always did my homework at the last minute was that doings so forced me to do the minimum to get a good grade rather than letting myself get carried away with any particular assignment. But writing is not just some assignment. I want to get carried away. I need to. When the odds are a hundred thousand to one that you’ll be successful as an author, you not only need to be good, you’ve got to be brilliant. Jeffery Deaver was 40 when he began to write full time. I’ve still got time to “make it.” Perhaps instead of spending 8 minutes on a book outline followed by 8 years frantically trying to write said book, I can spend closer to Deaver’s 8 months. I can chip away and make gradual, but steady progress…while I keep my readers turning pages.

My books might not turn out to be pulse-pounding thrillers. They might be thought-provoking tragi-comic literary fiction instead, but if they’re compelling and well written…

When Jeffery Deaver polled the audience about what kind of toothpaste they used, most people used a major brand. But some of us, enough of us to be counted, used Tom’s.