The Business of Writing

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Every Sunday, you'll find me curled up on my IKEA chaise lounge, coffee in hand, perusing the Providence Journal. 

Naturally, as I hail from the smallest state, there's a fair chance I'll spy someone I know. And for some reason lately, the familiar faces have been popping up in the Business section. This is where I discover fun facts like:  a kid who rode my school bus is now running a nursing home.

No envy here. 

In fact, I'm eternally grateful I've picked a career where headshots in sensible navy suits are not a requirement. I'm a writer. You know, a creative. Free of all stuffy constraints.

Or so I thought. Until I realized not only am I courting the business world, I am, gulp, at the mercy of it. 

Blame Settling Down. My finished, unagented manuscript.

The background, in case you're joining the story already in progress. I wrote a book. A good book. A funny, smart, intelligent, accessible read that I KNOW would entertain a woman or two, as well as make a difference in their lives.

When I first shopped it around in 2006, it wasn't a good book. Sure, it was a great first attempt. An okay book. But oddly enough, not only did I have a fair amount of interest in this okay book. I was actually offered representation. (Until the agent changed her mind. Note: She's no longer in the business.) 

Soul crushing? Yes. But also an amazing gift. Because the book needed work. And sending that out as my final product into the world would have reflected poorly on me. My literary career would have been one and done.

Round one of the agent search also left me with offers from multiple agents willing to take a second look at this okay book, if I opted for professional editing. So I did, eventually rewriting the book, then beginning round two of operation agent query. 

You know, because it's such an amazing way to pass the time.

So far, I've got a full and a partial out in the world. Not bad for the percentage of query letters I sent out, but my much improved book has not garnered anywhere near the amount of attention as the unedited version. 

In other words: Better product. Less interest.

Logically, it doesn't make a bit of sense. Today, I also have more writing clips. I've got a website. I tweet! So what gives?

I'm thinking it's just business, baby.

My latest epiphany came from this paragraph of a recently received rejection letter:

I'm sorry to say that the project just isn't a perfect fit with my current needs. This has less to do with your strengths as a writer and more to do with my goals as an agent and the trends of the current literary marketplace.

So, basically, if writing wasn't hard enough, now you've got to consider the market. Because while agents are certainly lovers of books and promoters of the written word, they're also fans of eating. And paying their bills.

Sure it may start with a book, but I believe their primary role lines up closer to sales, where they carefully try to balance their own passions with what the publishing houses think the public is going to buy next. My genre? Popularly thought to have peaked ten years ago, even though I respectfully, and vehemently, disagree.

Duh. And why did it take me so long to figure this out?

Also: IT IS NOT MY TALENT!! (Sorry. Little pep talk here that you walked into.)

I know this little ah-ha moment is going to power me through this marathon. I don't give up easily. Okay. At all.

And in the short run, I've ordered this, to aid with my focus. 

What I'll be drinking from it? My secret. Just know that eventually, I WILL use it to toast my publishing contract.

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I'm Writing Towards The New World

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It's official. I'm going to start channeling the spirit of Christopher Columbus. 

No doubt. We are homies for sure. (Well, beyond that pesky issue of enslaving the indigenous people of Hispaniola. I'm so not hip with that.)

It's being true to his passion that I can get with.

Behold: Sailing. Otherwise known as today's metaphor for life.

Cue the Christopher Cross music. Well, if Cross had written a ballad about being attacked by French privateers on his first voyage into the Atlantic in 1476, where his ship got torched and he had to swim to shore.

Meet passion.

Without it, there'd be no confidence to throw out the crazytown idea of a shorter, safer way to India and volunteer to be the dude to find it. Passion is the difference between giving up, putting your tail between your legs and going home, when someone says, thanks, but no thanks. (Hello Portugal). 

Passion is what gives you the strength to keep knocking, until someone gives you a boat. Or three. Passion guides you in the wide, open, unpredictable water, when there's no dolphin pod whistling sounds of encouragement, no sign that says "Bahamas. Ten miles ahead" or no idea of how long it's going to take you to get to where you think you're going in the first place.

Passion keeps you on track during those days when you're tired of bobbing in the ocean, can't imagine eating another meal of salted sardines and dry ass sea biscuits and you just want to go home to your straw bed.

It's passion that steps up and takes command when there's no concrete assurance, other than the maps you've lightly sketched out and the vague feeling that you're on the right track.

That ticket to the New World?

Only one currency accepted.

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Craigslist Translated: A Public Service

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Why do you need a writer?

To most effectively communicate your message to a target audience, of course. 

In, what surely BEGS to be only the first in a repeating series,  I've decided to take my mad editing skills, free of charge, to an occasional (Wackadoo) Craigslist ad, putting the before and after on my blog, you know, as the most public of services. (And to prove once and for all, just because you can type, does not mean that you can write.)

First up, this beaut:

Travel Writer (East Coast, Carribean, onward)

Talented travel writer, blogger, photographer needed to journal yacht adventure of couple's adventure and struggles and fun as they move instantly from modest beginnings to instant great wealth. Up to year long trip will be from east coast through the Caribbean onward (ending up who nows where) and include adventure on new luxury yacht-Mochi Dolphin 74 named Sussurus. Right person person will love the sea, enjoy snorkeling, jet skiing, island hiking, etc. One hour of yacht housekeeping duties required daily and occasional light meal making. Please send resume/cv, cover letter, link to writing sample(s), picture of self, and any questions along with salary requirements, also if you would be bringing a friend or companion. Onboard Accommodations and meals will be provided. I/we will make agreeable arrangements to meet you prior to trip to insure compatibility for everyone. I'm (37 years old) and expect deliver of yacht early May and hope to leave approx. May 15, 2013.

Clearly, at the very minimum, the author is in great need of a proofreader. Spelling. Punctuation. Grammar. Whew. What offense hasn't been committed? (And really? You've come into great wealth, are in need of a ghostwriter to inhabit your personal space for a year--and you're starting your hunt on Craigslist?)  The only thing I know for sure is writing just ain't your thang. In fact, I'd argue that what you said, isn't what you mean.

So I reworked it for you. Ta-DA!

Travel Whore (East Coast)

Desperate, starving, naive artist-type needed for frequent threesome on high seas. Right person will love the feel of the sea on their skin, enjoy snorkeling in their birthday suit, jet skiing in the buff and island hiking au natural. One hour of housekeeping duties daily include cleaning of the pipes. Please send picture of self, as well as that of your identical buxom twin. Onboard master suite accommodations provided. I'm 37. You should be half that. By the way: There's no yacht.

You're welcome.

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My First Paid Writing Gig

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Drum roll please.

March 5, 1988. By-line: Providence Journal. Age: 16. Payment: $5. Word Count: 13. (Mmm-hmm. Indeed. That works out to a whopping 39 cents a word.) Sick sense of humor: Clearly intact. Dream and determination: Just getting out of the starting gate.