NO THANKS, ANNE FRANK: when even the great publishers stumble

Alfred A. Knopf Sr. and the publishing house he built are among the great treasures of literary history.

Nevertheless, the immense trove of Knopf papers now housed at the University of Texas' Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center proves that Knopf rejected just as many future bestsellers, for just as many ridiculous reasons, as anybody else.

In a practice that still continues today, the piles of submissions sent to agents and, back in the day, publishers are often screened by anonymous readers, usually writers or critics desperatae for extra income. (Yes, Working Writer has been among these forgotten toilers. But only in poetry manuscripts, so don't blame her that Penguin turned your novel down.) Most of these readers are both bright and well-meaning, but as I said in my last post, no one is truly impartial, entirely open, or even eternally in a good mood.

Over the years, Knopfs's readers dismissed, among others, Jack Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, and Isaac Bashevis Singer. My favorite among their embarrassing errors is surely their rejection of The Diary of Anne Frank. As illustrious historian David Oshinsky wrote in a delightful article in the New York Times, "the work was “very dull,” the reader insisted, “a dreary record of typical family bickering, petty annoyances and adolescent emotions.” Sales would be small because the main characters were neither familiar to Americans nor especially appealing. “Even if the work had come to light five years ago, when the subject was timely,” the reader wrote, “I don’t see that there would have been a chance for it.”

Here's what I love about this: this criticism is so totally wrong, but it's also so totally understandable. The book was being considered in 1950, not a year famous for its openness to honest, unguarded female stories, much less books by obscure teenagers. If I had been its reader then, would I have recognized the priceless human tale tucked within the diary's intimate, apparently trivial events?

I like to think I would have. But honestly, I'm not one hundred percent sure.

Doubleday's Everyman's Library has recently published a lovely hardcover edition of Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl.

And it seems fitting that the re-launch of Everyman's in the early 1990s, which made possible its republication of Anne Frank now, was supported in the U.S. by none other than the firm of Alfred A. Knopf.

FILM-ETTES ON FRIDAYS: the rejected writer's revenge

The Irish comedian Dylan Moran wrote and stars in a sitcom called Black Books, which revolves around irritable and unpleasant Bernard Black, who owns (but emphatically does not enjoy) a bookstore. The protagonist of today's Film-Ettes on Fridays video is named Bernard Black, though I'm not sure whether it's part of the television show or not.

Either way, it's a hilarious take on writing rejection letters, complete with cigarettes, alcohol, editorial scorn, and promises of head-butting. Even if you haven't submitted any work to be ground in the giant gristmill that is publishing, I think you'll enjoy it. It can't be embedded in this blog, but just click here to view it. Note that the video may come up with an annoying ad at the start (a YouTube feature I can't change, much as I wish to). Just use the toolbar in the YouTube window to mute and/or skip it. It's worth the effort and annoyance.

ROTTEN REJECTIONS: everybody gets 'em

Working writers get rejections....it's just a fact of life. Still, the terse dismissal of months of one's heartfelt work can sting.

That's one of the reasons that Andre Bernard's little book Rotten Reviews and Rejections: A History of Insult, A Solace to Writers has a permanent place on my bookshelf.

This small gem of a book reminds us that on a regular basis, really smart readers, writers, and critics—including the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Charlotte Bronte—heap withering scorn on books and authors that go on to be classics.

Does this mean that we should assume that those who criticize our work are wrong? Hell no. What it does mean is that writing is called an art rather than a science for a reason. Personal taste and personal "takes," not to mention the myriad influences of time and place and culture, always influence a reader's responses, no matter how experienced or illustrious the reader may be. My suggestion? Learn what you can from your rejections, but never use the responses of any one reader as your guide.

Unless, of course, it's Working Writer who has bullied—er, I mean blessed—you with the scrawl of her brilliant red pen.

WORKING WRITER REVIEWS: The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood

Like some people, some books are simply...charming. They may (or may not) also be intelligent, humorous, helpful, and/or any other number of lovely qualities. But first and foremost they are charming, and it is that characteristic that makes you want to be near them.

Monica Wood's The Pocket Muse: Ideas and Inspirations for Writing is that kind of book. It is, indeed, intelligent, humorous, helpful, and any other number of lovely qualities, but what captures me about it first and foremost is its charm.

It's charmingly titled, the "pocket muse" phrase perfectly conveying its small collection of inspirations and ideas. Charmingly designed, a small hardover with winsome little images and page formats. Charmingly illustrated, with a variety of vintage and not-so-vintage photographs of unexpected things. Charmingly voiced, with a nice mixture of recollections, suggestions, questions and gentle admonishments and a mood that is both lighthearted and wise. Every time I browse through it I feel as though I would like being in the company of Monica Wood (who I do not know personally at all) especially on one of those days when my writing is dreadful and my mood is worse. Such a meeting being unlikely, it is a sufficient pleasure to spend a little time with her book.

If you too have days of terrible writing and terrible-er moods, you might enjoy this one. It's also useful for non-writing days when everywhere you look there is a woeful dearth of, yes, charm.

THE WRITER'S DESK

In the course of the culling of books I've spoken of on my DeCluttered Creative blog, I came across a wonderful volume I'd half-forgotten I had, Jill Krementz's book of photographs of writers at their desks (now sadly out of print.) Krementz is a wonderful photographer and the images are beautiful, clear and luminous, telling: a young Susan Sontag working amid a pile of books and papers, her trademark streak of silver hair barely yet in evidence; E.B. White typing in a spare wooden space, rather like a barn, with open water out the window; Georges Simenon standing, smoking a pipe, with his hands resting on a desk lined with such pipes, all arrayed with mathematical precision.

But it is the brief words added by each writer pictured that I value most, maybe because I am a fellow writer myself or just because they seem even more intimate, even more personal, than the representations of the authors themselves. These little captions are not about desks so much as about process, that more interesting and infinitely deeper subject.

"It's very simple, really. You have to go to the typewriter, that's all you have to do," says Terrence McNally. "I'm a writer. I don't cook and I don't clean....Dear child, this place is a mess—my papers are everywhere," Dorothy West noted amusingly, her desk indeed a mess but her eighty-seven-year-old face a beacon of warmth and clarity. Simenon, not surprisingly in a man who lines up his pipes, notes that "The beginning will always be the same; it is almost a geometrical problem." I could go on, but I won't, if only because this might be a book you would enjoy seeing in its totality. As I write this Amazon has it available only at the prohibitive price of $199, but Alibris has copies beginning at about twenty bucks.

There are many messages within these pages, but perhaps the most evident is that there is no such thing as "a" writer's desk or "a" writing process. There are desks and tables and beds and kitchen counters, there are morning writers and night writers and sober writers and drunk writers, there are pencils and word processors, there are rituals and the lack of rituals. Someone, I now forget who, once said to me that asking how writers write is like asking how lovers make love, a question just as foolish and futile. And the comparison to lovers is apt, maybe, because one thing all the writers under Krementz's scrutiny do share, as her book radiantly shows, is a passion for the book, the story, and the word.

RE-RE-RE-REBALANCING: or, where the hell i've been since october

Anyone who has read this blog or taken even one of my classes knows that words don't fail me very often. But somehow, late this fall, they did. Nothing went horribly wrong; nothing dramatic even changed. I just did a lot of thinking, or perhaps a lot of feeling, about how 2010 had gone and how I wanted 2011 to be. Anyway, my apologies to those who follow, or followed, this blog for such a protracted absence.

This time of professional and creative reflection reminded me (as though I really needed reminding) of how difficult it can be for writers, or any creative artists, to get the balance of their creative and professional lives right. On the one hand there is the imperative of our creative practice and work; on the other, the demands of money and practicality. It's not just the tension between the two that can trip us up, but also the delicacy of the balance and the frequency with which our needs change. What is right at one time, for one project or phase, can be frustratingly counterproductive for the next, and it can take quite a bit of time and self-scrutiny to see when, and what, changes must be made.

For me, the relationship between my work with others and my own writing is particularly hard to get right. This is especially true when my own project is at an early stage, as is the case right now. It's easier and sometimes more fun to poke around someone else's manuscript, and it also seems far more sane to earn something from a teaching or consulting role than to pin any part of my bank accounts to the as-yet unformed, insane, utterly unsalable mess hiding on the hard drive of my computer. Add the normal challenges of family, health, and other aspects of "real life," and I suddenly wake up to realize that it's been two months since I've made any progress on either my novel or memoir in progress. (And then, in the unsnarling of that as well as the aforesaid family and health issues, I'm too muddled, albeit fruitfully so, to blog for three months.)

I'm committed to rebalancing the various elements of my creative and professional life in twenty-eleven. Or re-re-re-rebalancing them, I should say. I look forward to sharing that journey with all of you and to getting some glimpses of yours as well.

In the meantime, if you happen to see Working Writer some day, do ask her if she's actually written anything lately.

THE PUMPKIN'S VOICE

As I have likely said here before (I could check, but the heart quails), voice is one of the least understood but most powerful aspects of writing.

It's easier to tinker with plot, character, dialogue...all the things that are both more local and more concrete. Voice is more elusive, and hence harder to address. Yet it's truly significant to a book's power and memorability. If the voice is bland or uninteresting, it will often feel flat even when the other elements are strong.

With Halloween coming up, let me use one of my favorite books ever, Extreme Pumpkins: Diabolical Do-It-Yourself Designs to Amuse Your Friends and Scare the Neighbors, as an example.

Now, you wouldn't think a childless middle-age psedo-intellectual like Working Writer would get all tingly about a book that explains how to decorate seasonal squash. (I was going to say "seasonal vegetables," but like its sneaky little cousin the tomato, the pumpkin is a fruit.)

Nevertheless, I find Extreme Pumpkins utterly delicious. One reason, admittedly, is that the pumpkin designs appeal to my dark and perhaps deranged sense of humor. It gives directions for a Carrie pumpkin, a brain surgery pumpkin, a worm-infested pumpkin, a mooning pumpkin (think two tall pumpkins in a pair of drooping pants), a conjoined twins pumpkin, and a variety of other equally gross, twisted and/or funny themes.

But even better is author Tom Nardone's voice, which is witty, entertaining, and unapologetically irreverent. It's also much more sophisticated than one might expect. Nardone clearly writes to appeal to his core audience of, say, eleven year old boys, but his text is also designed to make adults laugh. A wise move, given the inability of most eleven year old boys to drive to the bookstore themselves.

Nardone's step by step instructions are written in a wonderfully mischevous voice. So too are his general remarks. So, even, is his index, which includes page citations for "carnge," "electrocution," "poetry corner," "roadkill statistics," and "self-analysis." Now, that's what I call going above and beyond, and also an element clearly designed for grown-ups. (Did you refer to indices as an eleven year old? Me neither. However, you'll note that somewhere along the line I did look up the plural for "index.")

I'm not saying that the voice for your next book needs to be infantile, snarky, or gross. I am saying that it should be something. Warm and sensible, clever and amusing, dark and deceptive. Witty, plainspoken, elaborate, simple, all-American, Eurotrash, introspective, aggressive...I could go on, but you get the idea.

Look for a post on some of my favorite author voices later this week, along with a reprise of my favorite pumpkin-themed-mini-film ever.

P.S. Creating and sustaining a wonderful and distinctive voice does not absolve you of the requirement to produce a great story (fiction, narrative nonfiction) or useful information (general nonfiction). Tom Nardone's pumpkin designs actually have to work. In that regard, let me say that after I recommended the book to writer Lily Hamrick at the Atlantic Center for the Arts last fall, her family won a First Prize for their giant hamburger pumpkin. (The pumpkin becomes the bun, if you're wondering). Which was good, because manipulating the ground meat for the filling is apparently not fun.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: the talking wounded

“I’m one of your talking wounded,” the narrator of James Fenton’s poem “In Paris With You” says.

He’s not talking about writing and writers. (He’s in Paris with “you,” so presumably he has better poisson to fry.) But he could be.

Many of us love to talk about our writing, especially in the early years of our careers. I talked for hours about my works in progress when I first began. To this day, I'm sure there are still people in Manhattan who would duck into doorways rather than hear me explain one more of my book ideas. If any of those folks happen to be reading this, mea very very culpa.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to talk about my writing in progress much, not so much out of fears for my already idiosyncratic social life but because it sours my writing. For me, talking about a book doesn’t get the book written. In fact, once I’ve hashed out an emerging story out over coffee, I no longer feel a compelling need to sit down and actually write it. I always write more, and better, when I don’t drain off any of the tension or curiosity that draws me to a piece by letting it escape into conversation. I guess you could sum up my personal rules on this subject like this.

Rule 1: Talk about writing and other writers often. Talking about writing other than our own connects us to our tribe, our craft, our colleagues, our inspirations. It’s fun, and it fires me up.

Rule 2: Talk about your own work in progress very little. Any and all words even possibly related to that subject don't belong in our mouths; they belong on the page.

Are you one of the writerly "talking wounded"? What are you personal strategies for keeping your energy on the page?

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: between the gutters of commerce and the ivory tower

Here's the way most of us work when we begin what we hope will be our careers as fiction writers.

We write a book, then we try to write a synopsis that will sell it. There's no chicken-and-egg question for most of us: the artistic process of the writing definitely comes first, inspired by all sorts of things other than the marketplace, and the commercial "spin" on it a rather distant second.

The problem with this sequence, as I was reminded by looking at one of my own old synopsis drafts this morning, is that addressing the sales aspect of a book only after that book is entirely completed it often doesn't work well, or for that matter, at all.

A synopsis is not a magic cape that you drape over a book to turn it into different, something that will sell. It's a lens you design to let others see the book as sharply as possible—and if that book isn't salable, the best possible synopsis won't make it so. The sad thing about this is that by waiting until the book is complete and we're too exhausted to go back and change it, we've made potentially fixable problems into probably unfixable ones. If we want to publish, wouldn't it be better to consider the marketplace during the book drafting stage, rather than when it's too late to do anything but collect rejections and sigh with despair?

Even to me, there's something sacreligious-sounding about those words. Aren't we supposed to listen only to the dictates of our Muse? Isn't it crass to consider tailoring our work to the imperatives of Commerce?

Not necessarily.

The trick, it seems to me, is to operate from the middle ground. Don't attempt to define your work entirely from the grubby gutters of commerce. That never works. But if you want to publish, don't write an entire book with your gaze firmly fixed on the inside of your pure white ivory tower, either. There's information that will help strengthen your book in both places—and I do mean "strengthen," not just "sell," though it will help you do that too.

Here's my personal best guess at how to find that middle ground.

Get the working premise of the book firmly in your mind, in whatever way you do that. Know what your intention for its genre and shape and voice are. Write or outline or muse enough to feel reasonably certain (there's no such thing as total certainty here, or at least there shouldn't be) you won't be making any radical changes to those basics.

After that point but before the entire book and every story and style element within it are set in the proverbial stone, do some gentle mental moseying around the marketplace. Don't overwhelm yourself; just browse. Who's writing comparable stuff? What can you learn from them, not so much in terms of craft but in terms of how their work is presented and summarized and marketed? How can you nudge your book in one way or another to make it stand out a bit more from the major competitors you see? What would your book as you understand it now sound like in synopsis? Do a rough draft to see. What does that draft suggest to you about elements that might be weak or uninteresting or difficult to explain powerfully?

Notice the words in this paragraph. Gentle. Mosey. Browse. Learn. Nudge. Suggest.

You're not becoming what my friend Joe Castagna once called a Trend Whore.

You're just being a good observer, one who is curious, open-minded, alert, and ready to use some of what you notice when it serves you.

And isn't that just what an artist is supposed to be?

PURELY FOR PLEASURE: okay, a few lessons, too

As I've surely mentioned earlier on this blog, I'm a great fan of illustrated books, which are becoming ever more inventive and affordable thanks to the wonders of digital printing. I received James Balog's Extreme Ice Now: A Progress Report (National Geographic, 2009) as a gift last Friday, and I've been marveling over it ever since.
Because printed books are usually the collaborative effort of a team of people who never meet one another, their different elements (text, size, shape, graphics, font, and more) don't always work perfectly together. This book is one of the exceptions. From its spare slipcase to its square shape, from its striking use of typography to its rich essays and its haunting photographs, this is one of those books which is impeccable in every single regard. More than impeccable, in fact: impressive, memorable, haunting, and full of integrity. Integrity in the original and best sense of the word, that is, meaning not just honesty, but rather wholeness and internal consistency.

I first saw the work of the book's author, James Balog, in one of his early books of animal photography. Though their underlying themes are similar, his images are created differently from one book to the next, with each new form or process designed specifically for its subject. Survivors depicts animals using some of the conventions of commercial photography; the large composite images in Tree are built from hundreds of smaller shots. The images in Extreme Ice Now are made in even more complex ways, requiring a variety of special cameras to be left in a variety of very cold places for considerable lengths of time. (That's a very simplified version of the process, which is far better explained in the book and the Extreme Ice Survey website; my apologies for this rinky-dink description.) I actually learned of the Extreme Ice Survey on the PBS series Nova, which aired a documentary

There's an obvious technical element to this work, and an obvious scientific point. Yet the images themselves are not clinical in any way; instead, they are gorgeous and sad, evocative and haunting. Balog's essays are interesting and beautifully written, but it is these astonishing images that makes the book so powerful. The ice in them is like a living creature. These photographs take a subject that is literally and figuratively removed from our ordinary lives, literally and figuratively cold, and allow it to speak warmly to our hearts, the place where all true change starts.

I've been enjoying this book as a lay person, not as a professional in the writing and publishing field. Yet it does remind me of two precepts all of us writers would be wise to follow. The first and most important: always, always, always be sure to find the emotional heart of your topic, whether your'e writing about murder mysteries or the building of outdoor decks. Second: if you write only about that which you care passionately about, your work (like James Balog's) will feel coherent even if your subjects or forms differ, and it will find others who care passionately about it, too.

You can see selected images from James Balog's portfolio by clicking here. The Extreme Ice Survey website offers a wealth of information and images. Finally, many thanks to the senior James Balog for sending me the book: a kind and generous gift to ths appreciative "starving artist."

LONG TIME NO BLOG: putting my money where my manuscript needed to be

Apologies for an unusually extended absence to those of you who follow this blog. I got distracted by something else in late August and am just now returning to my normal, blog-loving state.

Let me tell you about that "distraction," as it was a very working-writer thing.

I hadn't been able to make consistent time for my own writing for many months. In a time of financial pressure, paid projects always seemed to crowd as-yet unpaid writing out. And though I'm lucky enough to have teaching and consulting work that I deeply enjoy, a full day of work on others' books doesn't leave much energy for my own.
In the course of musing about this problem in the early summer, it occurred to me that I wasn't doing my own writing because there was a financial incentive not to do it.

A logical solution, therefore, would be to create a financial incentive to doing my own work. Or, stated in reverse, a financial disincentive to avoiding it.

So on June 28 I emailed eight dear friends who have supported me and my work lovingly over the years. I told them I was offering them a deal. If I could not produce a book proposal, synopsis, and 5,000 words of my new book on September 3, I would give each of them fifty bucks. They didn't need to read the work I produced, or for that matter do much of anything else. The only condition of the deal was that they weren't allowed to enable me or let me slide. If I couldn't produce, they had to agree to demand their money.

Well, guess what.

I love the gals I emailed my little proposition to. I'd be happy to give any one of them fifty bucks. But thrifty Bud Fox's thrifty daughter ain't handing out the equivalent of a month's mortgage payment to anyone (except a mortgage company).

And so I'm sitting here looking at the printouts. A proposal. A synopsis. Six thousand seven hundred and three words of writing. All finished on September 2, at which point I repaired to my bed to watch TV reruns, catch up on my sleep, and lick my creative wounds.

Not of the work I produced is great, let me hastily say. It's all very first-draftish. But it's there, and that's what counts.

Financial fear might not be your driving force (and if it's not, I deeply congratulate you).

What is?

Create some accountability around it, and see what happens. It worked for me.

At least so far.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAY: the finances of getting commercially published

Today's Touchy Topic is the finances of getting commercially published, that is, how the money works for you, the author, when you are lucky enough to get your book purchased by a publisher who actually pays you money and prints the book. (I'll talk a bit about the economics of self-publication on an upcoming Tuesday.)

It's difficult to talk about this matter accurately for many reasons. Prime among them: publishers' calculations are complex and often difficult to ferret out, and writers, understandably, don't want to share the details of their royalty statements.

Which is why we should all thank paranormal romance author Lynn Viehl for sharing hers. Though I just came across the posts with this information, she actually shared the first installment in April 2009 and the second installment in November of that year. (Genreality, on which she posted this info, is an excellent blog on the reality of genre writing and publishing, well worth a look if you're a genre writer rather than generalist, so to speak. You might also check out Viehl's blog, Paperback Writer.) But though the specific calculations of book advances and royalty statements may have changed a bit since then, the information is really excellent.

If you're among the many good writers still in the ranks of what my friend Gerri LcClerc wittily calls "the pre-published," the first thing you may notice that Viehl's advance for the book in question, Twilight Fall, was $50,000. And yes, that sounds like a lot when you can't get anyone to buy your book for five bucks. Viehl has published almost fifty books under a variety of pen names (you can see her entire backlist here) and built a thriving, hard-working career; her advance reflected both facts.

Get beyond the advance amount into the calculations, though, and you'll see why I'm sharing her information. It gives you the chance to see how everything from agent fees and taxes to book returns affect the income from a book...how slow the income stream is in coming...how complicated all of the calculations are...and what the financial life of a successful writer is like once you look behind the gross numbers and get into the net.

You may see all this as depressing, and I guess that in some senses it is. On the other hand, work out there in the "real world" beyond writing isn't a walk in the park these days, either. I prefer to think of it in terms of "forewarned is forearmed." When you understand at least a little of the economics of book publishing, it's easier to work toward a truly sustainable career. And it's also easier to view those published authors you see on bestseller lists or at book signings as hardworking folks just like the rest of us rather than as lucky millionaires sitting around counting their money.

The celebrity authors may be doing just that. But the working writers are home, sweating over that next sentence.

WHY DO YOU WRITE?

I've quoted from writer-ecologist Susan J.Tweit's blog, Walking Nature Home, on my GriefGlow blog before. This quotation on writing is from her January 24, 2010 post on decluttering and reclarifying her life. Not very recent, I'll admit, but as I read it again now I'm struck by how wise and grounded it is.

Susan writes:

I guess writing is always a journey of faith. Sometimes I allow myself to tense up with fear and I can't quite discern my way. I blunder about, stumble, or race in circles. When I realize I've gone wrong, I stop, collect myself, and start anew.


Just as today I uncluttered my shelves, dusted my office, and in the doing, remembered what it is that I love about my work. Why I write: To think, to dream, to share my love of life, to light the darkness that lurks around the edges of this world. Writing is my way of living with my heart outstretched as if it were my hand. (Thank you, singer/songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter!)


Put simply: Writing is how I love this world.

As a writer, teacher, and blogger, I'm often engaged in sharing thoughts about the business end of writing. Indeed, my post for tomorrow's Touchy Topics Tuesday is on the financial aspects of a book contract. But important as it is to be savvy about planning and sales and everything that comes in between, it's just as important to remember why we write in the first place.

When we forget why we write, burnout becomes inevitable; bitterness and envy may follow as well, like radioactive cherries on an already toxic cake. When we forget why we write, we end up focusing only on the tough parts of a writerly career—the competition, the uncertainty, the ups and downs (or downs and downs) of the money. The joy of creation, the love of language, the lure of story, the bliss that is honing a beloved craft get lost.

Why do you write?

It's worth asking yourself that. And posting the answer someplace near your desk.

I write because I love the variety, the playfulness, the plasticity of language. Because books seem to me to be among the world's most enduring tools of transformation. Because I believe, oh how I believe, in the power of bearing witness to one's truth, whatever that truth might be. Because once a story gets hold of me, I have trouble focusing on anything else. Because writing is just plain fun.

Those reasons sound corny, I know. Your own reasons may be different, or better.

It doesn't matter what they are. It just matters that you know them.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: rejection response roundup

Let's face it. Rejection is part of every writer's life. And I do mean every writer, not just those who are submitting first books or building early careers.

I've recently spoken to three different authors, all excellent writers with long careers and many published books, who are dealing with rejections because their publisher or the market or lord-knows-what-else has changed directions. And when I get the chance to talk even to the literary or bestselling giants, those writers one would think were absolutely immune, and they all have stories of recent rejections that rankle. A snide review. A publication that doesn't review the book at all. A peer who bad-mouths. A conference that doesn't invite. A book tour that isn't offered. Worst of all, a book that just doesn't sell according to expectations—the author's, or someone else's.

With that in mind, I'm offering a roundup of some online perspectives on rejection from those that know. There are lots and lots of good ones; this is just a sampling. No offense to bloggers or sites I "rejected."

I've mentioned agent Rachelle Gardner before; her blog is one of those I often turn to for clear and sensible comments on the writing biz. I did a search for "rejection" in her blog posts; this link guides you to that location. If it doesn't work for some reason I can't predict, just scroll down the right hand column of her blog until you get to the "find posts on this blog" section and click on "rejection."

I like agent Nathan Bransford's blog a lot, too. How can you not like a guy that explains writing book proposals through the metaphor of making lasagna? I couldn't find a way to search specifically for rejection, but just browsing his blog seems to put things in perspective.

Editor Betsy Lerner, author of the wonderful book The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers, writes a lot of funny, salty posts. (You won't like this blog if you're sensitive to colorful language.) This one is excellent, and so are the comments it inspired. If nothing else, it will remind you that you're not alone.

Query Shark, not surprisingly, rips apart queries. Very funny, very educational, usually very apt. When you read this blog, you're actually glad agents and editors don't send critiques with their rejections. You could send your query to the Shark if you're feeling brave. Be sure to have bandages, blood supplies, vodka and/or Valium on hand when you read the results.

The blog of Dystel and Goderich Literary Management also writes well about rejection. This link brings you to an overview of some of their pieces on the subject.

Going from the sublime to the potentially repetitious, let me close with four very brief "rules" for handing writerly rejection. You've heard all this before, but it's still the best way to approach the ego-bruising reality of a writer's life.

1. Do it enough to get used to it. Rejection never becomes easy. But like some chronic illnesses and your spouse's lame jokes, it does become easier once you've experienced it repeatedly. It's much harder to get rejected once than it is to get rejected ten times.

2. Don't take it personally. They're not rejecting you. They're rejecting a series of words on paper. That's a crucial difference.

3. Keep going. And going. And going.

4. Keep learning. Sometimes rejection isn't a hardship, it's a gift. Had my first book been accepted in its original form, I would not be writing this blog today. Instead, I would be lurking on some obscure Pacific island in ABSOLUTE AND UTTER MORTIFICATION. Is your book really good enough to make you proud ten books from now?

5. Be kind to yourself. Writing is hard. Rejection is hard. Ample supplies of supportive peers, good snacks, frequent naps, and loving family and friends help. A good therapist isn't bad either.

And finally, just so that we end on a more poetic note than this little list seems to be managing, let me quote from the brilliant Barbara Kingsolver: This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address’. Just keep looking for the right address. Hard as it is to accept it, she's right.

TOUCHY TOPICS TUESDAYS: THE DRAINING ART OF SELF-DEPRECATION

I must confess that this Touchy Topics Tuesday post is being completed early on Wednesday. I guess you could call this Where the Hell Were You Wednesday. Post-long-weekend Tuesdays always feel like Mondays, and also often have the leftover tasks from pre-long-weekend Fridays, and...well, you get the picture.

The topic for this week is self-deprecation: specifically the kind of self-deprecation we use, and abuse, as writers. I'm not talking here about the kind of humility I discsussed in last Tuesday's post. I'm talking about the hundred little verbal jabs we aim at ourselves in conversation when the subject of our writing comes up. "I'll probably never be published." "He's a real writer, not like me." "Everyone else is so well-read, I'm ashamed to say anything." "Published? No, but I do have a bathroom wallpapered in rejection letters."

If you've heard me teach or speak even once, you'll know that I'm no stranger to this kind of comment. Irony about myself and others is hard-wired into my sense of humor, and to that extent it's (perhaps)more or less benign. Yet it's also easy to stray into something more toxic, and I do that as well. 

Here's the problem. Every time we aim one of these sharp little verbal arrows at ourselves, we drain a bit of our self-confidence. We tell ourselves that our writing practice isn't valid, that our work isn't worth while, that we don't have the skills or the smarts or the right to take our work seriously. We make a comedy of something that isn't comic, and cast ourselves for the part of the buffoon. It's tempting to say that such innocent little barbs don't mean anything, but I don't believe that's true. Whether uttered from our own mouths or anyone else's, judgments repeated often inevitably begin to have the ring of truth.

And every time we do it, we also drain others. Wordlessly but no less powerfully, we ask them to reassure us, validate us, praise us, prop us up. I don't actually think it's bad to ask for reassurance; I just think we should do it consciously, intentionally, and clearly. Telling someone I trust, in a setting that makes real dialogue possible, that I am struggling with doubt or block can be deeply healing. Telling someone I barely know, in a setting that allows only the briefest and most banal exchanges, that I am not a "real" writer isn't deeply anything. It's just a superficial bit of schtick, a quick soft-shoe shuffle that says hey, don't worry, I'm no threat at all, no sir, not me.

Let's stop reducing ourselves to this kind of minor comic turn. Let's stop disparaging work that has taken hours of struggle and years of soul. Let's start being intentional here. If you can't acknowledge your writing with at least a modicum of pride--and there are many social situations in which that's the case--then don't raise it at all. When you do bring it up, learn to do it in words that honor both you and your writing. For example: "Am I published? Oh, no. I'm still learning the craft, but I'm loving every minute of it." Is that sparkling banter? Nope. But is it thinly disguised self-criticism? Nope, it's not that, either. It's an honest and humble statement...that leaves you and your work unscathed.

When does the temptation to "diss" your writing come up most strongly for you? How do you handle it? If you have a thought, a suggestion, or just a question, leave a comment below. One of the ways to detox conversations with people who don't understand our vulnerability about writing is to engage in dialogue with people who do.

TOUCHY TOPIC TUESDAYS: are we good enough today?

In the world of professional sports, you hear the same thing at the end of a lot of hard-fought, high-visibility matches. "I wasn't good enough today," Andy Roddick/Annika Sorenstam/Shaun White/Serena Williams/Jeremy Abbott/Gretchen Bleiler will say. Or "It wasn't my moment." Or "S/he just outplayed me." "We just didn't have it," the Yankees/Red Sox/Manchester United/Mercury/Steelers/Rangers will comment. Or "They're really playing well. We just weren't at our best."

I like these moments a lot. I like to see an individual or group that is highly skilled and even more highly competitive acknowledge that at this moment, in this setting, in this particular format, they didn't fail because of the weather or the position of the planet Mercury or their fight with their spouse or the basic unfairness of their sport, they just failed because they weren't good enough...today.

I like it that they don't say, "I'm just lousy and I always will be lousy." Or "I'm always going to lose." (Writerly self-deprecation is next Tuesday's Touchy Topic.) It's good that they don't blame themselves. But I also like it that they don't lay blame on outside forces, either.

I like the combination of honesty, humility about today, and confidence in tomorrow. It's simple, and it's strong.

Why don't writers say stuff like this more?

Rather than complaining about the unreliability of publishers, the greed of the market, the necessity of connections, the sway of short-term fads, wouldn't it be both wise and gracious to acknowledge that maybe, in this particular book, at this particular time, we just might not be good enough? That our book isn't (yet) competitive with Joan Didion or Annie Proulx or Sebastian Junger or David Wroblewski or Nora Roberts or Ian McEwan or Michael Lewis or Grace Paley or Harlan Coben or (insert your idol/envy here)?

I'm not saying that publishers aren't sometimes unreliable, that the market isn't generally greedy, that connections aren't helpful, that fads don't often hold sway. Publishing is full of boneheaded decisions, spectacular misjudgments, and slipshod plans. Agents and editors do miss excellent books and select poor ones. Forces other than quality certainly shape many of the book decisions that disappoint us.

I'm just saying that in our business as in every other, taking some responsibility is sometimes the best policy.

I can't speak for you. But I can say that I'm not as good today as any of the writers mentioned above. I also haven't worked as hard, worked as regularly, read as much, or paid my dues for as long.

I'm not good enough today. I hope I'll be at least a little bit closer tomorrow.

But in the meantime, it's not the flaws in publishing that make the difference.

INTRODUCING TOUCHY SUBJECT TUESDAYS

This post introduces "Touchy Subject Tuesdays," a series of weekly posts addressed to stuff few of us writers want to talk about and even fewer want to hear.

Today'stopic speaks directly to all of you hoping to get your book(s) published, and starts with a little math assignment.

Think back on the past twelve months and guesstimate how much money you spent on buying books. Specifically, books that are written by living authors, are new rather than used, come from the midlist (the ranks of ordinary writers) rather than the best-seller list, and are in genres other than reference.

Note that the question isn't how many such books you read, but how many you actually bought. You don't have to be accurate down to the last twenty bucks, but do be reasonably honest.

Once you have a number in mind, click here to get the rest of the assignment. You'll be directed to a confidential page on my bookstrategy.com/artybutsmarty.com web site, but I hope you'll come back and visit the blog again after you're finished there!

LESSONS FROM THIRD GRADE: visiting the classroom

Last week I had the pleasure of visiting my friend Claudia Balint's third grade class at the Osceola Magnet School here in my home town of Vero Beach. There are few places an obscure writer like me can go and be listened to with awe, but Miss Balint's class is one of them. Claudia had prompted the class to prepare some questions for me, so I got to answer a nice series of rather astute queries, including "Are you lonely when you write?" and "Do you have a favorite among your books?" I gather she had also identified questions that could not be asked, a list that I presume included things like "If you're a published author, why haven't my parents ever heard of you?" and "When are you going to grow up and get a real job?"

Claudia has been having the kids write frequently in what she's named their Creativity Books, the same kind of lined composition books, complete with stiff cardboard covers printed in mottled black and white, that I remember from my own time as a kid. She's taught them some basic forms, including haiku, and provides them with prompts that meet them where they are, like "What is the hardest classroom rule for you to follow?" The class is a diverse bunch of smart little live wires, and the writing they shared from their books was fresh and smart: sometimes sad, sometimes funny, always authentic and always brimming with energy.

As I drove home, I felt a little abashed. The students in Claudia's class are doing more of their own personal writing, more regularly and more happily, than I've done most months this year. And they're learning math, science, and the location of, say, Tunisia too, none of which I have actually yet mastered. Admittedly, they have Miss Balint to prompt them. But I'm 55...shouldn't I have outgrown the need for adult and external motivators by now?

My goal for this summer is to recapture both the regularity and the joy of my writing. In the meantime, thanks to Miss Balint and all of her third-graders for a lesson much needed.

CLUTCH TIME: starting to write again

Over the past few weeks I've been working on my own writing again, for the first time since a delicious residency at the Atlantic Center for the Arts last fall.

The chance to get back to my own stuff should be something to celebrate, but it doesn't quite feel that way. The pages I've already written seem at once stale and overwritten, never a combo that heartens a writer. I feel oddly distanced from them, a little as though someone else wrote them, but worse; if someone else had really written them, I wouldn't feel nearly so mean or so critical. Sometimes I sit down with them and new pages just flow. Sometimes I sit down with those new pages and the whole thing suddenly stalls. I feel a little like I did back when I was learning to drive a stick shift. It's clear that the damn car can move...it's just not clear when, or how much, or where it's all going, the Autobahn or the ditch.

I know from experience that this discomfort will pass, and that some of the pages I'm so jerkily writing now will turn out to be at least a little bit better than they feel. At least, I'd like to think I know that. It doesn't actually sound very convincing at the moment. No matter how many times I manage to re-start my writing when it's stalled, it always seems like this latest try will be my first failure. I'll let you know how it goes--from the Autobahn, or the ditch.

I'M GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU MISUSE THE WORD LITERALLY AGAIN. Literally.

I try not to get too grouchy about the increasing numbers of language usage errors that appear today in conversation, on television, even in august print publications. Grouchiness is a slippery slope in midlife: one day you're bitching over a single word, then before you know it you don't like the weather, the government, the traffic, the cost of living, the color yellow, your house, your spouse, your nose, your teeth, your dog, or pizza.

Despite these good intentions, I have to say that the moribund state of word "literally" really irritates me. Once a sturdy little worker bee, the poor thing's been blurred out and beaten down until it's a useless shadow of its former self.

As in: That purse cost like, literally, a million dollars.

As in: He's literally skin and bones.

As in: I literally died.

Part of what irritates me is that there's no really graceful substitute for the word. If you can think of one, do please post a comment below.

I'll be so grateful, I'll literally kiss you.