Law School Professors, Agents, and Friends

At the end of my first semester of law school, we took final exams over the course of a week. How this differed from college and high school was that our law school final exams were our only grade. There were no quizzes or tests before that. Just one big final that lasted hours after four months of cramming information into our brains and then summarizing it in "outlines" that were a hundred pages long. I knew the information. I was going to ace this. I, like many of my Emory cohorts, entered law school with an enormous amount of confidence. We who graduated top of our class in high school and college. We who believed we would excel at whatever we did. We who carried enough hubris to cloud our vision of reality.

Until I got my contracts exam back. Professor Abrams had peppered it with red marks and topped it with a giant "78." A 78? I didn't get 78's. I didn't get "B's." I stormed up the steps to the third floor and right into Professor Abrams office. A short man with a proclivity toward bowties, he had a stare that stopped you cold. When I crossed the threshold of his office and met his gaze, my self-righteous indignation fled through my shoes. Recognizing my deer-in-the-highlights shock, he motioned me in. "Professor Abrams, I reviewed my contracts exam and I'm not sure why I got a 'C.'" He took my Blue Book from me and spent a few minutes going over the plethera of red streaks. Defeated, I asked, "What did I get right?" I'll never forget his response: "The parts that don't have any red on them."

Trying to get the attention of an agent feels frighteningly reminiscent of my afternoon in Professor Abrams office. Most everyone at Emory Law was bright. Some were even freakishly brilliant. We'd all spent most of our academic lives being praised for our efforts. Now, excellence was presumed. We could only improve if our errors, rather than our successes, were the focus. There are thousands of great manuscripts out there waiting to be discovered, and only a handful will make the cut. Hubris, entitlement, and expectation are unaffordable liabilities. No matter how many times I revise The Beauty of Grace, I always see room for improvement. I can't--and don't--expect an agent to sign me. I must simply continue to work at it and shoot for the stars in the hopes that someone will take a chance on me. I love my friends dearly and they've been incredibly supportive. Many have read my manuscript and given me sincere and reassuring words of encouragement. But I need red marks and brutal honesty. If I ever do get an offer of representation or *little prayer* a book contract, I know that will be the beginning, not the end. There are many more red marks in my future and I welcome them.

Why do we chase our dreams?

Writing poetry has always been my first love. When I was a little girl, I wrote because I loved the way words could be strung together to create worlds or images. Seemingly unrelated words form a canvas that evokes more imagery and emotion than the most descriptive prose. But back then, I just thought it was pretty. Now, I appreciate its power. Over the four decades of my life, I've often used writing as a catharsis. As my fingers type away, my worries and fears and unresolved pain bleed through my fingertips onto the keyboard and, ultimately, the screen. It allows me to explore the crevases of my experiences and manipulate the endings through fiction, giving me a sense of power and control over some of the most terrible things: my little brother's death, my mother's disease, the loss of my sense of self. Until just a few years ago, I limited myself to short stories and poetry. Pieces I could complete in an hour and shelve. Akin to a good cry.

Perspective

My dad came up from Alabama this weekend to participate in a 5K with me that benefits the Association for Frontal Temporal Degeneration. For those of you who don't know, my 63-year-old mom suffers from this disease. Actually, the irony is that she isn't the one suffering. FTD is a degenerative disease that essentially eats the mind. Eleven years ago, when she was only in her early 50's, we realized that she just "wasn't right." My loving, vibrant mother had become depressed and apathetic. Her personality changed. An MRI revealed that both of her frontal lobes were gone. Not diminished. Gone. Over the past decade, her disease has eaten her temporal lobes, as well, and part of her occipital lobes. She is now in a nursing home, completely dependent for care. She rarely opens her eyes and simply sits in a wheelchair all day. She eats if a spoon touches her lips, but that is about the only movement at this point. It crushes my heart to see her this way.

I remember vividly when we started down this road and the many stops between there and now. Today, as we sat listening to two families talk about how they recently put their family members with FTD in a nursing home, a part of me thought, "They're lucky." Of course they aren't. And when we put my own mom in a nursing home because my dad simply couldn't care for her anymore, we didn't feel lucky. But at that time, she recognized us. She said our names. She made eye contact. She smiled. She sometimes even said, "I love you." That is all gone. If you'd asked me then if we were lucky, I would've looked at you as if you were crazy. But right now, what I wouldn't give to have her look me in the eye and say my name.

When writing The Beauty of Grace, I tried to be sensitive in broaching certain topics. When I did this, I blindly assumed that my readers would view the material in much the same way that I do. But in the years since this journey began, I realize that this not only isn't so, it's impossible. Everyone has a story and it frames the way you view the world and the myriad issues we face. Once I realized that each reader would bring a different perspective to Grace, it freed me to simply write rather than aim to please. I have to let readers bring what they bring, knowing it will only enhance their experience and mine.

Platforms...and I ain't talking shoes

The evolution of technology over the last decade has changed every aspect of our lives. I grew up in the 70's and 80's. When Mom wanted us home, she yelled (or hollered--I grew up in Alabama). If we were too far away, we knew it was time when the street lights came on. In high school, we passed notes in class or whispered in the hallways. When "the cute guy" finally called, you stretched the phone cord as far away from the kitchen wall unit as you could to get privacy. I remember shutting myself in the pantry or the laundry room. If you were lucky, you actually had your own phone in your room. Wow.

In college, we relied upon bumping into one another on campus or getting a message through friends. Back then, we read newspaper book reviews or asked for a suggestion from a friend to pick our next great read. Technology has changed this for the good, I believe. I can text my daughter and know where she is in seconds. I can Facebook old friends and see pictures of their children and read updates on their lives en masse. I can snap a picture of my gaped-tooth son right after he's lost his first tooth and text it to his grandparents to share in the milestone. These are all good things.

But the changes go beyond our personal lives. They've permeated our professional lives, too. My son's teacher emails me the assignments he's missed because he was sick. My husband can view invoices online and read forums from other professionals in his field to get the pulse of his industry. His cell phone makes him accessible 24/7. Lawyers e-file documents now instead of racing to the courthouse to file them on time, and doctors read x-rays and test results from the comfort of their homes.

Publishing has not escaped this two-sided coin. The e-book has both revolutionized and terrorized the industry. Rumors swirl of brick and mortar stores becoming obsolete as people carry around their Kindles, Nooks, and iPads. But e-publishing also greatly reduces cost, allowing houses to take chances on books that they simply, and literally, wouldn't put paper behind.

One of the biggest changes, I believe, is the way authors use social networking. One of my favorite authors tweets her book-signing locations or links to reviews of her latest novel. Her webpage sports photographs of her book jackets, which link directly to several on-line bookstores where you can purchase her book with one touch. Authors, agents, editors...most of them tweet, blog, and have websites. It isn't enough anymore to simply be a good writer. You have to know how to sell yourself, and social networking is the medium. I began this blog as an online journal but now realize that it, like my Facebook page and the website that I'm furiously working on, is essential. And not just to sell a book, but to even have an agent consider representing you. You must have a platform. It makes good business sense, of course. But it requires people like me--who just want to write and write and write--to become experts in marketing and branding themselves. Who knew when I typed that first word?

It's Been A Long Time Comin'

It's been quite a while since I posted because life got busy and I put my writing on the back burner. Now as Spring has sprung, so has a renewed faith in my work along with a desire to get The Beauty of Grace published. With all of the changes in the publishing industry in light of e-books and budget cuts, the competition is fierce. Sometimes it feels like I'm an American Idol contestant standing with tens of thousands in a stadium hoping for the chance to be heard. I've learned a lot about rejection over the past year, which is a particularly bitter pill when the rejection is based on a query letter rather than after reading my actual work. The publishing business is subjective, just as the types of books one loves is subjective. I know that I've hated New York Times Bestsellers before while embracing others, and I've devoured obscure debut novels I plucked off the clearance table. I remind myself of this each time an agent says, "no." I remind myself that (hopefully) it isn't the quality of my work but the taste of the agent I'm querying.

Just as I was beginning to doubt this concept of subjectivity and beginning to wonder if instead of "It's not you, it's me," it was actually me. Then, I received a much-needed breath of fresh air. A few friends have read the manuscript for The Beauty of Grace and told me how much they enjoyed it, but that's what friends are supposed to do. In an attempt to test the veracity of these claims, I sent the manuscript to Jamie's aunt, Randy Thomas. Randy is a highly-successful voice-over artist who has been immersed in all aspects of American culture for decades. She's done radio and is now in television as the voice of Entertainment Tonight and The Insider at CBS. She was also the first woman to announce the Oscars, the EMMYs, and the TONYs. She's also published a book herself and is working on a television program. She truly has her pulse on the entertainment industry. AND SHE LOVED MY BOOK!! She read the manuscript and called me immediately. I can't explain how that felt. The validation of someone in the industry truly being touched by my work. And because of her belief in my work, she's reaching out. Maybe all the blood, sweat, and tears will be worth it.

I follow several Literary Agents' blogs because they're full of advice as to what not to do or how to tighten your writing. I came across one recently that said, "Examine your work for 'begin to,' and 'decide to,' and 'seem' because these verbs weaken your work." So I used the "Find" tool and searched for each of these words. When I forced myself to eliminate them, it made the prose stronger. For example, instead of "she began to think about..." becomes "she thought about." And "he decided to kiss her" becomes "he kissed her." I learned there's no need to use these "deliberating" verbs. Just make it happen!
I've realized that the more I learn about the craft, the less I know.

The finish line has moved...

After 25 rejections, I decided to have a professional editor critique my query letter. There were a few minor changes, but the most glaring thing (which I'd suspected) was the word count. At just under 53,000 words, my novel simply isn't long enough. This equates to around 215 pages, but in the publishing world it isn't large enough. When books are printed, there's an acceptable range for word count that is in direct relation to the cost of printing. For novels, the minimum word count (I've learned) is around 75,000. The quality of the work aside, it isn't good business to print shorter novels. So, I'm plowing through the manuscript again in an attempt to add another 25,000 words (100 pages). Surprisingly, this task isn't as daunting as I'd expected. In just 2 1/2 pages, I've added 76 words. Amazing how being away from your manuscript for several months gives you an entirely new set of eyes. After just these few pages of revision, I've asked myself, "I sent this to agents?" However, I realize that no matter how long I work on it, it will never be good enough...for me.