Did you know that the recommended word count for a query is around 300 words? 300. That is it. And the vast majority of those words should be about your book. Not you as a writer, not bonding with the agent (although this part is reeeeeeeeally important), not your marketing platform, and not (seriously, don't do this) your possible pitches for other books you may have hanging on the line if they don't fall in love with what you are pitching now.
That was just one of the amazingly helpful tidbits I received on a live video conference with publishing and start up guru Kathy Ver Eecke last night. If you are a writer and not getting her free emails and video blogs, do it. She is funny and smart. I like those qualities in a teacher.
Armed with my newly gained knowledge, I am heading back into the fray, giving my query letter a few of the little tweaks it needs... and completely rewriting my synopsis. I had read that the synopsis should be a dry run straight through the book without fluff or garnish. Kathy says no. Keep it short and sweet, be cautious not to put unneeded info in, but tell it like the story it is. She also gave a bit of what I would call controversial advice. When asked whether or not to give the ending away in the synopsis, she answered... no!
Ok, I know all you writerly folks may have just fallen out of your swivel chairs, but chill and listen. She related that the whole point of the synopsis is for the agent or publisher to see that you know your story. That you know how to pace it to hold attention, and that you know how to end it well. You can give away the ending completely. It won't hurt you to do it that way. It's tradition, after all! However, bringing the reader right up to the plunging drop of finality and then just hinting at what is waiting below builds a lingering desire to know more.
So, heads down, pens up, let's get writing!
To accompany us as we work, let's have some cookies! Here's one of my many favorites:
5 Layer Cookie
1 stick butter
Enough graham cracker crumbs to cover the butter
2 cans sweetened condensed milk
1 bag peanut butter chips
1 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
Melt your butter in a 9X13" pan. Top with the next four ingredients, layered as listed. Do not stir. Pop it in the oven at 350 deg. for about 30 minutes or until everything is melty and bubbly and fabulous. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the richest thing since Bill Gates' bank account.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Seolta's Stories: The Sgaith
The Great Seolta plunges his bare feet into the cold water and lays back upon the grass. The summer heat is a little more bearable here by the river, and the gypsy children are taking full advantage. He laughs as he witnesses two of the little girls teetering nervously at the edge. Splash! He knew they wouldn't stay dry long. Closing his eyes, he lets the sound of the water and the children wash over him. The women nearby are doing the laundry and singing. Here, in this moment, he can almost forget anything that is not happiness and peace.
Lost in his reverie, he does not hear the pattering of a small pair of very wet feet until it is too late. Elhannan, his grandson, flops onto his lap and wraps his soaking wet arms around his neck.
Lost in his reverie, he does not hear the pattering of a small pair of very wet feet until it is too late. Elhannan, his grandson, flops onto his lap and wraps his soaking wet arms around his neck.
"Papan? Are you sleepy?" The boy asks.
"Oh, no, El. I was just thinking of how nice it would be to get wet and cool off. It seems you have granted my wish!" The old man winks as the boy leans back to study his face.
"I didn't know you were wishing... I just wanted to hear a story!"
"Well, let me see. Do you recall the story of the Gaidheal and the first Sgaith?"
The little boy shakes his head and pulls himself off of his grandfather's lap to settle comfortably on the ground beside him. Seolta lifts himself onto his elbow and points a gnarled finger toward the northwestern sky just over the boy's shoulder.
"Long, long ago... but not very long after the first dragon's eggs hatched, a beautiful, magical creature came to the holy city of Rhuidean. It arrived on the clearest night of the fullest moon on the middle-most day of Uanfast... which everyone knows is the coldest day of the year, and the only day that it can snow in the Wastelands.
On this night, there was no snow, and no clans camping near to herald the creature's arrival. It soared in on large wings of constantly shifting color, and landed near the fountain in the courtyard. The creature, not much larger than a Hamarean horse, settled down upon the grass like an overgrown kitten. And a cat of sorts it was... for it had the body of a cat, but one grown lithe, strong, and fierce. It's white tail swished about like that of a well-pleased cat, too. However, this was not a tail you would wish to grab, for at it's tip sat a hard, golden bulb with a long and wicked looking stinger. It's golden paws kneaded at the ground as it began to fall asleep, and its claws left long trenches in their wake. A thick, flowing mane settled around the creature's huge, cat-like head, giving it a most regal appearance as it dozed. The sound of it's breathing was like distant thunder.
Just as the sun was thrusting itself over the edge of the world, Maera, one of the Gaidheal, awoke from a dream and could not seem to return to sleeping. After several tosses and turns, she finally decided to go for a walk in the courtyard. Can you imagine her surprise at seeing this amazing animal sleeping by the fountain there? What should she do? Should she run and wake the others? No, it may leave and then they might say she were dream walking. Should she try to frighten it away? No... there was something kind and gentle about its face that made her feel that it was no threat. So she spoke to it.
Gathering up her courage, she leaned in a little closer and, in her most calm and soothing voice, she greeted the animal. It raised its head and blinked its many-hued eyes.
'Yes. You will do nicely.' It said. This was a very odd thing to say after just having met someone, and Maera was not sure that she felt at all comfortable with whatever it meant. She froze.
'Yes. You will do nicely.' It said. This was a very odd thing to say after just having met someone, and Maera was not sure that she felt at all comfortable with whatever it meant. She froze.
'Do not be afraid now. You have been brave enough to greet me, and I have traveled a very long distance to find aid. Will you be brave enough to help me?" The creature's voice rumbled lower than the thunder of its breath, but it sounded intelligent and kind. Maera nodded and, trembling, stepped closer.
'Tell me, dear creature, what can I do to help you? I will do what I can.'
The beast smiled, if you can call it that, and lowered his head. 'I have something terribly sharp and irritating under my mane upon the back of my neck. I have no way of reaching it, and I have found no one willing to help me do so. Are you willing to climb upon my back and remove this thing?'
Meara nodded. The thought that he could be tricking her into coming closer just to eat her or carry her off threatened to surface as she laid her hand on his neck, but she pushed it away. She had to help. Using his bent front leg as a step stool, she climbed onto his back. His mane was even more dense than she had thought. At once, the task of finding some small burr within that mass seemed quite daunting. But, Meara did not give up. She plunged her hands under the hair and immediately found the thing that had been hurting the creature, a thickly wound blackberry bramble branch.
'Here it is! Oh, and you are bleeding... Let me take care of that. I will be right back.' She dismounted and ran to the house of apothecary, returning with salve and bandages. Gone now was any thought of fear or timidity. She was helping a friend.
She finished her work and stepped back to the ground. The creature thanked her graciously and swore that he and any of his kind that came after would always stand with her kind in friendship. He had no name and knew of none other like himself, so she gave his kind the name Sgaith, a word that means "wing" in the ancient language. His own name became Spion, or Thorn, as we would say today, to remind them of the day they met and the bond that was forged."
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Catching Up
Life has been insanely busy lately. The Hubby is running for judge and the kids are back in school, leaving me in a near constant state of motion. This blog, and my writing, has suffered neglect because neither can scream at me to come and spend time with them. Everything else screams. Writing whispers. It beckons me to hide away somewhere behind a locked door with nothing but my cup of coffee and my imagination. It irritates. If you ever see me grumbly and agitated, ask if I've had the chance to sit down and write lately. Ask the question when I am free of anything sharp or large and blunt... and preferably from across the room. It will be safer for you.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
September 11
Disbelief, shock, fear, anger, patriotism, faith...
Those were the emotions that swirled in my heart and mind on this day in 2001. They beat about inside my chest still today as I look back on the anniversary of that amazing tragedy. This blog is intended to be a place to talk about my writing, being published, and the occasional recipe or other fun glimpse into who I am and how that affects my writing, so I will not get political here. However, I cannot allow this day to pass without expressing myself on this subject.
The actions on that day... the actions on this day last year... and the fact that there is a Muslim march taking place in our capitol on this day (THIS DAY) of this year, leave me raw. These are hateful acts. Where is the human decency? Where is the sanctity of life? Where is thoughtful reasoning and consideration of others? It is all blinded by hate. It is so hard not to get caught in the grip of it... not to desire blood for blood. I fight those feelings every year at this time, and I have not been at the epicenter of any of these actions. I have only played witness. I have only seen human beings acting like mindless, ravenous wolves rending the sheep. It sickens me and makes the warrior blood within me boil. As a mother, though, it breaks my heart for everyone involved... because I imagine the brokenness it takes for a person to get to the place that would allow you to commit those horrendous acts against another human... and I know the deep pain of feeling that something has been violently ripped away from you. So, as a Christian, I fight toward forgiveness and love. And I pray. I pray for every heart and body and home injured by this conflict. I pray for our world, our countries, our leaders, our people. I pray for peace and understanding. I pray for healing. Join me.
Those were the emotions that swirled in my heart and mind on this day in 2001. They beat about inside my chest still today as I look back on the anniversary of that amazing tragedy. This blog is intended to be a place to talk about my writing, being published, and the occasional recipe or other fun glimpse into who I am and how that affects my writing, so I will not get political here. However, I cannot allow this day to pass without expressing myself on this subject.
The actions on that day... the actions on this day last year... and the fact that there is a Muslim march taking place in our capitol on this day (THIS DAY) of this year, leave me raw. These are hateful acts. Where is the human decency? Where is the sanctity of life? Where is thoughtful reasoning and consideration of others? It is all blinded by hate. It is so hard not to get caught in the grip of it... not to desire blood for blood. I fight those feelings every year at this time, and I have not been at the epicenter of any of these actions. I have only played witness. I have only seen human beings acting like mindless, ravenous wolves rending the sheep. It sickens me and makes the warrior blood within me boil. As a mother, though, it breaks my heart for everyone involved... because I imagine the brokenness it takes for a person to get to the place that would allow you to commit those horrendous acts against another human... and I know the deep pain of feeling that something has been violently ripped away from you. So, as a Christian, I fight toward forgiveness and love. And I pray. I pray for every heart and body and home injured by this conflict. I pray for our world, our countries, our leaders, our people. I pray for peace and understanding. I pray for healing. Join me.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Seolta's Stories: The First Dragon
I have decided to add in a new element to my blog. I will now, occasionally, post a short story taken from the history of Froa, the planet where the M'Shar series takes place. Feel free to comment on any of the stories or request stories for me to tell at anytime. These stories will all be told by the Great Seolta. He is the grandfather of the first book's title character, Elhannan, and the last great storyteller and historian of his people. So, without further ado... The First Dragon.
"Come now little ones! Gather around your Seolta and hear the history of our people." The old man adjusts his waistcoat and places his chair closer to the fire. The golden light of the flames dance upon the walls of the gypsy wagons, making the open field feel like a cozy room. The last child to join the group toddles over and touches his knee.
"Papan, lap! Dragons, Papan, dragons!" Seolta lifts the child and cradles him close.
"Do you wish to hear of dragons, Elhannan?" His question ignites an affirmative eruption from all of the children. A brilliant smile illuminates his coarse, but kind face in response. "Very well. So it shall be. Calm now, sit, and we shall begin."
True to his decades as a story teller, the aging historian allows silence to fully settle upon the scene. He runs a hand through his silvering hair and narrows his dark eyes as if recalling a faint memory. The children all lean in closer, subconsciously pushing all of their will and energy toward him in joint effort to bring the story out. Sighing, at long last, and raising his hand out over the crowd of shining, dirty faces, he begins to weave his tale.
"When our world, Froa, was brand new, and Uan's work of creation complete, all people lived peacefully together on the continent under the kind and gentle guidance of the Cumhnant. The priests, known as the Sagart, and the now long extinct priestess, or Gaidheal, taught all people from the knowledge and wisdom given to them by Uan himself. The world was happy and full of goodness. There was always plenty of rain, and sunshine, and food to eat. It was to this world that the first dragon was born.
Elhannan, the ancient Sagart after whom my grandson is named, found the egg on the beach far below the cliffs behind the holy city of Rhuidean. He had been looking out to the water from above when the thing had caught his eye. At first, he believed it to be some enormous jewel tossed up from the sea. It glistened and glowed from within in a shade of blue and green that could hardly be described by my common tongue. There were no steps to the sand at that time, so the priest gathered up ropes, tied them to a stake he drove into the ground, and climbed carefully down to the treasure below.
It was the same shape as any other egg you would imagine, and aside from the glowing and the color and the size, it was exactly what you would think an egg to be. Elhannan, recognizing that it was indeed an egg, then began searching the cliff line of the cove for a nest... or very large mother... to return the unborn offspring to its rightful place. Though he searched until the sun began to set, climbing about the rocks like a spider, he could find no trace of anything or anyone that might belong to the egg. He knew he could not abandon the helpless creature within, so he decided to take it back with him to the city above and care for it until it hatched and could care for itself.
However, the moment he placed his bare hands upon the shell of the egg, an amazing thing happened! A surging of energy flowed through him and latched him to the egg. His hearing increased to the point that he could hear not only the beating of the heart within the egg, but also the speech of the people walking around above him. His vision blurred, but only for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he staggered and fell to his knees. He could see every stone and pebble, he could count the feathers on a gull that flew high among the clouds. 'What is happening to me?' He asked aloud. From inside the egg, a small, metallic voice entered his mind.
'We are becoming one. We will never be separated, not even in death. We are the first. We are the gift and the gifted.'
After what seemed an eternity to Elhannan, the energy released him and he became comfortable enough in his new abilities to strap the egg to himself and climb back up the cliff. He shared what had happened with the Cumhnant immediately and all agreed that this was a gift from Uan to be honored and cared for. They designed and began work on a new Dragon Gate at the rear of the city, complete with stalls for the care and keeping of young, a well for water, and multiple drains that could send waste out to the cliffs and the sea.
When the time came for the hatchling to be born, Elhannan brought the egg out and placed it on a great stage for all to see. A thousand candles were lit around the stage and a grand feast was prepared, as people gathered from every part of the continent to witness the momentous birth. He stayed with the egg, night and day, never leaving it once the first shudders began. He could hear the young one's egg tooth scraping and tapping against the interior. The anticipation thudded in his chest until he felt he would come apart and fall into nothingness.
For two days and nights, the process wore on. Elhannan grew weary. As the dawn approached, the hatchling, with one last, valiant effort, slammed his head upward against the shell and... crack... crack... CRACK! It was free! Those that were set for the watch awakened the crowds. Its tender, blue scales shimmered in the candlelight. Kicking away the remnants of shell, it spread elegant wings skyward and sat back upon already muscled haunches. Elhannan drew near. The dragon nuzzled his torso with its head, then, blinking in the light, gazed up at him. Its eyes were the same deep, indescribable shade that its shell had been. As the people joined the scene, the priest and his dragon embraced.
'What shall I call you?' He asked. The answer came in the same way as before... as a sound in his mind that only he could hear.
'I am Cheadcheann, the first one.'
From that day on, Elhannan and Cheadcheann were inseparable. They had many adventures and grew in knowledge and wisdom together. All that they learned, they shared with others. When they were both exceptionally old and ready to pass from this world into the next, they made arrangements to have themselves lowered back down to the same spot on the beach below the cliffs were they had first met. There they lay close together for a day and a night. At last, when dawn came and burst upon the sky like a spilling of honey and rose water, they died. Their final breaths mingled and drifted away as their bodies fell into a sparkling dust that scattered upon the next passing wind. In the place where Cheadcheann had lain, five shimmering, glowing eggs sat perched in the sand."
"Papan, lap! Dragons, Papan, dragons!" Seolta lifts the child and cradles him close.
"Do you wish to hear of dragons, Elhannan?" His question ignites an affirmative eruption from all of the children. A brilliant smile illuminates his coarse, but kind face in response. "Very well. So it shall be. Calm now, sit, and we shall begin."
True to his decades as a story teller, the aging historian allows silence to fully settle upon the scene. He runs a hand through his silvering hair and narrows his dark eyes as if recalling a faint memory. The children all lean in closer, subconsciously pushing all of their will and energy toward him in joint effort to bring the story out. Sighing, at long last, and raising his hand out over the crowd of shining, dirty faces, he begins to weave his tale.
"When our world, Froa, was brand new, and Uan's work of creation complete, all people lived peacefully together on the continent under the kind and gentle guidance of the Cumhnant. The priests, known as the Sagart, and the now long extinct priestess, or Gaidheal, taught all people from the knowledge and wisdom given to them by Uan himself. The world was happy and full of goodness. There was always plenty of rain, and sunshine, and food to eat. It was to this world that the first dragon was born.
Elhannan, the ancient Sagart after whom my grandson is named, found the egg on the beach far below the cliffs behind the holy city of Rhuidean. He had been looking out to the water from above when the thing had caught his eye. At first, he believed it to be some enormous jewel tossed up from the sea. It glistened and glowed from within in a shade of blue and green that could hardly be described by my common tongue. There were no steps to the sand at that time, so the priest gathered up ropes, tied them to a stake he drove into the ground, and climbed carefully down to the treasure below.
It was the same shape as any other egg you would imagine, and aside from the glowing and the color and the size, it was exactly what you would think an egg to be. Elhannan, recognizing that it was indeed an egg, then began searching the cliff line of the cove for a nest... or very large mother... to return the unborn offspring to its rightful place. Though he searched until the sun began to set, climbing about the rocks like a spider, he could find no trace of anything or anyone that might belong to the egg. He knew he could not abandon the helpless creature within, so he decided to take it back with him to the city above and care for it until it hatched and could care for itself.
However, the moment he placed his bare hands upon the shell of the egg, an amazing thing happened! A surging of energy flowed through him and latched him to the egg. His hearing increased to the point that he could hear not only the beating of the heart within the egg, but also the speech of the people walking around above him. His vision blurred, but only for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he staggered and fell to his knees. He could see every stone and pebble, he could count the feathers on a gull that flew high among the clouds. 'What is happening to me?' He asked aloud. From inside the egg, a small, metallic voice entered his mind.
'We are becoming one. We will never be separated, not even in death. We are the first. We are the gift and the gifted.'
After what seemed an eternity to Elhannan, the energy released him and he became comfortable enough in his new abilities to strap the egg to himself and climb back up the cliff. He shared what had happened with the Cumhnant immediately and all agreed that this was a gift from Uan to be honored and cared for. They designed and began work on a new Dragon Gate at the rear of the city, complete with stalls for the care and keeping of young, a well for water, and multiple drains that could send waste out to the cliffs and the sea.
When the time came for the hatchling to be born, Elhannan brought the egg out and placed it on a great stage for all to see. A thousand candles were lit around the stage and a grand feast was prepared, as people gathered from every part of the continent to witness the momentous birth. He stayed with the egg, night and day, never leaving it once the first shudders began. He could hear the young one's egg tooth scraping and tapping against the interior. The anticipation thudded in his chest until he felt he would come apart and fall into nothingness.
For two days and nights, the process wore on. Elhannan grew weary. As the dawn approached, the hatchling, with one last, valiant effort, slammed his head upward against the shell and... crack... crack... CRACK! It was free! Those that were set for the watch awakened the crowds. Its tender, blue scales shimmered in the candlelight. Kicking away the remnants of shell, it spread elegant wings skyward and sat back upon already muscled haunches. Elhannan drew near. The dragon nuzzled his torso with its head, then, blinking in the light, gazed up at him. Its eyes were the same deep, indescribable shade that its shell had been. As the people joined the scene, the priest and his dragon embraced.
'What shall I call you?' He asked. The answer came in the same way as before... as a sound in his mind that only he could hear.
'I am Cheadcheann, the first one.'
From that day on, Elhannan and Cheadcheann were inseparable. They had many adventures and grew in knowledge and wisdom together. All that they learned, they shared with others. When they were both exceptionally old and ready to pass from this world into the next, they made arrangements to have themselves lowered back down to the same spot on the beach below the cliffs were they had first met. There they lay close together for a day and a night. At last, when dawn came and burst upon the sky like a spilling of honey and rose water, they died. Their final breaths mingled and drifted away as their bodies fell into a sparkling dust that scattered upon the next passing wind. In the place where Cheadcheann had lain, five shimmering, glowing eggs sat perched in the sand."
Monday, September 2, 2013
The Waiting Is The Hardest Part
Tick... Tick... Tick...
Every morning I have a routine. I wake up, grab my phone, and check my email. I am looking for one thing in particular. I scan quickly past any and every thing that is not that one thing. I am searching for a response from one of the few agents I have queried regarding my manuscript. Many blogs and advice columns I have read suggest stopping at nothing short of flooding the market with queries. The idea has merit, like chumming the water for a shark sighting, but I prefer to be a bit more methodical. I am working my way through specific agents who seem to be looking for my specific genre, are rep'ing books I respect or have them listed as books they also enjoy, and who have a social media or blog presence that reveals a character or humor I can relate to. At this time, I only have around ten queries out there. I have received two rejections (form type, both), and I am hunting often to find the next person to add to my list. If you are that person, or know that person, give me a heads up. I want to find the right agent for my manuscript and myself. I don't just want the deal. I want someone who I can relate to that will really care about the work and help me to make it the best it can be. So, I wait.
While I wait, I work, because I hate to wait. I am one of those people that just has to be doing something all of the time. One look at my craft room will tell you that. I am normally in the middle of several projects at any given time. Quilting, painting, cooking, floral arrangement, wreath making, dollhouse building, etc.... And the beat goes on... and the beat goes on. All of these little distractions keep my brain from burning out and give me a tactile place to go when I'm stuck on a particular scene in book 2. Yes, you can add another thing to add to that list of stuff I'm doing. Book 2 is the follow up to Elhannan, the novel manuscript I am seeking publishing for now. These characters, the world I've built, and the stories blooming there are constantly on my mind. Driving to work the other day, I found myself hashing out a conversation between two main characters and doing a mental storyboard to lay the scene out perfectly. I needed to find something useful to do with my mind. (Driving and waiting are very similar... too similar. I speed and drive defensively. A lot. Seriously, those handles on the passenger side and in the back seat were created solely for the frightened people who ride with me.)
My Granny Rose told me "patience is a virtue" so many times when I was young. Each time I find myself overwhelmed with the tedious annoyance that prickles under my skin while I wait, I can see her sweet, soft, wrinkled face looking down at me trying not to smile as she says those words. Bless her. I just don't see that particular virtue ever pertaining to me.
Every morning I have a routine. I wake up, grab my phone, and check my email. I am looking for one thing in particular. I scan quickly past any and every thing that is not that one thing. I am searching for a response from one of the few agents I have queried regarding my manuscript. Many blogs and advice columns I have read suggest stopping at nothing short of flooding the market with queries. The idea has merit, like chumming the water for a shark sighting, but I prefer to be a bit more methodical. I am working my way through specific agents who seem to be looking for my specific genre, are rep'ing books I respect or have them listed as books they also enjoy, and who have a social media or blog presence that reveals a character or humor I can relate to. At this time, I only have around ten queries out there. I have received two rejections (form type, both), and I am hunting often to find the next person to add to my list. If you are that person, or know that person, give me a heads up. I want to find the right agent for my manuscript and myself. I don't just want the deal. I want someone who I can relate to that will really care about the work and help me to make it the best it can be. So, I wait.
While I wait, I work, because I hate to wait. I am one of those people that just has to be doing something all of the time. One look at my craft room will tell you that. I am normally in the middle of several projects at any given time. Quilting, painting, cooking, floral arrangement, wreath making, dollhouse building, etc.... And the beat goes on... and the beat goes on. All of these little distractions keep my brain from burning out and give me a tactile place to go when I'm stuck on a particular scene in book 2. Yes, you can add another thing to add to that list of stuff I'm doing. Book 2 is the follow up to Elhannan, the novel manuscript I am seeking publishing for now. These characters, the world I've built, and the stories blooming there are constantly on my mind. Driving to work the other day, I found myself hashing out a conversation between two main characters and doing a mental storyboard to lay the scene out perfectly. I needed to find something useful to do with my mind. (Driving and waiting are very similar... too similar. I speed and drive defensively. A lot. Seriously, those handles on the passenger side and in the back seat were created solely for the frightened people who ride with me.)
My Granny Rose told me "patience is a virtue" so many times when I was young. Each time I find myself overwhelmed with the tedious annoyance that prickles under my skin while I wait, I can see her sweet, soft, wrinkled face looking down at me trying not to smile as she says those words. Bless her. I just don't see that particular virtue ever pertaining to me.
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