I recently stumbled upon this interesting opportunity to pitch your novel on Twitter: #PitMad. It's a twelve-hour window in which writers can post a 140-word pitch, which will be perused by agents and editors.
It's a quarterly event, and the next dates have already been posted:
June 4, 2015
September 10, 2015
December 4, 2015
I'm sooo going to try to get my manuscript polished by June 4th. ;-)
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Win an Inn with 200 Words
For $125 and a 200-word essay, you can win a B&B in Maine.
I have no clue whether this is a scam or not, and even if it's not, I'm sure there are an enormous amount of taxes involved, too. So probably not as cheap a prize as it appears. But the idea in and of itself is awesome, and I like that the current owner is continuing this "tradition".
I'm actually thinking of entering, if more research proves this as legit. I can come up with 125 bucks and 200 words. Experience on running an inn is the more tricky part - does knowing by heart every episode of Gilmore Girls count?
;-)
I have no clue whether this is a scam or not, and even if it's not, I'm sure there are an enormous amount of taxes involved, too. So probably not as cheap a prize as it appears. But the idea in and of itself is awesome, and I like that the current owner is continuing this "tradition".
I'm actually thinking of entering, if more research proves this as legit. I can come up with 125 bucks and 200 words. Experience on running an inn is the more tricky part - does knowing by heart every episode of Gilmore Girls count?
;-)
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Take the Time to Stand and Stare
A colleague and friend gave me a card for my birthday, in which he'd written this poem by William Henry Davies - a beautiful reminder not to miss life in the often daunting and hectic process of living it:
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
'Nuff said.
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
'Nuff said.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
The Big 3-0
I'm actually writing this post on the last day of my twenties, which feels almost more momentous a day than the first of my thirties. I'll be three-something for the next ten years, but I'm never getting back those twos.
Not that I'm complaining. I enjoy growing older, because I'm growing more independant, confident and centered as a result - all things I sorely missed as a teenager and in my early tweens. I've been looking forward to my thirties just like Jenna in 13 Going On 30. "Thirty, flirty and thriving" sounds about right, especially where writing is concerned. I may not yet be published, but I can recognize that my writing has improved to the point where I'm super-excited about my current work-in-progress. I feel like this book could be The One.
I have some major life changes planned for the next few years. They still need to be specified and they will take time, lots of sweat and maybe even a few tears. But I'm in a place now where I'm no longer afraid to tackle said sweat and tears.
So Happy Thirties to me. I can't wait.
Not that I'm complaining. I enjoy growing older, because I'm growing more independant, confident and centered as a result - all things I sorely missed as a teenager and in my early tweens. I've been looking forward to my thirties just like Jenna in 13 Going On 30. "Thirty, flirty and thriving" sounds about right, especially where writing is concerned. I may not yet be published, but I can recognize that my writing has improved to the point where I'm super-excited about my current work-in-progress. I feel like this book could be The One.
I have some major life changes planned for the next few years. They still need to be specified and they will take time, lots of sweat and maybe even a few tears. But I'm in a place now where I'm no longer afraid to tackle said sweat and tears.
So Happy Thirties to me. I can't wait.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Missing my Writers Group
Warning: This may turn into a bit of an incoherent rant…
Until about a year ago, I would start my weekend by leaving work at 3pm on Friday afternoons, and heading to meet my weekly writers group at a cafe in a beautiful old part of town. We would write until about 5:00 pm, then order some wine and maybe dinner, and chat for an hour. The absolutely perfect way for any writer to ring in the weekend.
I never realized what a privilege it was for me to be able to leave work at 3pm to join my group until I suddenly couldn't anymore. I was assigned to a new project at work last year, which included a few more responsibilites than I had in the previous project. This is great, career-wise, but it also means that certain stuff has to get done by the end of the week, that I attend more meetings and overall have more of a workload. Which means that my Friday afternoon writers group (therapy) sessions have become a thing of the past.
In the beginning, I tried leaving "early", meaning just in time to join the late afternoon chat-rounds. But as the weeks went on, even those became more and more impossible. I'd start the day swearing to myself that I'd leave by 4:30 at the latest. When it became clear that I wouldn't make it - again - I felt like locking myself up in the bathroom and bawling. I'd never realized how important these Friday afternoons had truly become to me. Missing them made me miserable. Also, it made me resentful towards my job.
So I kind of gave up. I don't even try too hard anymore. It hurts more to hope and fail time and again, than to just accept the fact that I'll miss my weekend writer fix. I can better forget the thought that my friends are at the cafe, typing away on their laptops, chatting, laughing and having fun, if I don't still hold out hope to be able to join them. Right now, I have no other possibilities, no other solution.
And the moral of this whine-tinted rant? I don't know. Maybe it is that sometimes you have to set priorities which oppose your personal preferences. Maybe it is to learn to enjoy what you have while you have it, and be grateful.
Well screw that. I want my Fridays back.
Until about a year ago, I would start my weekend by leaving work at 3pm on Friday afternoons, and heading to meet my weekly writers group at a cafe in a beautiful old part of town. We would write until about 5:00 pm, then order some wine and maybe dinner, and chat for an hour. The absolutely perfect way for any writer to ring in the weekend.
I never realized what a privilege it was for me to be able to leave work at 3pm to join my group until I suddenly couldn't anymore. I was assigned to a new project at work last year, which included a few more responsibilites than I had in the previous project. This is great, career-wise, but it also means that certain stuff has to get done by the end of the week, that I attend more meetings and overall have more of a workload. Which means that my Friday afternoon writers group (therapy) sessions have become a thing of the past.
In the beginning, I tried leaving "early", meaning just in time to join the late afternoon chat-rounds. But as the weeks went on, even those became more and more impossible. I'd start the day swearing to myself that I'd leave by 4:30 at the latest. When it became clear that I wouldn't make it - again - I felt like locking myself up in the bathroom and bawling. I'd never realized how important these Friday afternoons had truly become to me. Missing them made me miserable. Also, it made me resentful towards my job.
So I kind of gave up. I don't even try too hard anymore. It hurts more to hope and fail time and again, than to just accept the fact that I'll miss my weekend writer fix. I can better forget the thought that my friends are at the cafe, typing away on their laptops, chatting, laughing and having fun, if I don't still hold out hope to be able to join them. Right now, I have no other possibilities, no other solution.
And the moral of this whine-tinted rant? I don't know. Maybe it is that sometimes you have to set priorities which oppose your personal preferences. Maybe it is to learn to enjoy what you have while you have it, and be grateful.
Well screw that. I want my Fridays back.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
On Writing a Book, the Slow Process of
I'm working on a novel which I started about a year ago. I wrote a chapter-for-chapter outline, then raced through the first draft in six months, finishing around August last year - a first draft record for me. Caught up in this triumph, I figured I'd fly through revisions and be able to query by the end of the year, at the latest.
Har-dee-har.
The pros of the industry know: writing is rewriting. By creating an outline before even typing a word of the story, I thought I could prevent the necessity for large revisions. I pictured myself churning out a first draft that was near perfect and would need only little tweaks, not major plot and character adjustments.
I should have known that the thump I heard was the Goddess of Writing, laughing so hard she fell off her ergonimic swivel chair.
When I realized the true extent of the revisions necessary to make the book the best it could be, I lost momentum. Well, I lost heart, to be honest. I felt like this great idea and these amazing characters were buried in the gigantic mound of dung that was the story. I looked at the crap pile and didn't even know where to start digging to free the good parts.
So I walked away and let it steam for several months.
Except the good parts shone through. Every now and then, I'd catch a glimpse of something I loved about this story through the stinky stuff piled on top. They kept gleaming. Beckoning. Taunting. There was gold in there somewhere, and I would uncover it if I just started digging again.
So after New Years, and a much needed break from work - and writing - I finally did. I got up earlier again every day, the way I did while blazing through the first draft, to work on a new and improved outline for an hour before going to work. Muddling through the labyrinth of issues, how to change them and where in the story to incorporate the changes, has now taken me six weeks.
One and a half months. And I haven't actually started rewriting, yet.
My plan is to be done with the rewrites by the end of April. But I won't make the mistake of thinking I'll be finished honing by then. Nuh-uh, this girl learns from her mistakes. So I'll add three months to April for at least one more round of revisions after this current one. My new deadline is August. I want to start querying agents in August.
No thump this time, but do I hear the faraway sound of a giggle?
Har-dee-har.
The pros of the industry know: writing is rewriting. By creating an outline before even typing a word of the story, I thought I could prevent the necessity for large revisions. I pictured myself churning out a first draft that was near perfect and would need only little tweaks, not major plot and character adjustments.
I should have known that the thump I heard was the Goddess of Writing, laughing so hard she fell off her ergonimic swivel chair.
When I realized the true extent of the revisions necessary to make the book the best it could be, I lost momentum. Well, I lost heart, to be honest. I felt like this great idea and these amazing characters were buried in the gigantic mound of dung that was the story. I looked at the crap pile and didn't even know where to start digging to free the good parts.
So I walked away and let it steam for several months.
Except the good parts shone through. Every now and then, I'd catch a glimpse of something I loved about this story through the stinky stuff piled on top. They kept gleaming. Beckoning. Taunting. There was gold in there somewhere, and I would uncover it if I just started digging again.
So after New Years, and a much needed break from work - and writing - I finally did. I got up earlier again every day, the way I did while blazing through the first draft, to work on a new and improved outline for an hour before going to work. Muddling through the labyrinth of issues, how to change them and where in the story to incorporate the changes, has now taken me six weeks.
One and a half months. And I haven't actually started rewriting, yet.
My plan is to be done with the rewrites by the end of April. But I won't make the mistake of thinking I'll be finished honing by then. Nuh-uh, this girl learns from her mistakes. So I'll add three months to April for at least one more round of revisions after this current one. My new deadline is August. I want to start querying agents in August.
No thump this time, but do I hear the faraway sound of a giggle?
Sunday, November 2, 2014
The Truth About Gladiators And Their Sex Appeal
Last weekend, I got to check a point off my bucket list: a trip to Rome.
It was everything my brother - not a big fan of large cities, but a huge fan of Rome - and my imagination promised, and more. Overflowing with life, so very Italian and something amazing to see around every corner, be it fountains, ancient buildings, paintings, sculptures, cafes, picturesque side streets. And everything is old. Many things are ancient. Some are immemorial.
The amount of history contained in this one city is incredible and at times overwhelming. Ruins up to 3.000 years old still stand, many of them intact enough that you can imagine what they once must have looked like, what it might have felt like to be there all those years ago.
One of the things that stuck with me most was the tour of the Colosseum, the arena where gladiators fought for the entertainment of the people. Our guide told us that the movie The Gladiator does not give an accurate account of a gladiator's life. Yes, they were slaves, indebted to their owners and able to buy their freedom with their winnings. But far less of them died during these fights than I always believed, because nobody actually wanted them to. For their owners, they were an investment, because the best of them were the city's superstars. They were famous, they had the most sex appeal, and they even had groupies; women who gave up their lives and wealth to be with their favorite gladiator.
The sex appeal thing is especially funny today, because, as our guide pointed out, if you're picturing Russell Crowe, you're getting it all wrong. The handsome, tall, muscled physique did not a good gladiator make, and the reason is pretty simple. The audience may not have wanted the combatants to die, but they did want to see spectacular fights and bloodshed. So the gladiator games were all about special effects. Without the possibility of CGI, the blood had to be real and come from the gladiators themselves. So they would cut and stab each other in the non-vital body parts, like arms and legs. Layers of fat served to protect the muscle. Ergo, our guide told us to forget hunky Russell, and instead picture a bunch of Danny DeVitos and Jack Blacks with punch-flattened noses battling it out in the white-hot arena. They, apparently, were the ancient Roman's idea of sexy.
There's a story in there somewhere; maybe I'll tackle it for NaNoWriMo.
It was everything my brother - not a big fan of large cities, but a huge fan of Rome - and my imagination promised, and more. Overflowing with life, so very Italian and something amazing to see around every corner, be it fountains, ancient buildings, paintings, sculptures, cafes, picturesque side streets. And everything is old. Many things are ancient. Some are immemorial.
The amount of history contained in this one city is incredible and at times overwhelming. Ruins up to 3.000 years old still stand, many of them intact enough that you can imagine what they once must have looked like, what it might have felt like to be there all those years ago.
One of the things that stuck with me most was the tour of the Colosseum, the arena where gladiators fought for the entertainment of the people. Our guide told us that the movie The Gladiator does not give an accurate account of a gladiator's life. Yes, they were slaves, indebted to their owners and able to buy their freedom with their winnings. But far less of them died during these fights than I always believed, because nobody actually wanted them to. For their owners, they were an investment, because the best of them were the city's superstars. They were famous, they had the most sex appeal, and they even had groupies; women who gave up their lives and wealth to be with their favorite gladiator.
The sex appeal thing is especially funny today, because, as our guide pointed out, if you're picturing Russell Crowe, you're getting it all wrong. The handsome, tall, muscled physique did not a good gladiator make, and the reason is pretty simple. The audience may not have wanted the combatants to die, but they did want to see spectacular fights and bloodshed. So the gladiator games were all about special effects. Without the possibility of CGI, the blood had to be real and come from the gladiators themselves. So they would cut and stab each other in the non-vital body parts, like arms and legs. Layers of fat served to protect the muscle. Ergo, our guide told us to forget hunky Russell, and instead picture a bunch of Danny DeVitos and Jack Blacks with punch-flattened noses battling it out in the white-hot arena. They, apparently, were the ancient Roman's idea of sexy.
There's a story in there somewhere; maybe I'll tackle it for NaNoWriMo.
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