the glamorous struggles of an aspiring author...

Thursday, February 26, 2009


The muse just zipped in to dump a new idea to peruse on my desk. Surprised she could still find it under all that ... crap...

Still this one is original: aliens abduct the wicked witch of the west and return to earth 50 years later as missionaries of Oz.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Agent Write

I’m sure I’m not the first to come up with the term “Agent Write” for THE PERFECT AGENT, but I like it. It beats TPA, anyway, and it has the right mysterious overtones, like Agent 007, or even the deadly connotations of Agent Orange. I have been hunting for Agent Write for a while now. And just recently, I found out how terrified I am of her.

I’ve been told that you shouldn’t get in to a business relationship with anyone you would not marry. I take this to mean if you don’t trust the person enough to give them the keys to your house and let them change the baby’s diapers: don’t sign the papers.

I have personal experience to back this claim. In the ‘90s when I ran a computer programming business, I ended up with more work than I could handle alone. I was also pregnant, and more than a little worried about handling work and a new baby without a backup. I went into a partnership with someone I would never have married. It was convenient; it was expedient; it was as wrong as a one night stand in Pittsburg.

So here I am, years later, manuscript burning a hole in my laptop, casting a jaundiced eye over the directories, working the blogs, surfing the net, and then it happened: I found my Agent Write.

She is a working woman and mother, like me, with the same kind of screwy career and superfluous degrees necessitated by meeting family commitments. I’ve read half of the books on her list of published titles and the other half could have just fallen off my dresser. We could be sisters, but the best is yet to come, she says she actually prefers to represent YA fantasy!

I nearly sprain an index finger in my rush to open a fresh email window. Finally the damn thing opens. I paste in her email address in the “to:” field and the cursor blinks at me expectantly in the top left-hand corner. My fingers rest, properly curled, wrists suspended ergonomically, and… nothing happens. This is like that nightmare I get where I try to deliver a speech and no sound comes out comes out of my mouth. A half hour of staring at the screen and my fingers twitch. The keys cling to my fingers, sweat making them tacky. A quote prints itself as if it’s expecting me to say something pithy, winning and utterly irresistible.

It’s too much. With shaking fingers, I close the email window. Microsoft Exchange prompts me to save my single quote email as a draft. I agree thankfully, and worship Bill Gates for a fleeting moment for an otherwise useless feature I have never dreamed of needing before.

Friday, February 20, 2009

old stuff....

Ashely ground the end of her ponytail between her teeth as she stood, feet shoulders-width apart, knees bent, and field hockey stick at the ready. Her eyes targeted the opposing team’s captain, staring her down. Her own team captain, Amber, was signaling other girls on Ashely’s team, the Pimplico Pullets.
Slap! The ball was in play with a tight back-pass to Megan, who dribbled it up field, careful not to block it with her body, looking for an opportunity to pass. Ashley plotted an intercept course. A yellow-shirted girl from the opposing team, The Lovettsville Zephyrs, was pressuring Megan hard, forcing Megan to bring her stick in closer to her body. Erika pulled ahead, clearing the way for Megan’s charge. Kelly stayed open and parallel to Megan.
“She’s jamming you! Pass to me, Megan!” Kelly called.
Megan tried to pass, but the Zephyr player stripped the ball from her with slashing blow that left Megan limping and the ball bouncing across the rough grass to a waiting Zephyr player. Ashely bore down on the ball, charging through the receiving Zephyr. Ashley pivoted with the ball and stormed down the field.
“Ashley!” Yelled Kelly, panting up from behind, “Pass to me!”
Erika pulled level with Ashley.
“Hit me,” Erika called, “I’m open!”
Yellow shirts stood ringed around the Zephyr goal, sticks raised, still Ashley plowed on alone, powering her way into the striking circle.
With a sound like a pistol shot, Ashley smacked the ball in to the net for the goal. She slid over the turf with the momentum of her rush. The Zephyr goalie flung herself across the gap, missing the ball, but pinning Ashley’s left leg under the goalie’s stick with the full force and weight of her fall.
Ashley screamed in pain. It was the first game of the season and the Pimplico Pullets’ top scorer was out of the game.
Ashley was re-running that play in her head next Tuesday at practice while she sat with her blue, knee-high cast propped up on the bleachers. The pages of her open algebra textbook fluttered in the breeze beside her. Amber walked off the field, pulling two bottles of water off the table as she walked toward Ashley.
“Tough break.” She said, handing Ashley one of the bottles.
“Thanks, I’ve got one.” Ashley said, holding up a half-empty bottle of water. She and Amber used to be best friends before Amber got promoted to captain. Ashley thought that if Amber tried to pull any of that big-sister-mentor-crap on her like Ashley did on the junior players, she might puke.
“Did the doctor say how long you will be out?” Amber said. She sat next to Ashley, but a few benches higher. Her eyes were on her teammates as they practiced.
“6 to 8 weeks. It’s a fractured tibia.” Ashley answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“I had one of those. It hurt for weeks after the cast came off. Do you remember?” asked Amber.
“Yeah, I remember you fell when we were skiing,” said Ashley. “You limped around for a month after that.”
“And the season is only 8 weeks long, Ashley.” Amber stated firmly.
Here it comes, thought Ashley. Amber slowly stepped down the bleachers, pausing for effect.
“I’m recommending to Coach Jones that Becky take your place on the team for the rest of the season. She doesn’t score like you do,” Amber said, then she took a swig of water and shot over her shoulder, “but at least she plays with the team.”
Ashley watched Amber stalk on to the field and talk to the coach. She saw the coach glance at her and nod to Amber. Ashley’s heart sank.
“Does your cast hurt, honey?” Ashley’s mother asked when she came to pick her up from practice and looked at her daughter’s red rimmed eyes.
“No.” Ashley shrugged, “It itches a little.”
“The doctor said it might do that,” Ashley’s mother said.
Ashley fell silent.
“You know,” Ashley’s mother continued brightly, “I think this might be for the best, dear. You take field hockey too seriously. Now that you don’t have to go to practice any more, you can have more time to do other things. Won’t that be fun?”
“Like what, Mom?” Ashley exploded, “Watch reruns? Play with my dolls? I’m going to go to practice, Mom. If you don’t want to bring me home, I’ll walk!”
“I was thinking more of you doing your homework, young lady!” snapped Ashley’s mother, “You need good grades as well as field hockey to get a scholarship to college, and now you see you can’t count on field hockey!”
Ashley cried.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Her mother said. “But you just have to make the best of it. When life gives you lemons, you have to make lemonade.”
“I’m still going to practice,” Ashley grumbled. She hated it when her mother said that stupid thing about lemons.
“And I’m still going to pick you up,” Ashley’s mother sighed, “walking 4 miles home on crutches with a cast up to your knee! I bet you would, too.”
When Ashley walked gingerly on to the practice field without her cast four weeks later, Coach Jones handed her the red shirt of the second string team. That was the team Becky came from to take Ashley’s place. The “red shirts” weren’t good enough to play in the real games. Red shirts just came to practice and hoped for a break. Ashley had never worn a red shirt in her life. She glanced at Amber and thought she would die of shame.
“Remember,” Coach Jones said as Ashley tied on the shirt, “your leg is still healing. You’ve been in a cast for over a month. Don’t expect those muscles to act like they used to. Stay in the backfield. Take it easy. Come out when you get tired.”
Ashley took up a defensive position on the far side of the field. Her face was burning as red as her shirt. She could hear Amber laughing at her. Amber hit the ball forward in the opening rush, jamming red shirted Paula, who was always wrong footed, for an easy steal by Melissa. Ashley had seen it all before. Now Melissa would take it in to the striking circle, pass to Kelly for the goal. It was like clockwork. Ashley sidled closer to Paula.
“Paula,” she whispered.
“What?” Paula flinched defensively, “I can’t help it. Amber is too good.”
“I’ve watched you play over the last month. You are as good as she is. Are you ready to prove it?” Ashley asked.
“What?” Paula asked again, disbelief on her face.
“Amber is right-handed,” Ashley explained, “so she always pulls left. I noticed it while I was on the bench for weeks. Put your stick far out to the left, and back-pass it to me.”
“What is a back-pass?” Paula asked.
Ashley showed her.
“Ready?” Ashley asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Paula said, “this time, she’s mine.”
Amber hit the ball at Paula, like before, but this time, Paula tapped it back to Ashley, who caught it and shouted, “Heads up, Julia!”
Julia caught Ashley’s pass and charged forward with Paula right beside her for a goal.
All the red shirts cheered!
After practice, Coach Jones came over to talk to Ashley.
“Great job out there today, Ashley.” She said, “You really got those girls to play their best, and didn’t try to go it alone. Those are the kind of qualities I look for in a team captain. The season is almost over now, but let’s talk about it for next year.”

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Lack of Stats

With a dazzling display of "gut" statistics, i.e., I have no stats at all, I am going to spin my analysis of what readers will want in the upcoming months. (Did I mention my degree is in economics and I suffer from a compulsive need to analyze?)

With the increase in unemployment (those stats I have), I predict a correlating increase in the supply of manuscripts. Most of them will be ill-advised attempts but, some will undoubtedly be brilliant. For those in the brilliant category, I predict these categories will be in demand:

1. Self-help (as in how to get a job, keep a job, start a business, make millions of dollars with an at home business, etc. Lots of money to be made here.)
2. How to (change a light bulb so you don't have to pay an electrician to do it for you)
3. Biography (people who endured hardship and lived to thank their deity of choice, Shackleton, you are the man)

1. Fantasy/Horror (the more gory and over the top, the better)
2. Thrillers/Mysteries (exotic locations, clothing optional)
3. Romance (from steamy to morally edifying, lots of money to be made here)

That's my take.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Must I really must drag myself outside and into the snow and slush? No way! I'll blog instead.

In my quest to support all the other YA fantasy writers in the world by buying and reading their books, I finished The Book of Time I & II written by the French author Guillaume Prevost a couple of nights ago. Though billed as YA, the books are light weight and read more like middle grade. The action is quick, the vocabulary is 4th to 5th grade level and the character development is negligible. Despite the "Carmen Sandiego"-style visits in history, I still enjoyed the books.

I could not help but be taken aback by how similar the plot premise is to mine. Not that I have Griffin hopping from one century to the next, but the search for the protagonist's missing parents is familiar, as is the time travel element. Is it something in the water?