Between Hope and Despair

Just back from Agent-Author conference in New York, . One minute I'm thinking, yes, they liked it! The next, well, sort of. Maybe.

First up, a panel discussion on "The Wow Factor," and the three elements, Platform, Premise and Voice, that will dazzle your agent-to-be. Platform = you went on Oprah to talk about how you rid your neighborhood of crime via the magic of cats. You're a spinster kindergarten teacher with no friends - but you have 100,000 blog followers. You are a Boston working mother with ten blog followers. This is not a platform.

Premise - Your protagonist is a seventy-year-old criminal defense lawyer facing the challenge of her life - winning the skateboard competition, senior ladies' division, while helping her motherless downstairs neighbor pass the bar exam on his ninth attempt. And Voice - your protaganist's a tough, sardonic, skateboarding grandma with a soft spot for orphans. Voice is my only hope.

Next came the conference's raison d'etre, a session with me and 12 other writers around a table reading our first two pages before two agents. By the end of the day, the floor was littered with corpses, one discovered on the beach, two in the woods, one a ghostly ex-husband, and a corpse with magical powers. I have no corpse. I believe this is a good thing.

My turn to read. Ordinarily, my voice rings out with confidence, but my usual self-possession turned tail for parts unknown. I trembled my way through the opening of my novel, and awaited the goddesses' verdict.

"You have a really strong voice." says Agent L. I knew it.
"But where's this story going?" asks Agent G. "Is Courtney (character on page 1) vital to the action?"
"Um, she disappears after page 2."
"This is all back story, " snorts Agent L. "Weave it in later, and start your book where the story begins."

This occurs at Chapter 3, and therefore, Chapters One and Two must become my corpses. It helps a little that Agent L says it's okay to send her three chapters. It helps a lot when two members of my group approach me to say "You're a very funny writer."

The afternoon's panel focuses on the publishing business, which we all fear is on the verge of extinction. No such thing, the panelist agents tell us, storytelling is part of the human condition.

I learned that self-publishing is a Very Bad Idea unless you have a niche audience. Example: there's a woman who is the world's foremost equine masseuse. She self-published a book about her way with her hands on fetlocks and withers, and has sold 100,000 copies at racetracks. Now, I have a way with my hands on a pair of knitting needles, and I'm kind of famous for my guacamole, but since neither cable-knit sweaters nor avocadoes figure in my novel, I'd better find me a publisher.

At the end of the day, agents were taking pitches. One agreed to look at three chapters with a look that said, "Sure, make some poor sucker happy today." The second, a certified genius who must win a MacArthur, asked shrewd questions about characters and plot points. He was especially taken with my characterization of the book as "really, really funny." Uh oh.

Back to rewrite.

Meet the Author

I’ve written three novels, a Broadway musical and countless humor pieces for The New Yorker. What? You’ve never heard of my comic novels PMS: Post Marital Syndrome and Animal Cracker? You missed Ambulance Chasing for Love, my contribution to Shouts and Murmurs? You’re wondering now, as I do daily, Am I Losing My Mind?

Relax. These are some of my UNPUBLISHED works. Join me now on my journey to publication.

You’re thinking, How does she know she’ll get published? Happily, there’s now a viable self-publication industry out there, so anyone who’s really determined can see his or her work in print. It’s the last-resort solution for every writer, including me.

My goal, though, is to do it the old-fashioned way: secure an agent, who will a) find me a brand-name publisher who will b) pay me a big fat advance and c) promote the hell out of the book and d) negotiate the movie rights. With points. Starring Alec Baldwin.

So who is this journeywoman writer? I’m a fifty-eight-year-old divorced Jewish mother of two with a good job in the Boston area. I started writing fiction about twelve years ago. Everyone wondered how I found the time to write with a full-time job and kids then three and eight. Two words: menopause and divorce. Waking up at five every morning afforded me time to write, as did my kids’ absence when they were at their dad’s a few days a week.

I’ve studied fiction writing at the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival, and I’ve also taken Robert McKee’s story seminar; both were invaluable, and each led to a major rewrite of my current novel, Animal Cracker.

I’ve actually rewritten it at least six times. After each rewrite, I’ve shopped it around to agents. I’ve always managed to get some initial interest, with several requests for the full manuscript under my belt. But then, they always say it’s not quite there.

I think it’s there now. So next week, I’m attending an Agent-Author Seminar at the Backspace Writer’s Conference in New York. It’s a two-day event, the first dedicated to query letters and the second to first pages. It’s expensive, so I’m just attending the second. Literary agents will critique opening pages, and, if they like them, may ask to read more.

I subjected myself to a trial run last week at an event called Writer's Idol at the Boston Book Festival. Victims submitted their first 250 words, and a panel of agents raised their hands at the point when they'd stop reading if this work crossed their desks. They raised their hands after my first (cringe) two sentences. But...they were right! Those sentences were awful, and, after licking my wounds, I rewrote the entire opening section, and it's vastly superior to what went before. New York agents, I'm ready!

I hope to find the time to blog from there. I also hope to find the time to do a little consignment store and discount shoe shopping. Yeah, I may write about other stuff from time to time – movies, travel, knitting, my hair…okay, forget the hair. Till New York….