The list above includes tags I’d used on this April blog post, where I discussed my first attempt to find a literary agent. I thought it made for an interesting snapshot of how most writers feel all the time: the constant fear of failure; the rewriting; the rejection; and the nagging feeling that no matter how diligently nor how long you toil to build your writerly wings, they’re doomed to fall apart once you launch into the sky.

Okay, that last bit is just my own pessimism. However, it’s true that the odds are stacked against any writer trying to get representation by sending a query (pitch letter) through the slush pile to a literary agent. Agents can receive as many as 300 queries a day. So when I decided to try a second round of submissions last month, I was fully prepared to face several months of form rejection letters and/or the deafening chirp of crickets.

So it was with great surprise that, after my first dozen queries, I received an offer of representation on my novel! I signed the contract yesterday and am now officially represented by Jen Rofé at Andrea Brown.

I am ridiculously excited about this. Andrea Brown is one of the top literary agencies for juvenile literature and, like all their agents, Ms. Rofé has an incredible record representing excellent books. From our discussions, I can tell she’s a huge fan of the story and excited to be my coach and partner as we move forward.

Preparing for triple-digit rejections, I built a spreadsheet of over 200 agents from 122 agencies. After all that work, I was offered representation within three weeks—from the first batch of queries that went out.

But let’s back up a bit. Anyone who knows me or my work might be a little perplexed to hear that I have an agent representing juvenile books. I have an MFA in fiction and my previous work has all been short stories, some of them published in university journals, so by all accounts I should be writing literary fiction for adults. Officially, that is what I’ve always done.

However when you consider that I’ve written stories about alien zombies, avenging mermaids, talking cockroaches, apocalyptic weirdos, magical monster dogs, and dorky introverts discussing the Weekly World News, perhaps the question becomes not What’s a nice, lit-fic writer like you doing writing young adult science fiction?, but rather: How did an oddball wacky hack like you ever consider yourself literary?

Recent drafts and notes. The book began on June 21, 2008 with a freewrite based on a character from a story I’d written in 2004.

Truthfully, this book came out of nothing more than the pressing desire to write a book even though I didn’t know how or what it should be about. So I forced myself to sit down, start writing, and not stop. I plucked a character from the first story I’d written in graduate school and dropped her into a new scene. I wrote by hand for two hours each week throughout the summer, vowing to fill this fat, legal-sized notebook I’d been carrying around since I was ten. At the end of the summer, I finally reviewed the 125 hand-written pages. It was a mess. But the mess had a strange momentum I liked. After Labor Day, I started over on the keyboard.

Four years, twelve drafts, some ten-thousand hours and a zillion words later, I have a book. Which is still not finished. In fact, my agent picked up the manuscript only on the caveat that I rewrite half of it as the story takes a funky turn near the middle that derails it by the end. I knew the ending was bad, but I didn’t realize the seeds of that badness were planted on page 200. The book, incidentally, is 350 pages.

For all the non-writers wondering how this generally works. I also enjoy making charts with cute icons.

This is why agents are known as gatekeepers. They know books. They’ve got the eagle eye-vision to catch all the soft spots an author tries to slip past, so they will not only point out that the ending is unsatisfactory (which every one of my six beta readers also noted), but that said lousy ending begins halfway through the story.


I’ve definitely got my work cut out for me. This next revision will be a massive rewrite yet oddly, I’m excited about it. The story is clarifying in my head in ways I hadn’t expected, and I know which direction to go. Plus, I’ve got a terrific coach with Olympic-level experience who very much wants us both to win. I’m still only at Stage 2 in the long journey to the bookshelf, and it might be a few more years until I get there.

Time to get back to the laptop. Onward!


And now, some poetry

Reveling in my love of old maps!

I’ve been meaning to do some drawings inspired by poetry for some time now and, in particular, the work of a very talented friend named Sheila Squillante. Both a poet and essayist, Sheila writes gorgeous narrative verses and evocative essays interweaving, among other things, memory, motherhood, love, and cooking (yes!). Recently, Dancing Girl Press released a chapbook of her prose poems called A Woman Traces the Shoreline, which is the inspiration for the above drawing.

Although the poems in this chapbook are grounded in the present day and largely reference one woman’s ritual of writing in a café while she is pregnant with her first child, they also evoke elements of the heroic journey. Lines such as “I feel the hero fighting. I am the hero fighting” and “We quest and billow. We wait” reference something epic and powerful, as if the expectant mother becomes the ancient hero—or perhaps one of those great ships carefully outlining the shores of a new and undiscovered country.

I absolutely love old maps and cartography—the star-like, navigational vectors, the wobbly coasts, and all those beasties and ominous warnings of HERE BE DRAGONS. They’re visually stunning, and I knew the drawing would start with one of them. I used my silhouette-style, as it seemed to better fit the idea of shapes and outlines and allowed the speaker in these poems to remain faceless. I liked the idea of referencing ships somehow, so I positioned the figures in a way that might suggest the three, tall masts of a clipper ship. I wasn’t certain if I should include any text, but the writing ritual is such a challenging, yet magical thing for me as well, so I included that line. Underneath it all are the lines of a yellow legal pad upon which the speaker writes and which, I think, expect to be filled.

Sheila has another chapbook coming out in August called Women Who Pawn Their Jewelery. It will be published by Finishing Line Press, and although I didn’t get this blog post up in time for her pre-sale rush (it’s been a crazy week, alas!), you can still pre-order it like I did. Like Shoreline, she had me at a great title, so I asked if she might send the title poem so I could be inspired by it to do another drawing. And she did!

I probably need to exercise a bit more restraint on the use of background patterns. But sometimes, I just can’t help myself.

In this poem, a pawn shop owner speaks of the women who trade their tokens of past loves and lost moments for “a flat cash value.” The mix of emotions is clear; these women “come after death, divorce or break-up/to sell jewels as bright and various as their pain.” The metaphor of gems, memories, and women’s bodies is expertly done, and no doubt representative of the tender lyricism the rest of the chapbook will bring. I look forward to reading it!

Next up on my list is A Day in Boyland by Jesse Randall. I’m also looking forward to my good friend Jessica Wicken’s collaboration with Della Watson called Everything Reused in the Sea, which is coming out later this summer. (Do you see the octopus on that cover? Heck yes, I’m reading that!)

I’m currently looking for other terrific, contemporary poetry to read, so if you’ve got a recommendation, please let me know. I’d love to do more poetry-inspired work. Hooray for poems!

Medicine for Melancholy

Ray Bradbury died today. At 91, he’d lived the life most writers only dream about: a long and healthy one filled with books and magical worlds he’d created and generations of readers inspired by them. He was that rare writer who worked in genres typically ignored and disdained by the literary establishment—namely, science fiction, fantasy, and horror—yet garnered critical acclaim for his work. He was one of my favorites.

Bradbury was also one of the few writers I remember reading as a child yet still enjoyed immensely as an adult. In fact, I have a very specific memory of reading “All Summer in a Day” when I was 9 years old. I couldn’t believe a story that short could move me so much. The idea of Margot locked in the closet as the sun shined on Venus haunted me for decades. When I returned to the story after years of writing my own fiction, I marveled at his prose–clean and deceptively simple but, at the same time, incredibly alive with the moment, like this scene:

The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them, resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces, they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running.

What I also love about Bradbury was his dedication to storytelling, literacy, and education. He was wary of technology but believed in the power of imagination and the inherent goodness of humanity. He also encouraged other artists to dream big and work hard.

One of my favorite quotes from Fahrenheit 451 is this: “Books were only one type of receptacle where we started a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical about them at all. The magic is only with what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment.”

But he didn’t just encourage writers and readers. His pithy quotes on how to push yourself into living the life you must easily apply to everyone.

Important reminders on how to fully live from a man who lived fully. Thank you, Mr. Bradbury.