I read an entry on Noelle’s blog that I found very interesting:
A lovely Authonomy member, JRTurner, recently started a thread called “Page 99″. This title is based on the belief of Ford Madox Ford: “open the book to page ninety-nine and read, and the quality of the whole will be revealed to you.” So I thought I would test it.
I read Noelle’s excerpt from GEMINI and it was wonderful! So I thought—why not try it out myself? I was a bit hesitant at first to share this scene. It’s a bit unsettling to post up a snippet so randomly like this. But here it is anyway:
The Viscount brought the cup to his lips, blew at the limpid brown surface of the tea, and took a sip of it. Then, with one last glance at Amanda, he turned to stroll over to the window.
As the minutes passed, the chill in Amanda’s manner seemed to have robbed the Viscount of his power to be amiable with her. She felt a need to hurt him, to engrave herself in him with wounds—to torment him as he had tormented her.
“So, you will write to invite McClelland tomorrow, won’t you?” Isabelle inquired as she dipped a biscuit into her tea, took a bite of it, then daintily brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “You should, you know. If you are determined to confine yourself to home, Amanda, you might as well find some means of varying your diversion. I will chaperone, of course.”
“But will your brother permit it?”
“You need only ask him.”
Amanda paused. “Very well.” She motioned a young maid to her side, and said to the girl, “Will you go and ask His Lordship whether I might invite an acquaintance of mine for tea tomorrow afternoon?”
The maid stood still, eyes wide.
“Go on.”
With a puzzled expression, the girl shuffled over to his Lordship and imparted the message.
While observing this exchange, Isabelle leaned forward, whispering: “I knew you were not on good terms with Lucas, but I did not know it was too this extent. He is barely a few feet away, yet you send a maid as your messenger.”
When the maid returned, she spoke diffidently. “His Lordship says that you are not ready to entertain guests, Miss.” Then, ducking her head, she turned to leave, but Amanda caught onto the girl’s wrist and made another request.
Here is page 99 from the ORIGINAL draft of The Runaway Courtesan—written two years ago, as a serial, on FictionPress. You may laugh at the grammatical errors, the clichés, and what not. I reacted in the same way. But still. This is THE original! Page 99 ended up being a scene based from a mystery/murder subplot I had omitted in my revision. In my original draft, as my older readers will recall, I had highwaymen, I had action scenes, and lots of other bizarre things. So, reading this, it amazes me how much a story changes after a thirteen-ish rounds of revision:
Lucas slipped out a cigar* and lit it. Without looking at Alcester, he said with an unpleasant lack of voice inflection, “And at this rate, you’ll end up a bloody pulp if you don’t get the hell out of my sight.”
“Very well, but just answer me this, Candover: once you get your bloody justice over James’ death, what then?”
“I won’t know until then.”
“When that day comes, I doubt you’d know how to live a life,” he said, as he retrieved his hat and walking stick from the butler.
Lucas watched him striding off, and thought Alcester very clever, if he were indeed the murderer, for acting as if he were not the culprit but a man out to give him some advice on life.
“Damn bastard,” came a voice behind him, and for a moment, Lucas thought the bit of eloquence had been directed to him. But it was Raphe, with Lord Matthew Warwick, another good friend of Lucas’, coming over to join him outside the establishment. “Alcester doesn’t know when to shut up, does he,” Raphe stated rather than questioned.
“Damnation, Lucas,” said Matthew, “you’re making a greater enemy of Alcester—and if he is indeed out to hack off your head, it would be best to stay low, rather than augment his fury towards you.”
“Hack off my head, how very nicely you put it,” Lucas muttered. “But we’re not living in the eleventh century here. We use pistols, unless he chooses to dissect me as he practically did my brother.” He had no idea why he had added that last crude comment, for simply uttering them rendered his stomach to churn, and his heart to rip with agony in thought of James’ brutal murder. “Christ,” Lucas muttered bitterly, and he drew on the cigar, attempting to drown out the agonizing sensation burning in him.
*Editor’s Note: Men smoking cigars wasn’t common until the Victorian era—and my story was set in 1811, the Regency era. Blooper!
This was so fun to share! I hope you guys will participate in this test as well. If you decide to do so, please post the link of your ’Page 99 Test’ in the comment box below, so I can go check it out myself.
1. My editor, Val-rae (check out her new blog!), read up to chapter twenty-five of TRC for the second time. The first time, she stopped at CH 25, because there was a big plot-hole that occurred in that chapter, which I had to rewrite for her. I found that the plot twist in that chapter ruined the whole latter half of my book. It took me months to rewrite the second half so that everything would flow realistically. Confident that everything was perfect I sent Agent#1&2 the partial requested. But a few days later, my very dedicated editor reviewed ALL the way up to CH 25 again—only to frown once more. Something was “missing” she told me. Everything was there—the scenes flowed well and all—but something was just missing. After an intense round of emailing, back and forth, she helped me realize that what was missing was…my heart. My heart was not in my writing. Usually I let my emotions overflow in other chapters. But I was cold, technical writer in CH 25. Oh boy–Val was SO correct. Months ago, during the rewrite, each time I hit CH25, it became a labor for me to work on, so I was very detached from my characters. I felt like I was writing an ESSAY rather than a romance. So Val noticed this detachment in my writing. It actually showed (I didn’t know readers noticed these stuff). This issue, thank goodness, was easy to solve once I got back into my story. I confess that it was very difficult. It’s emotionally exhausting at times to lose oneself in a love story with high drama. Especially a romance one has edited a billion times. But do you know what got me out of this indifference-to-my-characters illness (which always ends up leading to a writer’s block)?
Answer: A song.
That was all it took.
I don’t even know who this artist is. I mostly listen to soundtracks and classical music, so excuse my ignorance. But this piece fit exactly into my story—it accorded well to the heartbreaking moment I had to write about. Not the lyrics though. My ear is deaf to the lyrics when I write. It’s the instruments playing that most inspired me. And his voice.
2. Holy Canoly! I just won Rowenna’sbook-giveaway contest! This is so awesome, not only because I’ll be getting a book that once belonged to a most fantastic historical fiction writer, but—I never won a contest before! I, and you all, should check out her blog often to see if she’ll be holding anymore contests. She also posts many interesting articles. Go, go, go!
3. I’ve also entered a new contest (read the wonderful interview and leave a comment and, voila, you’re qualified to win a book!). It’s also a book-giveaway contest held by Maria from Fly High. If you have a fetish for Richard Armitage, definitely check out her blog. Whenever I’m bored, and want some Armitage to spice up my day, I drop by her blog. And she also has lots of interesting articles for those 19th century English lit lovers.
P.S. Congratulations to fellow writer Noelle for completing her historical romance GEMINI.
1) I’ve entered Rowenna’s book-give-away contest! This is my very FIRST contest ever that I’ve entered online. I’ll be bummed if I don’t win an autographed copy of one of her used books!!!! I hope she’ll hold several more contests. And reading her entry made me want to hold contests as well. Small ones. Maybe in the summer time.
2) Still waiting for the response from Agent#1 and 2. I am preparing myself for the worst. This isn’t because I’m a pessimist. I’m a fairly optimistic person in fact. But, ok, I’ll compromise, my attitute is called: Statistically logical pessimism. I’m sure that only one in every ten writers get signed on by an agent on her/his first try (the nine writers who got rejected–it doesn’t mean they’re any worse. It only means that they have not yet found THE Agent). Plus. The more pessimistic I am, the less disappointed I will be when rejected, and the more overjoyed I will be when asked for the full MS request. It all works out in the end. GAHHHH ok. To tell you the truth, I am rather hopeful about Agent#1, and I WILL BE SOMEWHAT devastated if she rejects me. She is the agent who, after exchanging a few emails back and forth with, made me do a 180 degree career change (in regards to which market I want to publish in). But, rest assured dear readers, I will forge on should I be plopped into a worst-case scenerio. Writers, when you get rejected, remember to tell yourself this: “My book is a story that MUST be told.” This ambition alone will drive you on, no matter how many rejections it takes.
3) My answer to LTWF question of the week: If you had to pick one “theme song” for your novel, what would it be? is being reposted onto my blog because the piece is just too beautiful to share on only one site:
I would pick Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ (movement 1 Allegro non molto) for my historical romance, THE RUNAWAY COURTESAN. When I began writing TRC two years ago, this piece was in my playlist, and though I’ve removed and added new songs to my list, ‘Winter’ has always remained. And it was actually this piece I was listening to while writing an outline for my book. Each note in ‘Winter’ struck a chord in my heart, flashed scenes before my eyes, of a fallen woman lost in the glamorous, yet decadent Regency society. Ahhh! It’s heartbreakingly lovely. There’s something about Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ that sends a shiver down my spine each time I listen to it.
4) I told Bennetts that when I finally visit England one day I would like to hire a historybuff so I might ask millions of questions that would be answered with great enthusiasm. His answer gave the term “Historybuff” a whole new etymology: Buff is the colour of my breeches. Historian is my job description. Yes, here is me and my ga-ga adoration of this most intelligent historical fic writer. Strain your eyes and admire him as I do.
5) I will try not to write blog posts so late at night/early in the morning. Badly done, June. And I didn’t even mean to write this comment. But an hour later I return to this post to add thought number 5. I think this is the con about being a novelist. If you have a keyboard beneath your fingertips, even though you’re writing utter nonesense, it’s still fun.
I was rather bored one day and began surfing the net. One website led to the next. Soon I stumbled ontoSpokenText.net which allowed me to have my work read aloud by a British Robot (wrote a post about this robot here). So happy with this discovery, I shared the link of this site to my editor, Val-Rae Christenson. She was delighted by how useful SpokenText was for her writing, and somehow managed to contact Mark McKay, the administrator of SpokenText. I was later introduced to him, via email…and I asked if I could interview him for my blog. He said yes! So, without further ado, here is my interview with a most inspiring gentleman:
1. Tell us a bit about yourself!
I am legally blind and was born and live in Ottawa ON Canada. I have three beautiful girls and a loving wife. Who has put up with me spending so much time on SpokenText.net and I love her for that.
2. For those of us who have never heard of converting text into spoken words, could you tell us about it? What is it’s purpose?
First off it is very easy using SpokenText.net and it has many purposes. You just copy and paste the text you want recorded, hit record and you are done. We take your text, record it to speech, and provide you with an MP3 or iPod format audio file for you to listen to on your computer or mp3 player. SpokenText.net is a great way to check your writing for flow, grammar and spelling mistakes. And by listening to text it helps you to remember more of the content. And can be very handy for busy students and professionals who need to read large amounts of text but don’t have the time to read print. As it is hard to read a book and walk down the street or drive a car
3. What inspired you to create SpokenText.net?
To help out print disabled people (visually impaired, blind, learning disabled, illiterate, new to the language being spoken). Only 3% of all content is converted to audio every year as it takes so long to record and process human speech. SpokenText.net was designed from the ground up to be very simple to use so that everyone could have this amazing tool at their disposal. It is also very easy to put your recordings on an iPod or iPhone using the personal podcast address we give you. Once setup all you need to do is sync your iPod to your computer using iTunes and all of your recordings will be transferred to your iPod.
The site started with a few users and now has users from over 130 countries around the world, who use it for a whole host of reasons: education, ESL and accommodation to name a few.
4. How do you think SpokenText.net can benefit aspiring writers? For example, what kind of features would they find helpful?
The big one is to hear how their book sounds and flows. It will also let them check for grammar and misspelled words. The more polished your draft is, the more professional you look and thus should aid you when you send it to a publisher.
5. What has been your best and worst moment in running this amazing site?
The best moment is when I get feedback from members who tell me about how the site has helped them get through school. This is very rewarding.
There have not been many bad moments. Mostly they revolve around trying to figure out how to fix the few difficult bugs which all software gets from time to time. And also trying to find ways to tell more people about the site.
6. What was the nicest review you received for your site?
A woman told me that without SpokenText.net she would not have finished her Masters Degree. There was also a young boy who, without the help of the site, would have not been able to excel in school as he had a learning disability.
7. What is your favorite book?
Last year I read so many books using SpokenText that I have lost count. A few that come to mind are: Brave New World
The Art of War
Mission Earth
I really believe in the power of writing and how one book can change how you think and, in a way, change your life from that point forward. To me it is amazing that a book like the Art of War was written 2000 years ago and is still having an effect on people today. That is such an amazing thing when you think about it.
8. Not only for aspiring writers, but for anyone with a dream, what would be the one advice you’d give them?
The classic advice: Just Do It. A lot of people talk but few actually do. And it is the doing that matters in the end. SpokenText is a lot about this. I thought I could solve the problem so tried.
******While preparing to post this interview, I surfed through his blog, and discovered that he was interviewed by CBC, Canada’s national public broadcaster. The beginning of the interview starts off hilariously, with a Robot, but the rest of the interview is conducted “traditionally” haha. Be sure to check it out here.
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I haven’t used SpokenText.net extensively yet, as school has been hectic of late. But Val got me all hyped up about this site by telling me such great things about this program. Hence, I asked her to share her experience with me, so I could post it up on my blog. She replied:
I believe it’s Elizabeth Lyon in her book “Manuscript Makeover” who suggests that one of the best ways to revise one’s book is to read it aloud, without all the drama and flair, just straight, monotonal prose. But even when you read your own book, you know what’s there, or what’s supposed to be there, and so your brain makes up for flaws in rhythm, echoes, etc. And also, because when you are reading you are typically looking at the minutiae and technical details, it’s harder to get a feel for the whole story, or how it will come across to another reader. But having it read in another voice, especially one that is professional sounding really makes you look at it in a different way. Almost like it’s someone else’s book. Now the voices provided by SpokenText are not exactly monotonal. They rise and fall almost randomly. And it does sound a lot like an audio book with a professional reader. My books in particular are not narrated by an American woman, and so using the British male voice, “Charles,” all of a sudden it’s like my book is real. And so suddenly I’m looking at it with awakened eyes. One of the peculiarities of the program is that every time a particular word is read, it is read in the same voice. For instance, the word “no,” never varies in intonation or volume. And so when a word occurs more times than necessary, it really sticks out. And because another reader is naturally going to interpret your rhythm and intonation differently than would you, you hear quite clearly what cadences and sentence structures do not work. And, wonderfully, which ones do. It’s not perfect. The voices tend to sound slightly robotic at times. It also doesn’t read contractions well, this is a problem and neither does it appreciate creative onomatopoeia. For a gentleman to lean back in his chair with a thoughtful, “Hmmm.” Sounds more like “Huh um um um.” But for the most part, it’s very useful, and for those like my significant other who have not the time to read my work, it’s nice to have something they can listen to instead. I think it’s quite exciting, really, and I intend to use it a great deal. I’m using it now as my last run-through before my book goes off to a friend for editing, and then on from there to be considered by a small press. I find it brilliant, really. And I highly recommend it.
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I’d love it if you guys could convert your first chapter into SpokenText and share the link to it in the comment box below! That way I can listen to it while washing the dishes.
Fanny Hill was directed by Andrew Davies. Yes, Andrew Davies, my most favourite director. When you watch this series, you sort of wonder how he got from BBC’s 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice to this: A Period Erotica. I watched Fanny Hill, a two part miniseries, because I was curious to see how Davies pulled off directing an adaptation of such an obscene book. I read this book, and let me tell you guys a little about it before getting into the review.
John Cleland wrote Fanny Hill in Fleet debtors’ prison, 1748. His work, one of the first English erotic novels, was banned for its obscenity. I read this book at the recommendation of a certain lady who used it as a rebuttal against my notion about the general ignorance of sexuality in 19th/18th century England (Yes, ignorant me!). So I took up this book, not quite knowing what to expect—but it CERTAINLY was not an erotica that, even in the standards of contemporary erotic novels, would be considered extreme. No wonder this book is still banned in some countries. I had no idea people back then knew how to write in such a manner. Very shocking indeed. I kept wondering, while reading Fanny Hill, if ever, in the history of the 19th century, the pirated edition of this novel had got into the hands of a respectable young woman…
The adaptation, on the other hand, was much tamer (thank goodness! I found myself cringing in some parts of the book). The only character I liked in this series was Mr. H, Fanny Hill’s second lover, who was an earl’s wealthy brother. At first, he does not care that Fanny is still in love with her sweetheart/first lover, Charles Standing, whom she was torn away from by Charles’ brutish father. But Mr. H slowly begins to fall in love with Fanny.
A romantic relationship blooms between them, as Mr. H teaches Fanny how to be a lady, by refining her Lancashire dialect, and teaching her the beauty of poetry. Soon, Mr. H is no longer satisfied with her body alone—he wants more—he desires her love. However, she denies him this, and in a single misstep, Fanny sparks her lover’s jealous outrage. To her shock, he boots her out of his life, and she finds herself on the streets, destitute. Thus, Fanny goes to Mrs. Cole’s hat-shop, hoping to find a respectable position there—only to find that the hat shop is a facade for an upper-class whorehouse. Fanny decides that it will be in her best interest to work in this brothel, until she can get back onto her feet when she finds a new protector.
The brothel turns into a home to Fanny. She becomes popular with the men, and this infuriates Esther Davies, another harlot. Esther, in order to show Fanny who the more desirable woman is, takes up Mr. H as her lover. Fanny is completely unaware of this until she bumps into Mr. H at the brothel while dallying with some other gentlemen. When Esther enters the scene, and snakes her arm around Mr. H, Fanny becomes jealous.
However, little does Fanny know that his heart still belongs to her. . .
And little does she know that searching throughout London for her is her sweetheart, Charles. . .
Did I enjoy this series? The answer is: Yes. I am entertained by anything where actors and actresses dress in period costumes. However, I found myself skimming through this movie. A lot. This movie was comprised of sex scenes, one after the next. So there was little to no character/relationship development. I felt no sympathy towards the characters—except Mr. H. The storyline was unengaging. It all comes down to this: Fanny Hill is a trashy romance.
But for those of you writing about prostitutes in the 18th/19th century (like myself) you will find that the movie and book will offer you an interesting look into the English Underworld. Obscene though Fanny Hill was, obscene is how brothels were then and still are now.
I spent hours reworking on the last three chapters of my story, worried that they didn’t flow too well. But then, two weeks later, exhausted, I refer back to my original draft of those chapters—and guess what? I find myself saying: Hmmm…not too bad…not too bad…oooh, I like it!—So I ended up sticking with the draft I had been trying to fix all along, seeing that there was nothing wrong with it.
ANYWAY, I promised to give an excerpt from TRC’s rewrite. So…I decided to be creative. Why make you guys read it when I can have a British robot read it FOR you guys? I hope you guys have as much fun as I did. Be sure to keep your ears open for the most hilarious line ever–it’s where a harlot says to Lucas: “Oh, look at ‘em legs. Never saw such long ‘n lean ones in the whole course of me life. I wouldn’t mind a pair of ‘em wrapped around me.” The way the Voice reads it sounds as if it is a meaningful, moving line. She sounds like she is on the brink of tears.
Yes…laugh all you want. Because I laughed my head off. But turning your MS into spoken word is a great way to catch the problems that need to be edited.
Part One
Part Two
If you have no idea what this Robot is reading, then…Oh fine, I’ll post it up.
Chapter One Rewrite
England, 1811
His boot heels rang against the cobblestone street, which glistened in the light rain. Street lamps did little to ward away the shadows of the evening, leaving his countenance unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. Only when the cheroot he smoked glowed did it light his features enough to reveal a pair of gray eyes.
The gentleman slipped a miniature portrait out of his pocket and inspected the face of a young woman no older than sixteen. It was not a beautiful face, for it was too narrow, the cheeks too prominent, and the chin too pointed. But that was easily substituted by the restrained animation which seemed to brim over in her clear brown eyes and the arch of her lips. Finally, after all these months, he had found her.
Reaching the threshold of the brothel, he carefully tucked away the portrait, and glanced up. The small letters above the door read Harleton House.
‘She should be two-and-twenty by now,’ he thought, and dropped the cheroot. Its stub hissed in a puddle before he ground it out with his heel. He raised his fist and knocked on the door of what he’d been told was one of the best houses in Brighton. It was soon opened by the keeper of the establishment who, upon seeing how well the stranger was dressed, favoured him with a fawning smile. “Good evening, sir.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I’m here to inquire after a young woman.”
“Oh?”
The open door left a picture frame which allowed him a better view of the woman’s voluptuous body, her powdered face, decorated with a patch at the corner of her lips, and the crowd of harlots and drunkards behind her. His eyes returned back to the Madam, as she asked:
“Of who, pray?”
Instead of replying, he pushed against the door; the woman at once opened it. When he stepped in the laughter and cajoling that had filled the brothel sank into hushed murmurs. The debauched creatures stared at him as he walked past, the Madam sauntering behind. Before he got far, a plump hand grabbed his arm, dirt lining the crescent of the nails.
“Oh, look at ‘em legs,” cooed the woman, eyeing his figure. “Never saw such long ‘n lean ones in the whole of me life. I wouldn’t mind a pair of ‘em wrapped around me.”
He glanced at her yellow teeth encased by her smiling red lips. He peeled her fingers off and walked on. “Good lord,” he muttered, realizing that this was not the finest house in Brighton. His journey here would indeed prove cruel if Amanda had turned out like this lot. Frowning, he looked around, searching for the face from the portrait. Seeing no one similar, he turned to look at the Madam.
“I’m looking for an Amanda Hollingworth—” and he added, that nothing should hinder his scheme “—I took an interest in her.”
“Amanda? She may be a sweet lass, but she’s only a maid, sir. We’ve got girls who know how to properly please a man,” she replied, grinning, even daring to nudge him with her elbow. But the grin faltered when she was subjected to his indifferent stare.
“No, I’ve come for Amanda, no one else,” he replied, and to nullify any suspicion, he offered her a bag of coins. “Now, where is she?”
The Madam snatched the coins from his hand. Her brows rose high as she stared into the bag. With a smile, she declared him to be the best gentleman that ever breathed! And then she called out in a stentorian voice, “Amanda! Amanda!” A pause. “Amandaaaaa.” Another pause ensued before it was followed by a sudden: “Ah! There she is. D’you see her, sir?”
He scanned the crowd. In the far corner of the brothel, he saw the face from the portrait: the common brown eyes, the brows which were oblique, dark slashes across her white skin, her long cascade of brown hair. She wore a vulgar dress and white threaded stockings. Her countenance no longer held the vigour and sparkle which had so defined the girl in the painting. Whatever had stolen the youth from her had transformed her features to sharp angles.
###
Amanda Hollingworth did not hear the call of her name. After fetching the tenth bottle of wine for a patron, she weaved her way towards the door of the reception room, throwing her shawl quickly about her before leaving the house—if only for a moment. She had to pump water out in the yard, before she could heat it in a cauldron, so that the girls might have warm water to wash in.
She heaved out a sigh.
There was so much to do before she could retire to bed. And in a matter of hours she would have to rise again to clean the reception room for the guests, though it would require such attention many times over, before the day was out. Then to scrub the front steps, which would be dirtied again a quarter of an hour later. And then, before she could even think of taking any breakfast, she would have to scoop the ashes from the grate and lay the fires afresh, the soot catching in her lungs.
She looked at her hands chapped and bleeding from work. ‘I was meant for more than this,’ she thought, but then she shook her head. There was no benefit in such wistful thinking. She had to accept life as it was. A life serving harlots and rakes, Amanda told herself, as she looked up to see a man swaggering towards her. She tried to move away, but his hand reached out in time to catch her by the waist.
“Come ‘ere,” he slurred, his hot breath creeping down her dress. “I’ll be good to ye.”
“Sir, not now,” she said through her clenched teeth, a stiff smile pinned to her lips. The smile that trembled from the pressure required to keep it from tilting into a thin line. She was nothing more to these men than a walking instrument of pleasure. “I need to attend to my work—”
“Yer may attend t’ me, girl,” he laughed out, his stale breath wafting over her face. When she tried to push him away, with a growl, he shoved her back against the wall and buried his head between her shoulders. His hand lowered to grab and squeeze her. “Ripe fer the pluckin’,” came his voice, muffled against her throat.
Amanda’s stomach churned with disgust. She lifted her heel, about to ground it into his foot, when the man was suddenly shoved aside. Relief flooded her. But the moment Amanda looked up, her relief was substituted by dread. The Madam stood glaring at her, face contorted with annoyance. The scars on Amanda’s back burned. She had angered this woman once before by insulting a patron.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to work,” Amanda quickly explained. “I had to get the water ready for the girls. But then this man came and—”
“You little chit,” the woman sneered, “can’t you hear a word I say?” She grabbed Amanda’s wrist, dragged her across the room and brought her before yet another man. From the corner of her painted red mouth, the Madam murmured so only Amanda could hear over the noise, “Go on to your new cully now. He paid more than you’ll ever be worth to me.”
Her cully? Amanda’s eyes travelled up the length of his well-cut figure and she had to crane her head slightly back to study his face. Shivers ran down her spine upon seeing the stern features of a handsome man in his late twenties.
“You’re his now,” the Madam said, thrusting her forward. Amanda stumbled a bit, her knees weak with trepidation. “I don’t know how you met a gent like this one, but—Ah, I shan’t keep you waiting, sir. Good night.” And with that, the Madam favoured the gentleman with a curtsey before ambling away with her easily-made fortune.
Amanda looked around in confusion before fixing her eyes back on the stranger. “You want me?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I want you.”
“But I don’t know you. There must be some mistake.”
He leaned toward her, his lips inches away from her ear. “Keep your voice down. Whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me.” Without giving her room to speak, he placed his hand on the small of her back and escorted her out the entrance and into the open.
She followed him through the light rainfall, glancing back at the brothel several times. Even that rat hole seemed more of a haven to her at the moment. She looked at the stranger again. What could he possibly want with her, a mere maid? She searched for a reason until she came across a possibility that sent chills down her spine. It was not unheard of for men to abuse harlots before abandoning their bodies in alleyways . . .
She’d worked so hard to stay alive these past months and now, this!
When they arrived before the chaise pulled by four horses, the gentleman held out his hand, which she took with reluctance. She climbed up inside the vehicle and slid to the far corner. He soon joined her and signalled at the driver to drive on. At once the conveyance lurched into movement.
Her breathing quickened. She glanced out the window. The brothel was already growing smaller in the distance. Where is he taking me?—the question continued to ring in her mind. Her eyes dropped to the street outside, passing quickly beneath the wheels. How many bones would she break by jumping out?
Before she could make any such attempt, her vision whirled upward, as the stranger caught her by the chin and tilted her face to the moonlight. His heavy-lidded eyes followed the arc of her brows, the line of her nose, and the curve of her lips. Amanda’s fingers grew icy beneath her palm while he stared at her for a contemplative moment. He returned his attention back to something in his hand—it was a portrait, she noticed—then to her face once more. “Yes,” he murmured, half to himself, “you’re the one.”
Amanda shot away from him. “The one? The one for what?”
Rather than answering her, he reached over to open the window. She flinched as cold rain splattered across her face. He held out a handkerchief, and when the white cloth darkened from the rain, he brought it in, shutting the window.
She went still as he leaned forward to her and pressed the handkerchief against her face. Her gaze slipped past him and rested on her reflection against the window. The layer of powder was being wiped off. She saw the strips of her skin, the faint bruises on her cheeks. Her eyes returned to him. “What are you doing?”
“Wiping away the paint. You no longer belong to the brothel.”
Her mind whirled. She no longer belonged to the brothel? Why? Did she belong to him now? What was he going to do to her? She wanted to ask, but her tongue was frozen. A shiver ran through her as a drop of paint-stained water slid from her jaw down to her throat. When his hand lowered to wipe the wetness away, his knuckles brushed against the skin beneath her chin. She immediately hit his hand aside, shocked by such intimacy—an intimacy that triggered foul images in her head.
“This isn’t a very promising beginning,” he said.
“What do you want from me?” she cried. “Who are you?”
“My family calls me Lucas and the public addresses me as Lord Candover.”
Her lips parted and her eyes went wide. “You have a title?” This fact only confused her more. What would a nobleman want with a maid? “You spent a fortune on me, or at least, it is to me. Why are you doing this when you don’t even know me? Of course, I am grateful, but—”
“My dear, I am no saint, but simply a man under a certain obligation,” he replied dryly. “And I do know you. You were born in America. When you were twenty, you moved to England with your family. But during the journey, you were orphaned. You remained in your brother’s care, until, by a strange and unfortunate turn of events, you ended up in a brothel. And there you have been working all this time. Now, is that enough information to have the right to say ‘I know you’?”
Amanda gaped at him. The facts he had uttered were not ones known to many. As the carriage passed by another street lamp, its light lifted the shadow from his features completely, rendering his countenance clear. She studied him carefully for the first time, trying to discern the answer his lips chose not to impart. His face, narrow with hollow cheeks, conveyed the brooding elegance of an aristocrat. She rummaged through her memory but in vain. She had never seen him before.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How did you know where I was? Who told you—” Then she stopped. There was only one other man in all of England who knew as much. The color drained from her face. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
Oh yes. I sent to Agent#1 the rewrite she requested. Wish me luck!–because I certainly need it! The manuscript will arrive at New York by…Thursday!
1) I only have one resolution (which I am stating 13 days too late). Usually, when I have too many, I end up never achieving any of them. So I settled for one this time. But before I go straight into it, let me narrate a bit:
I forget how it feels to be at leisure.
Sure, I do have spare time throughout the week, but the hours are spent stressing over what needs to be done and resentful over what has not been done. The forceful push of life to always be busy, to always be productive, makes me feel guilty when I don’t do anything. So I have not, for a long time, remained still without being bombarded by the need to be up and about. It has been a long time since I allowed myself to lounge on a couch, bask in the sunlight, and do absolutely nothing but appreciate the silence. To be still and reflect upon my life.
Without sparing a moment to reflect, as even half an hour seems too long to spare, my days go by like a blur. So, while trying to figure out my New Year resolution, I looked back on my life in 2009—and guess what I saw? I just saw a blur, a smear of wasted days. This, I told myself, is not the life I want to live. Surely life must be more than this? I decided that I wanted to live this year comprised of 365 single days where I see each day as the start of an adventure, so that by night I might be able to say my journey ended victoriously.
Hence, my New Year resolution will be something simple, but crucial. It will be to allow myself at least an hour a day to reflect. To remember that I am alive, that life isn’t a routine, but an adventure. And during this hour (more or less), I want to write my thoughts down in a journal, as my life always seems to make more sense when put into words. Otherwise I always rush my journal entries—they’re just scribbles.
2) Just the other day, I was discussing TRC with a friend, and she told me something very interesting she discovered while studying her Latin textbook: Amanda is, in Latin, a feminine form of the saint’s name Amandus, gerund of amare (to love) : thus meaning “worthy of being loved” or “worthy of love“. Isn’t that SUCH a coincidence—that the meaning of her name should correlate so perfectly to one of the themes of my work? I had no idea this was what her name meant when I decided to choose her. I merely chose her name because it went well with her last name: Hollingworth.
3) Surprisingly, the rewrite Agent#1 requested is going fabulously! I’ve sent my rewritten first two chapters (wherein lies the most crucial changes I made) to the history buff Bennetts and my dearest editor Val. They loved the changes. Bennetts wrote me an email, starting off with: “God’s holy trousers! This is a different book…You’ve got some good stuff—real genuine raw emotion…” I know I might seem like I’m bragging. But please, after all that I’ve suffered (bouts of doubt, frustration, resentment, fear, and hopelessness), allow me to rejoice a bit. Let me talk on and on about how much I like the rewrite so I might ignore the niggling feeling STILL poking at my heart at the loss of Amanda as the symbol of Mary Magdalene.
But I believe that with this sacrifice, I’ve gained a better story—I think *bites nails* If Agent#1 and Agent#2 reject my partial, I’m going to consider querying again to other agents, but this time for the rewritten version of TRC. I have a feeling that the reason why I received a flood of 20 rejection letters is that many of these agents were turned off by my heroine being—not even a courtesan—but a prostitute. Even the Agent I spoke with at the conference bit her lips and knotted her brows, when I told her what Amanda was. Oh well. Time will tell.
Before I end this post, this rewrite would NOT have been possible without the ideas offered to me by Bennetts and Val, the suggestions made by Cristina, and the encouraging comments made by other fabulous writers and readers. THANK YOU. The “thumbs up” you guys gave me to make this change made the unravelling of a two-year-old vision less painful. And now I have myself a new version that I’m rather proud of.
I received an email response from Literary Agent#1. I was expecting her to reply via snail mail. So when I saw her message, I went: OH MY GOD. My cousin, who was in the other room, thought I’d gone mad. Anyway, Agent#1 said that my story was the only one in a “very large stack” that had interested her …BUT (yes, there is always a “but”!!!) she wrote that she would be interested in my work if I made my heroine (Amanda) pure. This meant that Amanda couldn’t be a prostitute but perhaps a maid at the brothel.
Throughout the following hours I paced about pulling at my hair. To no longer make Amanda a prostitute, I feared, would undermine the very theme of my work: redemption. I went through a brutal love/hate relationship with this idea of rewriting my story. Loved it, because I knew it was possible, knew it wouldn’t be too hard to change, knew it was my only hope of winning over Agent#1. Hated it, because it was compromising my vision of how my story should be. Hate weighed more on the balancing scale. I sunk to the depths of hopelessness. I just COULD NOT make this change. I wanted Amanda to retain her symbolic image as Mary Magdalene.
But…
Everything turned out so well. My gratitude goes out to Val-Rae and Bennetts (he has published a wonderful historical that must be read by anyone who loves Regency history – press release). Val helped me realize that the rewrite might actually strengthen my story, and she gave me all the reasons why, and now I am convinced that she is right. Bennetts helped me realize that my theme of redemption would not be undermined by the change. A lady who is forced to work in the brothel, to live day to day under the constant fear of being abused, would leave her as traumatized. With all the “head-images” of the deprived underworld she must witness daily, of the degradation she must suffer, Amanda would still be a woman in need of redemption.
Some of you who have been following my story for two years now might be furious to know that I’ll be changing Amanda into a maid. But I assure you, the story is still pretty much the same. Amanda will still be the same person.
Some advised that I wait for the response of Agent#2 before going ahead with the rewrite. But I didn’t want to take the chance of being rejected by her and later learning that Agent#1 had run out of patience in waiting for my rewrite. And let us think positively. If Agent#2 rejects my partial, and Agent#1 rejects the rewrite she requested, I will try not to sulk, because I would then have two manuscripts to offer whoever is interested.
Anyway, the rewrite is almost complete. The changes I needed to make, albeit difficult for the first two chapters, were surprisingly easy for the rest. I will likely be sending my work to Agent#1 sooner than the “few months” I requested her to give me. Val and I made a deadline for each other—that we would get our work finished by February 11th.
P.S. Don’t forget to check out my latest article posted on Let the Words Flow: How to Make a Book Trailer in 10 Easy Steps. And, speaking of which, don’t forget to participate in our Book Trailer contest! It ends on January 22nd!!The winner will receive an ARC of SING ME TO SLEEP by Angela Morrison, a bag of confectionary goodies (i.e. candy), and a query letter and/or first 3 chapters critique of your work by the LTWF contributors! If you don’t want the query letter critique—or if you’re not at that stage yet—you can opt to receive a signed copy of PRADA AND PREJUDICE from LTWF’s own Mandy Hubbard!
(To read the teaser of The Runaway Courtesan, scroll down to the end)
Yesterday, a couple of friends and I went to Wildwood Manor Ranch to go horseback riding. While we were waiting for our horses to be led over to us, I found myself entranced by this one stallion in the open range, galloping around in circles. The way his mane whipped about in the cold air, the way he let out this wild, haunting neigh that echoed in the icy air, made him look like an untamed beast. Laughingly, I turned to my friends and said: “I hope our horses won’t be like that!”
I had only to wait and see. Soon, the instructor led out three saddled horses one by one. Liz went first to mount because she’s taken riding classes before; she got a chestnut horse. Then it was Ruth, who also got to mount a beautiful chestnut. And then, the instructor led out a black horse, named Ebony. I felt all fluttery inside as this was the first time ever riding a horse—and horseback riding had been on my bucket list for the past eight years (why? I wrote about men riding away on black stallions yet never knew how it actually felt). I slipped my left boot into the stirrup and swung myself onto the saddle. It was easier than I thought. Maybe this was because I had practiced the movement so often in my mind. What followed was not so easy, however. I couldn’t get the hang of steering the horse in the right direction. When I wanted to go left, I’d tug on the rein, directing Ebony right; and if I wanted to go right, I ended up steering him left. I sort of got used to it later on though. Another issue I had was getting Ebony speed up (which wasn’t my fault by the way) which I’ll elaborate more on as I write.
Anyway, we rode into the forest, in a line, following behind the instructor. My heart leapt into my throat the moment I saw my surrounding. Tall, bare trees enclosed our riding trail, with their brittle branches arced over us. The hard ground was layered in white. Soft curls of snow drifted down from the pale sky. In the near distance, camouflaged against the brown streaks of trees, was a deer, staring at us. I could have let out a wistful sigh just then had I not been freezing cold. The place was just magical. I felt as if I had been thrown into a fairytale.
After a few minutes we rode out into the open field, an ocean of white. By then my feet were numb, the cold biting into them. But this pain was quickly forgotten when the instructor asked if we were ready to speed it up with a trot. I wanted to yell out YES because my horse was so slow. The group broke into a trot, going further and further away, while my horse stubbornly preferred to walk. I continued to dig my heels into Ebony’s side, clicking my tongue for him to move faster. But he wouldn’t listen. It was only when the instructor whistled at him that he quickened his pace. His stubbornness persisted throughout the ride. Only after a bout of side-nudging and tongue-clicking and whistling would he trot. But once or twice he actually rode along with the others.
I loved it when Ebony rode fast (well, a trot is nothing compared to a gallop, but it was fast enough for me!). I could actually feel his hooves clashing against the ground as he ran. It was a bit uncomfortable, being bounced up and down on the saddle, but totally worth it. In a matter of seconds I would be on the other side of the field. I found myself daydreaming about getting Ebony to gallop away with me, but, in my imagination, I either ended up 1) being tossed off, or 2) being unable to get him to gallop, seeing as he is even too lazy to trot at times.
Here is a Teaser # 2 of THE RUNAWAY COURTESAN (chapter twenty-six). I chose this specific scene because…well…there is a horse in it, and today’s post is about horse riding.
Her thoughts stilled, in a trance by the rhythmic crashing of the waves. She couldn’t recall how long she stood there for, or for how long she wandered the coast afterwards, but she began to worry that she had stayed out too long. It would be difficult to travel by night. So she pursued her way towards the main road.
From the distance, Amanda heard the tramp of hooves, the sound growing louder by the second. She turned to look back. Past her disarray of curls, she saw a horseman with his black greatcoat billowing behind him. Her brows knotted seeing that she was directly in his path. She turned and walked in a different direction, but at that very moment, the horseman tugged at the reins to follow suit. It was then that panic gripped her.
She was being followed.
Amanda quickened the pace of her steps. She hiked up her skirt to keep herself from tripping. The wet grass spattered against her bare ankle. Her blood turned cold when the beast charged ahead of her, and then came to a prancing halt, its legs flaring in the air, blocking Amanda’s path. The animal let out a wild neigh that echoed eerily across the vast greenery, before steadying itself on all four hooves. Amanda remained immobile, like a deer in the face of peril. The man steered the horse as he rode slowly around her. She turned, never taking her eyes away from him, winding up for the moment to dash away again. But when he took off his hat, the shadow lifted, revealing the stern features of the Viscount’s.
She let out an uneasy laugh, her hand fluttering over her pounding heart. “Is it your intention to frighten the living breath out of everyone with that scowl of yours, my lord?” When she finally mustered enough courage to look straight at him, something like concern weighed his brows—perhaps he noticed her red-rimmed eyes, bloated by spent tears. He leaned forward. In an unexpectedly soft voice, he said:
“Take my hand and mount.”
“No,” came her immediate response. “But thank you.”
At once his expression chilled. “Then stay out and freeze in the rain.”
She looked up at the sky and it was then that she became aware of the little droplets of cold wetness already falling. Perhaps she would postpone running away to another day. Perhaps on their ride back to the manor she would be able to reconcile with him. She reluctantly stretched her hand out to him. A long silence followed. She remained with her hand held midair, the Viscount staring down at it.
“On second thoughts,” he murmured, “enjoy your walk, madam.”
The harness clinked against the creature’s side. His Lordship spurred the chestnut around. With the swish of horsetail, air brushed by her dejected hand, which she soon dropped to her side. She watched him ride off, leaving her at least half a mile away from Burlescombe Park. She waited. He would return for her.
Agent Update: So, five days ago, I received my second partial request! I sent it to the agent in New York just today. I sort of took my time, as she wrote to me that she would be out of office until the new years. That was good for me. I needed some time to go around printing the material out, then travelling downtown to buy U.S. postage, and then looking through the partial to make sure everything was perfect.
For writers who live outside of the States, just so you don’t freak out like me, here is a forewarning:
Stamps are Serious Business.
After I received a partial request from an agent, I prepared my synopsis, author’s bio, and first 50 pages along with my query letter, to send off to her. But when I got to the post office, I learned that they were unable to include an SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope), which is needed for an agent to reply back to me with. I was advised to order U.S. postage through the USPS(United States postal service) website. But I later learned that USPS does not deliver to foreign countries!
My other option was to use an International Reply Coupon, but the cons to this is that 1) Agents would have to take the trouble of going all the way to their post office to exchange the coupon for a U.S. stamp and send their response from there—so if it was a formal rejection letter, I doubt they’d take the trouble, and so you would be across the border sighing and waiting for their response that will never be sent, and 2) the IRC has an expiry date!!!! I really did not want to take the chance.
Arcade Coin co. is on 10 King Street East Suite 301
In my struggle to find out what other options I had, Savannah from Let The Words Flowoffered to send me (smuggle over the borders?) a booklet of U.S. stamps since she lives in the States. I would have had to impose upon her kindness had I not discovered that on King and Yonge street there was a shop calledArcade Coin Co.that sold the current issues of U.S. postage. It would cost 70-something cent for a letter-sized envelope to be delivered from New York to Toronto, so I bought an extra 10 cent stamp to paste on, since there is price fluctuations for postage at times.
I was going to send the requested material via priority mail but the lady at the post office said the receiver would have to give a signature for this (In the State, however, it seems that priority mail doesn’t require a signature). Thus, if the agent isn’t home when the postman comes by, she would have to take the trouble of going to the post office to pick it up. I doubt she’d bother—what with the hundreds of manuscripts she probably receives every month. So I sent the material via Xpresspost with the words “REQUESTED SUBMISSION” written on the bottom right-hand corner.
For the specifics on how to mail a partial or full, check out the guidelines here AgentQuery
As many of you probably know, I have been complaining to no end about my being unable to start a new project, about being unable to move on from TRC. It’s not that I’m being lazy. I’ve spent hours outlining possible plot lines. I’ve spent hours trying to force myself to start a new novel. I’ve spent hours writing without inspiration. All these failed attempts have literally been driving me nuts. My poor sister had to witness me throwing myself onto the bed, pulling at my hair, and screaming into my pillow. Seriously. I felt that I should be prolific like other writers, being able to work on many projects, or at least writing one story per year. But I’ve finally come to accept the fact that I’m a different sort of writer with her own pace. Yes, I may be slower than other writers–it might “decrease my potential” of becoming an established writer with this slow pacing of mine–but so what? I’m not writing for the money after all. (WARNING: the following piece may be a bit offensive…but it is amazingly powerful):
“So You Want To Be A Writer,” Charles Bukowski
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.
don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
“Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder…” When I was writing TRC this is exactly how I felt. However, my attempts these days to force myself into working on a new project, has left me hunched over my laptop writing things I end up rolling my eyes at.
Like this author said, “if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently.”
Patience.
Patience.
Patience can be most painful. I feel like I should be busy writing. But sometimes I think it’s important to be still and wait. To wait for that roar of inspiration. And to read and live/experience life while waiting. I now realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being patient.
Speaking of patience, I received a partial request from an agent, and after I submit the first 50 pages via snail mail, I’m going to have to wait a longggg time before I get her response. It’s the holiday soon and I doubt the agent will be reading my work while going Christmas gift shopping.
The writer-in-residence, Deborah Cooke, a best selling fantasy romance author, invited two panels for the event on the “Business behind Romance Writing”. These two guests sat before a microphone on either side of a long table at the front of the auditorium (I felt like I was at a press conference! It was so exciting!). The lady on the left was Brenda Chin, the senior editor of Harlequin (Blaze). The lady on the right was agentAmy Moore-Benson who sold manuscripts to major publishing companies and had formerly worked for Mira Books for twelve years.
One of the questions Deborah opened the conference up with was whether there were any “trends” in romance novels these days. Brenda replied that the role of the hero since 9/11 had change significantly. The trend was now ordinary men who were heroes, like firefighters and cops. A hero any woman might find in their ordinary lives and have their own (as Brenda put it) “Sexily-ever-after”.
What is it that agents look for in novels? Amy’s answer was that she was looking for “freshness” in the voice of a novel. The confidence in the writing and characterization needs to shine in order for her to take a work on. Another thing I learned from her has helped me a lot in dealing with formal rejection letters: She mentioned that she sometimes receives 20 submissions in 2 minutes! She only asks to see 10% of the query letters she receives. She only takes on 24 clients, never more.
(Intermission: At the moment there is a shortage of books being published for the ‘Love Inspired’ imprint of Harlequin. So for anyone writing in this genre you would do well to submit your work there! It’s not impossible to get contracted without an agent. Brenda mentioned having taken on several first time writers.)
When I mustered enough courage to speak (after which I kept raising my hand hahaha) I brought up my issue with being unable to start another project after spilling and twisting every drop of me into ‘The Runaway Courtesan’ (the historical romance I’m querying for) and thus cannot seem to start a new project. The answer I received somewhat saddened me. Writing is a business, especially romance writing, for in order to establish yourself you need to publish at least one book per year (unless the book is really, really, superbly good, then people will wait a bit longer). The editor mentioned that when there was a hole in the schedule at Harlequin, there was a writer (whose name I didn’t catch) who agreed to write a book to fill in that space. So in the matter of three weeks she completed a novel and it ended up becoming one of her best sellers. To become an established writer, I learned, requires a lot of discipline. Deborah added that we should (I’m paraphrasing here): just WRITE…even though it’s total crap…and leaves us having to revise the story for the next two years. Everyone broke out laughing here.
What turns off publishers? Brenda replied that it was: Not knowing your target audience and a first chapter that does not sing. Amy’s response was: Writing that doesn’t seem natural, which is an issue among many romance writers as they sometimes try so hard to write a romance that their writing ends up with a stilted falseness.
There was the grumbling me from days ago complaining about agents and editors. My impression of them hadn’t been too pretty. But the conference ended on an eye-opening (or rather, a heart-opening) note. Deborah said: “We forget that agents and editors work long drawn hours from morning till night to get a book out without ever seeing the reward. We need to remember that they love books as much as we writers do.”
Agents and editors, I salute you.
I’m going to close this post with a question I’ve been wondering all day. Deborah Foong, a romance writer I sat and talked with for a while, mentioned how romance books were not respected among the critics. Let’s say you (writers or publishers or agents of romance) were being interviewed, how would you defend romance novels?
You have pitched your book to every editor, agent, publishing house, sister’s brother’s uncle’s cousin who is in publishing, and your pet goldfish, but still no bite? Or maybe you’ve had a few nibbles, rewritten your book until you’ve developed arthritis, and bent over backwards to make the publishers happy, but they still can’t sign you because they just can’t figure out how to “market” you?
Well, join the millions of writers out there who have similar stories. The publishing world is broken. We have known this for quite some time, but we still attempt to please those we have always thought of as the all and powerful gods of literature- the big dinosaurs of the publishing world. The truth is, they are not the ones we need to win over anymore. The ones we really need to pitch to are the readers, the consumers, who will actually shell out the cash to purchase our carefully crafted words on paper.
How do you do it? Should you self-publish? Should you give it away free? Should you give up?
Nowadays there are so many avenues to go down, you don’t have to choose just one. We as authors are able to reach billions of people in all different countries, with all different lifestyles, who like all kinds of fiction with the click of a mouse. If you can find the right venue, you can build a fan base without having a published book. Our world now is all about finding the “next new thing”. If you can market yourself to be that “thing” that everyone is looking for, you will be on the right track.
Get a blank notebook and start brainstorming. Ask yourself:
Who reads books like mine?
Where do they frequent?
What will they think makes my book exciting or different?
Once you have an idea of who might like your work and where you can reach them, build yourself a business plan. Yes, you have to think of this as a job. Make goals, dedicate time, and network just like you do for a job. The business plan doesn’t have to be a 30 page report with graphs and boring details. It can simple be:
“I am going to start a fan base by marketing my work through a podcast where I read chapters and they can listen for free. Then I will focus on college campuses and coffee shops because my book is a love story that takes place on a college coffee shop.”
Next, list how you expect to do that, for example:
“I will post a podcasted chapter of my book once a week. Then, I will market it by contacting other romance novel websites to trade links, swap promos with other podcasters and try to get on as many romance talk shows, podcasts, talk radio shows as possible. Then I will put down flyers at my local coffee shop.”
Once your idea is in place, set it in motion. Make sure you have the website complete before you begin pitching it. Contact everyone you know as well as any authors you have networked with to let them know what you are doing and ask them to pass the info on to their friends. It is all about word of mouth. Join all the social networks: Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, LinkedIn, etc… and start making and adding friends.
Once you start getting fans, keep them. Start a mailing list or a group on Facebook that will alert all those interested with every “new thing” you put out there. You have to remind them and have new content on a regular basis. Weekly is best.
After you have built a good fan base, say 1000-4000 fans (this is easier than it sounds), you are ready to publish in print. Perhaps by then you will have caught those “big fish” publishing houses, or perhaps you will be ready to self-publish. One thing is for certain, you will have learned if you truly like the business of writing or if you are happy just writing for yourself.
For those of you still interested, I will give you a quick run down of my writing business plan.
Night’s Knights Simple Business Plan
“Podcast the book, build fan base, publish book, and take over the world.”
A bit ambitious… but if you set your sights high, you never know what you can accomplish.
Good luck and KEEP WRITING!
Warning:This post is very melodramatic because I am writing in my state of emotional turmoil. So please do excuse me.
I recall bragging for a while that if I should get rejected by an agent I’d accept it with a smile, simply glad that I took this initiative.
I have never been more wrong.
There is so much emotion put into the process of Preparing-To-Query, then sending out the query, that I now know why some writers break down when being rejected.
I went to campus to pick up my History essay and seeing that I did very well on it I was all optimistic. I thought it was my day. So with much confidence I went to the library to start emailing my first batch of query letters. Three hours later I was still before the computer with icy cold fingers. There was a void in my chest when I sent my last letter.
For half an hour afterwards I wandered the streets. How well the weather reflected my mood. A veil of rain was falling from the gloomy blue sky. In my mind I kept thinking to myself that I probably formatted my cover letter wrong (the query letter, sample chapters, and synopsis). But more than this, I was disturbed by the newness of the stage I had stepped into. I’ve been in the writing-and-revising phase for so long that to move on from this comfort zone is unsettling.
When I wrote the Pre-Querying post I was so certain that what I wrote in this instalment would be brimming with triumph.
But no.
Needing to settle my overly sensitive nerves, I stepped into a coffee shop to get a drink. I sat down and stared at my Chai Latte (my new obsession thanks to Rowenna). I wanted to curl into a ball. The reality of publishing had finally struck me. By querying it meant I wanted an agent to expose my manuscript to the world. Expose my heart. How would the world accept it? Would they love it? Would the hate it? Or even worse—would they not even notice it? I was filled with so much self-doubt. I came to the point where I asked myself if publishing was worth all the effort.
Something inside me, in a quiet voice, answered: Yes.
After that I put all considerations of putting an end to my aspirations aside. Silly goose, I called myself, you need to grow up, you need to move on, you need to be strong. Embrace the challenge.
Ah. Now that I’ve put my feelings down into words I feel MUCH better. Yes, writing is my therapy. Now I feel light enough to go prancing about once more.
I know, this is not the most professional way to start a post, but…OH MY GOD!!!
I am so exhilarated right now I think I’m going to cry. Yesterday Sarah Maas emailed me back the critique of my revised synopsis. She managed to compress the two pages into one page, as it should be. Then she also discussed my synopsis over with Alexander Shostak, who gave her input on how to improve the synopsis. Sarah afterwards sent me the revised, sparkling draft. I was, and am again, on the verge of tears when I think of how dedicated they are in helping me. I am so grateful to them and everyone else on Let the Words Flow. Now that I have my query and synopsis complete and polished I am so prepared for this Thursday! Alexandra advised me to send up to 10 queries rather than mass querying 40 letters. “That way” she writes “if by some horrible twist of fate you get more rejections that you do requests….you can re-examine your query/synopsis/first pages…” A very good advice indeed! My next blog entry will be titled “Post-Querying:______” and I’ll fill in the blank with whatever I was feeling.
Another event that topped my day was this: I printed out my manuscript and slipped it into an envelope for my sister to give to my former high school Writer’s Craft teacher. When the story of how my teacher reacted was accounted to me, I was all smiles, and nearly fainted from joy.
The rest of my life outside of writing, however, lacks lustre. I’m struggling with my two university courses that I had to take due to distribution requirements (*cough* sociology and geography *clears throat*). Struggling, as in, not studying, but being busy thinking about how I have so much to do to prepare for the exams. My European History and English Lit are going well though. I’m working on two massive essays right now for these classes. Though it is stressing at times I am still enjoying myself. To study, I go to Woodsworth college, where there is this narrow hall lined with desks where the lighting is dim with Second Cup nearby. I order random drinks (one day it was coffee, then Gingerbread latte, then London Fog, then Café Latte, and tomorrow it’s going to be hot Apples cider) and type away at my essay. Speaking of essays, I remember being scolded once by my history teacher when she was handing my paper back: “June, you were supposed to write an ACADEMIC report, not a NARRATIVE!” So yes, I must be academic, must repress my creativity and my tendency to ramble on with flowery sentences…
OH! One exciting event that will occur outside of my writing life is that I’ll be going to THE SOUND OF MUSIC musical this Friday! I am so hyped up right now. Then the following Saturday I have no work because I booked the day off to study! I would much rather study than work.
The querying, the essays-going-well, the performance I am to attend—I haven’t been this happy in so long! I hope my happiness is contagious and will leap out of this page and affect you guys too!
