HOW TO WRITE A QUERY LETTER

Dear Prospective Literary Agent,

How are you? I am well.

Nope, that’s dumb. Forget I said that.

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Dear Agent,

I have written a book. How, you ask? I have no idea. Life is a mystery and I am confused all of the time.

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Dear Agent,

I don’t suppose you’d like to represent a book that I wrote, would you?

No, I thought not. It’s fine. If I were you, I wouldn’t represent it, either.

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Dear Agent,

HOW DOES ANYONE EVEN WRITE ONE OF THESE THINGS??

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Dear Agent,

I feel more than a little unequipped to write this letter, in part because, up till a few days ago, I thought query was pronounced like “very.” In my defense, “quee-ree” is difficult to say and it sounds ridiculous.

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Dear Agent,

Attached please find a picture of a check that I am sending to you as we speak. Don’t think of it as a bribe; think of it as—

Nope. Bad idea. Reel it in, Muller.

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Dear Agent,

It’s snowing today. Out of my kitchen window, I can see a little boy playing in his backyard across the alley. He’s balancing on a swing by his stomach, limbs akimbo, twisting the swing up and letting it twirl him around and around as it untwists. It’s the tired swing of a boy who’s been playing in the snow for a long time and whose range of motion is restricted by too many layers.

Watching him gives me perspective. I’m so frightened to send this book I wrote into the world to be judged—not because I think the book is irredeemably terrible, but because I’m worried I’m not good enough. I don’t have enough followers; I hate to network; I have no contacts in the publishing industry. Now that the fun part of writing is over, I’ve been doing a tired tummy swing for months now.

But you have the power to change all that. You can read this query letter, skim the first pages of the book, email me for the full manuscript, call me to discuss and make an offer of representation, pitch the book to publishers, secure a contract, and in only two to three years from now, this sad, slow, twisting swing can finally stop! WHATTAYA SAY?

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Dear Agent,

Ever think about how weird the word “parallelogram” is? Try saying it. So weird, right?

Please represent me.

NaSewWriMo

I promised myself I wouldn't do NaNoWriMo this year. FINISH THE FOURTEEN BOOKS YOU'RE ALREADY WORKING ON! I told myself. EVERY MONTH IS NOVEL WRITING MONTH FOR YOU. YOU--ARE--A--WRITER. DON'T GET SUCKED IN!

But when you're in the midst of rewrites, like I am now, and everything in your current project sounds stupid and asinine and writing seems pointless, the prospect of straying to another idea for a few weeks is unbelievably alluring. Sometimes I forget how fun writing is. Well--I mean, it's fun for, like, the first few days, until I remember that I can't just cobble a bunch of jokes and dialogue together and call it a novel, and then I roll on the floor and shriek for the remaining twenty-seven days of November.

And so, with all those misgivings in mind, I went ahead and started a new project. It's a YA book about a weird girl and a boy with an unusual problem (no, it's not autobiographical, thanks for asking). NaNo is great for YA books, because the standard word count is 55-79,000 words for YA, and the NaNo goal is 50,000. I tend to be wordy (case in point: part of the reason I'm struggling with this other book is because I'm at 71,000 words and still have about a third of a book to write. SO FUN, AND NOT AT ALL FRUSTRATING!), but if everything works out, I'll have a normal-sized book completed on the first day of December.

Not that everything has ever worked out before. But there's gotta be a first time.

Then there's this other project I'm working on. 

Our town has an event called the Candlelight Tour, where every year five historic houses are chosen to be featured on a Christmas walking tour. People come from all over to walk around and admire them. It's a pretty big deal here. Our neighbors, who cook over an open fire and host parties by candlelight and basically live like they're in 1812, are on the tour this year, and they have asked us to help welcome people. They are going to be dressed up in period costumes, and so obviously I was like, MM-HMM, LET'S MAKE OURSELVES 1812 OUTFITS, TOO! Because who cares that I'm still getting over this weird sickness I've had for half the year, or that the holidays are coming up, or that I don't really need another project to stress over, or that I know I tend to procrastinate on things and so I'll probably end up frantically stapling things together the day of the event, the way I do. WHO CARES ABOUT ALL THAT? It's time to make some PANTALOONS.

So here is my basic schedule this month: Wake up. Write. Sew. Edit. Write Sew. Edit. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. 

Apparently I am only eating one meal a day. But THAT'S HOW IT GOES during National Sewing/Writing Month. 

Thirty days. 

Wish me luck.

(Also if anyone else is doing NaNoWriMo, or if you want to start any other month-long project, like the 30 Word Searches in 30 Days Challenge, or that National Hot Dogs-Across-the-Country thing, let me know! We can motivate each other by sending videos of ourselves crying and/or making up songs about how much we hate deadlines and hot dogs. IT'LL BE FUN!)

Writing Contest

“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a fortnight ago,” said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding.

“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? Did they pay you for it?”

“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement.

“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go up town and get drunk,” suggested Phil.

-Anne of the Island, L.M. Montgomery

O HEY! The Write Practice and Short Fiction Break have chosen my story, The Cidery, as the grand prize winner of their 2017 fall short story contest. HOORAY! 

I would like to say that the honor is prize enough for me. I would like to say that. But I cannot. Because writing, my friends, is not an art form that lends itself to making a living quickly or easily. If I wanted to make an entry-level salary from writing alone, I'd have to win 79 more contests like this one. So far, I have won...one. So even though I should be content to be recognized and satisfied with the validation that I'm not a talentless hack, I'm afraid that the allure of feeling a check in my greedy little paws again is stirring something inside me, some shameful lust for filthy lucre.

What am I going to do with my winnings? I could spend it practically. We need...lamps, and things. But I am not known for my practicality. Alternatively, I could buy:

• 400 donuts
• Seven and a half hours of karaoke
• 24 copies of John Green's Turtles All the Way Down, which comes out today (with enough left over to buy half a dozen Reading Donuts!)
• A 15-foot trampoline with mesh Don't-Kill-Yourself-Enclosure (for some reason I thought trampolines cost so much more--what a lovely surprise!)
• One hour of an Elvis impersonator's time
• Enough balls to make the attic into a ball pit, thereby achieving The Dream
• 1/36th of a trip to swim with narwhals
• Two sets of these taxidermy bride and groom minks (since it's our two-year wedding anniversary today and I've been struggling to find the perfect gift for Bill)

But I think I know what I want to buy. It's a secret wish I've harbored for years, something very special and close to my heart which will bring me (and others, perhaps) joy for years to come.

...HOW MUCH DO YOU THINK THIS BAD BOY WOULD COST?

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