writing » Aspiring Mama

Dear Future Agent,

I have a secret to share. It may shock you.

Then again, probably not.

See…(and this is kind of embarrassing to admit)…but (deep breath) I. Am. Not. Famous.

I’ll give you a minute to digest that little piece of information. Because really, the Holy Crap factor was probably enough to knock the wind out of you. You know, while you laughed at me. So I understand if you need to compose yourself.

Right now, dear Future Agent, you are probably asking yourself why you should give a damn about me and my Regular Peeples status. Or not. After all, we haven’t been formally introduced yet. Or perhaps we have and I just haven’t quite convinced you yet. So in reality, you are probably busy cycling through your inbox while fending off off over-zealous writers with good intentions and big dreams who may have sent you cookies instead of a properly formatted query letter, wishing it was five o’clock so you can get home and pop the cork on a bottle of wine, skip the glass, and stick a bendy straw in there. You know, after you have served the kids dinner. (I’m going out on a limb here and guessing you will be a mom. And if you are doing that bendy straw thing, we are soooo a match made in heaven.)

But back to the me Not Being Famous and why you should care thing. You see, before I find you I have to be told to keep looking by others. “This is a subjective business…” “Other agents opinions may differ…” “What doesn’t work for me may be perfect for another agent…” Oh wait. It’s been three weeks and two days. Which means I can cross too more off my list. I know my query is solid (maybe). I know my writing has promise (right?). I know I will not be a word-diva when it comes to revisions (which I think is major bonus points, yes?) I could focus on the fact that I just got turned down again or I can remind myself that these two passive rejections are playing their karmic roles in getting me closer to the day I find you. But instead, I think I’ll focus on the fact that my (solid) query is missing something. That my (promising) writing isn’t even going to come into play for many of the agents who shall come before you because of that pesky little platform thing. And seeing as I don’t really have one to stand on, why ask for more if I don’t have enough to get me past Go to collect my Monopoly money?

You already know, dear Future Agent, that Non-fiction and Strong Platforms go hand in hand. That there is plenty of rhyme and reason for the current system. I get it, too. But I have to admit that the whole situation kind of has me in a pickle similar to the Gotta Have Credit to Get Credit situation I found myself in when I was young and stupid enough to jump on the first credit card offer that got me a free T-shirt on my college campus; I’m not famous enough to garner the attention of many agents looking for famous enough people to garner the attention of publishers looking for people famous enough to sell books. So they have (and will continue to) take a pass on me. No matter what they may think of my writing or my claims that my old job, this blog, and my twitter addiction could be considered a platform.

And that’s okay. It sucks. But it’s okay.

Because one day, you will take a chance on me. And I’ll do that little happy dance every writer does when their own future finally slows down enough for them to grab hold. And then I can dream bigger and work harder (while trying to remedy that Not Being Famous thing while taking breaks from that working and writing thing, of course.) Until then, I’ll continue to nurse my bruised ego, marvel at the fact that the girl who was so unsure of herself has grown into the woman who is sure enough to continue this soul-crushing exercise as long as it takes, and wait.

I may not be famous (enough) yet, but I’m stubborn as hell. Which means I’m not going to let my cute little platform (or lack thereof) get in my way.

Sincerely,

If I hadn’t put it out there in tweets and blog posts, I may have just adding one more day and one more chocolate chip cookie to my deadline.

But I did. So I didn’t.

I have no qualms about admitting that I did enjoy a few too many soft-baked cookies on the way home from my 11 p.m. grocery store trek last night so The Husband couldn’t give me shit when I got home with my clean eating supplies. I’m nothing if not honest, right?

I had bags upon bags upon bags when I walked into the house. Fresh vegetables, fruits, organic and clean pre-made soups, fish fillets and…

“What the hell is that and is it going to eat me?” The Husband was suspiciously eyeing the green onion bunch on miracle grow I had plopped onto the counter for my Paradise Bean Burgers. “Remember the green onions I bought last time thinking they were leeks?”
Yeah?”

“I was wrong. These are leeks.”

(Which, of course, reminded me of this little Baby F(Ph)at excerpt. Oh far far I’ve come. )

***

I check my list again and look at my watch. It’s almost dinner time and I’m nowhere near done. And this, folks, is where it pays to be an over-obsessive compulsive freak of a mom who packs a diaper bag with the works each and every time I leave the house.

“Leeks, M’ijita.” I say, handing her a water bottle and a snack cup filled with all-natural apple chips. We’ve been at the grocery store for 45 minutes and haven’t even gotten out of the produce department yet. I’ve been aware of the fact that staying on the perimeter is the healthiest way to shop for awhile, but never followed an eating plan that actually had me following through. And because this clean eating thing is still pretty new to me, I’m nowhere near confident in my navigation abilities in once familiar territory.
Food isn’t good and bad anymore. It’s clean or not. And “not” means I’m not eating it if it can be helped. Like that venti, iced, unsweetened passion tea from Starbucks a few weeks ago? Totally acceptable. The little pastry I tried scarfing down before The Husband returned from getting us a cart at Target? I threw it away when he pointed out that it was probably as clean as the bottom of my shoe.

“What’s a leek, Mama?” Buttercup asks in between bites. “Do you know?”

“No, baby. Mama is clueless.”

This, of course, is when Buttercup spots the woman who handed her the parsnip. Before I can say a word, Buttercup gets her attention, tells her that Mama is clueless, and returns with a bunch of leeks as the woman walks away laughing.

Turns out leeks is the fancy word for green onions. Awesome. I feel so Fancy Nancy right now.

Update: Turns out green onions are actually scallions and I never got leeks in my Paradise Bean Burger. Whereas I once believed the kind woman walked away laughing because she thought Buttercup was so totally cute, I now realize it’s because she totally played me because I can’t tell a leek from a scallion. And yes, I learned this while bragging about my awesome Fancy Nancy line on twitter. Thank you to @lainasparetime for setting me straight. Pardon me while I go make vegetable flash cards to study before my next visit to the produce department.

** This post originally appeared on Bookieboo!

For those who’ve been reading the blog for more than five minutes, you know I’ve mentioned my non-fiction proposal more than a few times. It took forever to write and I did have the help of a freelance editor to hold my hand during the process.

It was grueling but oh so satisfying when I completed it.

I’ve been asked more than a few times for a post describing how to go about writing one, but I’d like to leave responses to questions like that in the hands of the experts. One of the best places to look for proposal advice (and anything else you can think of related to the writing process) is literary agent Nathan Bransford’s blog. Seriously, check it out. And bookmark it. If you’re anything like me, you’ll be referring to his site often.

And a side note on proposals: In my own agent search, I’ve come across one agent who states that memoirs are sold as novels and proposals and are therefore not needed. To counter that, I’ve also come across a billion others who say that without a proposal, your non-fiction book (memoir or otherwise) isn’t going to get on a bookshelf anytime soon. In fact, many I plan to query actually require one as part of the querying process.

So take it as you will. But also take it as a lesson to further emphasize the point that agents are individuals with individual tastes and requirements for submission. Bottom line? Pretend it’s a blind date where both parties are trying to figure out if they want to break the awkward silence and actually converse. Either there’s chemistry or there isn’t.

Here’s hoping for chemistry, world peace, and a smaller ass.

Hit send. Hit send. Hit send.

It’s the twitter mantra of the brave who have made it to the land of The End on their respective projects. There’s plenty of talk of nerves and sweaty palms and hyperventilation and total and absolute fear. I’ve heard it can be paralyzing, that fear. I’ve even seen ongoing twitter conversations in which one writer would be cheered on by a cast of supportive friends until they finally ignored the nerves just long enough to HIT SEND.

And then the twittersphere erupts in silent cheers and exclamation points of happiness.

So I was a little surprised when I realized how easy it actually is to Hit Send. I haven’t had one nerve go haywire or had to wipe a sweaty brow. I’ve just, quite simply, hit send. And it isn’t until the response appears in the inbox that the nerves hit, the palms get sweaty, and the hyperventilating begins because it is at that very moment that I have lost all control over what will come to be.

Hitting Send doesn’t scare me. But I’ll be honest. There are plenty of nerves, two very sweaty palms, and some slight hyperventilating going on as I click the email open to see what’s in store.

There’s a certain writer who’s memoirs I used to devour. Each and every book made me feel like I was having a conversation with a really good girlfriend…with toe-nail painting and glasses of wine and the gab-fest spanning into the wee hours of the morning.

And when I found this writer on twitter, I went all fan-girl and followed. Fast. But I didn’t send a tweet right away. I didn’t want to seem desperate, you now.

Instead, I waited for one of her tweets to come across that seemed a natural for a response from a fan. I wasn’t too surprised when I didn’t get an immediate tweet back. I have 2 thousand followers. She has, um, way more than that. But I still had hope since I saw plenty of interaction with other fans. Maybe I just hadn’t said anything interesting yet.

So I tried again.

And again.

Still.

Nothing.

Coincidentally, I had just purchased one of this writer’s books. I had made it to the second chapter in the book right around the time I started talking to myself on twitter, and found myself wanting to pick up the book less and less with each ignored tweet.

Granted, the account may be manned by an assistant. Or maybe my stuff just isn’t being seen for some reason. God knows how many tweets this writer has coming in any given moment from adoring fans. But no matter how I rationalized not being acknowledged, I was still finding myself less and less interested in reading that book.

It took a conversation with TBFF Juliette for me to figure out why. I was rambling, like I usually do, about Stuff that Doesn’t Matter, including this very topic, when I suddenly had an epiphany. (That automatically made this a blog post because I don’t have those very often.)

“I know I’m not famous or anything, but I see her interact with other regular people.” I said. “But she writes memoir! That alone is like being allowed to peek inside her head. And not even getting a single “hi” or even a “thanks for the tweet!” makes me feel like she doesn’t want me there.”

“Makes sense,” Juliette said.

“It does?” I was stunned I said something that qualified. “Wait! It does! If she was writing fiction, I wouldn’t be nearly as annoyed. Fiction writers create worlds, but they don’t take you inside their own. And to me, it only makes sense to try and interact fully, if interacting at all, to make sure fans feel like that world is accessible. Instead of welcome, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on a private conversation with the rest of the world every time I try to open that book back up.”

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