This past weekend, my daughter competed in her first equestrian vaulting tournament.
She has been working on her routines for several months, three times a week, two to three hours per session.
I've been there every hour, helping care for the horses and longeing for the team (standing in the center of a circle while the horse travels around me on a long line). So I understand how hard she has worked. Several times, I saw her crying from frustration and fear as she struggled to master some of the more difficult elements of her routine. Once she asked me if she could remove the most difficult feat of balance from her routine, because she was sure she could not do it. I told my daughter that she was stronger than she thought, and more capable than she thought, and she needed to trust her coach's judgment on what she could or could not master.
I remember those feelings from my own childhood. Several of my childhood pursuits, both in school and out, presented me with trials that made me doubt myself.
Those were the events that built my character. When I reached the moment at which I thought I could not go on, and then went on anyway, I discovered my real strength and learned not to give up, no matter how I felt.
We can't grow into strong adults unless we face challenges that seem too great, and persevere. Sports teach many young boys and girls these lessons, if they are coached correctly and not shielded too much from the difficulty of their pursuits.
At the competition this weekend, my daughter learned another lesson. For the first time, she felt the thrill of winning a first place ribbon. But in another class, she came in 9th of 11 competitors. It didn't matter to her that the scores were all very close in that class. All she knew was that she had come in close to the bottom. More tears.
I had to hug her, then step up to the character-building moment and teach her how to lose without being crushed.
For me, it was a touching reminder that in success or in failure, we are always stronger and more capable than we think.
We can work harder and surmount obstacles that threaten to overwhelm us.
We can pick ourselves up after failure and understand that when we find the courage to risk, we will always experience both joy and pain as a result.
Are you experiencing the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat right now? Are you in the middle of the struggle, facing great challenges and wanting to turn back? Or are you awaiting the results?
Monday, October 25, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
My Cover Design Has Arrived!
I'm so excited to share with you my novel's cover, which just came in. I couldn't wait until next Monday to post it.
My agent Rachelle Gardner was right, as usual. She told me that seeing the cover would make it seem more real that my novel is soon to be published. Wahoo!
:-)
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Single Best Piece of Advice I Have For Writers
Start as you mean to go on.
That's it. That's the BEST nugget of advice I have for you.
Why does it matter?
If you haven't read this post by Karen Witemeyer, check it out.
Karen has already finished one trilogy for her publishing house. In this post, she tells us that her editor rejected one future book idea because the editor wanted her to stay with her brand, which is "lighthearted and fun."
Fortunately, Karen has a great attitude, and has chosen to see this reminder about branding as an opportunity to help her focus on the types of books that will sell to her readership.
But not every author is so well-suited to her 'brand.' Here's my cautionary word, based on things I have observed during my time in this industry.
Once you sign your first contract, you will immediately begin to build your brand. Your publisher will invest a fair amount of money in launching you and finding the readership for your books. You will NOT be able to change your style, emotional tone, or genre, for at least a few years after your first novel.
Accordingly, your first book should be something you really love, and should be in a style and genre you don't mind reproducing for the next five to ten years. Because if you are successful, you will need to stick with your 'brand.' Keep in mind that not only do you need to love what you have written now, when it's under your control--you need to love it on the OTHER end of the editorial process, too. So, if you find that your prospective publisher wants you to change your novel into a kind of novel you really don't like, I would think long and hard about whether to sign that contract. It's one thing to flex with a publisher's vision. It's quite another to publish a novel you don't like.
I have been abundantly blessed in my publisher (Thomas Nelson) and in my editor, who is better than I ever could have dreamed.
I am grateful that Thomas Nelson likes my novels, and they like the real me. They like my authorial voice. They appreciate my desire to write well-styled, moving work with some substance. It's the perfect match of author and publisher, as far as I'm concerned!
I started as I meant to go on. I knew myself as a writer, and I did not want to be published at any cost. I wanted to publish what I was called to write. That doesn't mean I wasn't willing to make changes--I did make changes, and I appreciated TN's excellent editorial feedback. But I knew which houses were likely to be a good fit for me. You must know that too. Start looking at what houses are putting out. Don't look at one of their books and assume it's representative. Look at the BODY of a house's published work. What do they publish, in general? Do you find it interesting? Do they value the things you value in novels? Are they open to unusual work, or do they tend to stick to a formula?
As some of you know, my first novel was considered by a house that really liked the authentic Victorian feel of the novel. But I was concerned, because their words of praise and ideas for revision focused primarily on the lighter, more comedic side of that novel.
I am not at heart a romantic comedy writer. I enjoy using humor in my novels, especially dry wit. But my passion is for romantic drama.
I knew myself well enough to know what I did NOT want to publish. And you should know this about yourself too. Because what I have discovered in the last two years is that many writers will face crucible moments, in which they must decide how much they are willing to change their work in order to be published.
Only you can answer that question, when you face the heat of the crucible.
So tell me, what do you want to publish? What do you NOT want to publish?
That's it. That's the BEST nugget of advice I have for you.
Why does it matter?
If you haven't read this post by Karen Witemeyer, check it out.
Karen has already finished one trilogy for her publishing house. In this post, she tells us that her editor rejected one future book idea because the editor wanted her to stay with her brand, which is "lighthearted and fun."
Fortunately, Karen has a great attitude, and has chosen to see this reminder about branding as an opportunity to help her focus on the types of books that will sell to her readership.
But not every author is so well-suited to her 'brand.' Here's my cautionary word, based on things I have observed during my time in this industry.
Once you sign your first contract, you will immediately begin to build your brand. Your publisher will invest a fair amount of money in launching you and finding the readership for your books. You will NOT be able to change your style, emotional tone, or genre, for at least a few years after your first novel.
Accordingly, your first book should be something you really love, and should be in a style and genre you don't mind reproducing for the next five to ten years. Because if you are successful, you will need to stick with your 'brand.' Keep in mind that not only do you need to love what you have written now, when it's under your control--you need to love it on the OTHER end of the editorial process, too. So, if you find that your prospective publisher wants you to change your novel into a kind of novel you really don't like, I would think long and hard about whether to sign that contract. It's one thing to flex with a publisher's vision. It's quite another to publish a novel you don't like.
I have been abundantly blessed in my publisher (Thomas Nelson) and in my editor, who is better than I ever could have dreamed.
I am grateful that Thomas Nelson likes my novels, and they like the real me. They like my authorial voice. They appreciate my desire to write well-styled, moving work with some substance. It's the perfect match of author and publisher, as far as I'm concerned!
I started as I meant to go on. I knew myself as a writer, and I did not want to be published at any cost. I wanted to publish what I was called to write. That doesn't mean I wasn't willing to make changes--I did make changes, and I appreciated TN's excellent editorial feedback. But I knew which houses were likely to be a good fit for me. You must know that too. Start looking at what houses are putting out. Don't look at one of their books and assume it's representative. Look at the BODY of a house's published work. What do they publish, in general? Do you find it interesting? Do they value the things you value in novels? Are they open to unusual work, or do they tend to stick to a formula?
As some of you know, my first novel was considered by a house that really liked the authentic Victorian feel of the novel. But I was concerned, because their words of praise and ideas for revision focused primarily on the lighter, more comedic side of that novel.
I am not at heart a romantic comedy writer. I enjoy using humor in my novels, especially dry wit. But my passion is for romantic drama.
I knew myself well enough to know what I did NOT want to publish. And you should know this about yourself too. Because what I have discovered in the last two years is that many writers will face crucible moments, in which they must decide how much they are willing to change their work in order to be published.
Only you can answer that question, when you face the heat of the crucible.
So tell me, what do you want to publish? What do you NOT want to publish?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Amish Fiction and the American Pastoral
A new friend of mine began a fascinating conversation recently at a publishing industry dinner.
She asked: How does the current demand for Amish fiction fit into the history of American fiction? Isn't there always a desire for a retreat to a more pastoral world when the economy is down and the news is bad?
Great question, isn't it?
I had to go back to my dusty scholarly books so I could brush up on the pastoral tradition in American literature.
In particular, I wanted to re-read The Machine in the Garden, by Leo Marx.
Marx's work centers on the image of the railroad's steam engine breaking in on a quiet country landscape. The 'machine' is the threat of technology and progress that looms constantly over the 'garden'--the unspoiled green pastures of the New World.
Why is this a particularly American problem, or, as Marx argues, THE American problem?
Because in the Old World, there were no unused, vast quantities of land offering freedom and self-sufficiency to anyone who could tame them. Only in America did settlers believe that they could make their dreams of rural utopia into reality. Only Americans (and specifically, only those who came into the country as free men and women) had the opportunity to imagine their country as a new Eden.
So how does Amish fiction fit into Marx's scheme?
He proposes two categories of pastoral American fiction.
1)Sentimental pastoral literature, which serves as an idealized escape for the reader into a more innocent world free of politics, war and economic pressures. This world-in-a-bubble is possible because our country hero, the farmer or 'good shepherd in American homespun', is self-sustaining and thus not subject to the ruling powers that govern the urban and commercial world.
2) Complex pastoral literature, in which the author holds up to our view both the pastoral ideal (the garden) AND the techonological, commercial world (the machine). The goal of this kind of fiction is to shed light on the reality of the relationship between these two worlds. It comments on the agrarianism championed by Thomas Jefferson, the notion that: "if all America could somehow be transformed into a garden, a permanently rural republic, then its citizens might escape from the terrible sequence of power struggles, wars, and cruel repressions suffered by Europe" (Marx 138).
The main difference between the two types of literature, then, is that sentimental pastoralism tells the reader: "Yes, it is possible to escape the unpleasantness and unnaturalness of contemporary life. I'll show you how."
Complex pastoralism says: "But is it really possible to simply return to an Edenic country life? How could such a thing be possible? What price would have to be paid for such an escape? Isn't the ugly real world ever-present, ever-encroaching on the garden no matter how we try to push it out? Will the machine eventually destroy the garden?
The Amish fiction I've read has a very tight individual focus. These novels do not comment on the world at large, nor do they paint social issues in a complex way. In what I've read or skimmed (and I admit I'm no expert in the genre), the pastoral Christian values of the Amish are good, while the materialistic, technological world outside is bad. By Marx's definition, this is sentimental pastoralism: a simple dream of escape to while away a few hours. That's not to say it's a bad thing. Whether or not novels should offer pure escapism is a matter of individual taste.
Do you enjoy fiction that offers pure escape? Or do you prefer a little more darkness and reality mixed into your novels? And if you read Amish fiction, and I've overlooked something, please add it in your comment!
She asked: How does the current demand for Amish fiction fit into the history of American fiction? Isn't there always a desire for a retreat to a more pastoral world when the economy is down and the news is bad?
Great question, isn't it?
I had to go back to my dusty scholarly books so I could brush up on the pastoral tradition in American literature.
In particular, I wanted to re-read The Machine in the Garden, by Leo Marx.
Marx's work centers on the image of the railroad's steam engine breaking in on a quiet country landscape. The 'machine' is the threat of technology and progress that looms constantly over the 'garden'--the unspoiled green pastures of the New World.
Why is this a particularly American problem, or, as Marx argues, THE American problem?
Because in the Old World, there were no unused, vast quantities of land offering freedom and self-sufficiency to anyone who could tame them. Only in America did settlers believe that they could make their dreams of rural utopia into reality. Only Americans (and specifically, only those who came into the country as free men and women) had the opportunity to imagine their country as a new Eden.
So how does Amish fiction fit into Marx's scheme?
He proposes two categories of pastoral American fiction.
1)Sentimental pastoral literature, which serves as an idealized escape for the reader into a more innocent world free of politics, war and economic pressures. This world-in-a-bubble is possible because our country hero, the farmer or 'good shepherd in American homespun', is self-sustaining and thus not subject to the ruling powers that govern the urban and commercial world.
2) Complex pastoral literature, in which the author holds up to our view both the pastoral ideal (the garden) AND the techonological, commercial world (the machine). The goal of this kind of fiction is to shed light on the reality of the relationship between these two worlds. It comments on the agrarianism championed by Thomas Jefferson, the notion that: "if all America could somehow be transformed into a garden, a permanently rural republic, then its citizens might escape from the terrible sequence of power struggles, wars, and cruel repressions suffered by Europe" (Marx 138).
The main difference between the two types of literature, then, is that sentimental pastoralism tells the reader: "Yes, it is possible to escape the unpleasantness and unnaturalness of contemporary life. I'll show you how."
Complex pastoralism says: "But is it really possible to simply return to an Edenic country life? How could such a thing be possible? What price would have to be paid for such an escape? Isn't the ugly real world ever-present, ever-encroaching on the garden no matter how we try to push it out? Will the machine eventually destroy the garden?
The Amish fiction I've read has a very tight individual focus. These novels do not comment on the world at large, nor do they paint social issues in a complex way. In what I've read or skimmed (and I admit I'm no expert in the genre), the pastoral Christian values of the Amish are good, while the materialistic, technological world outside is bad. By Marx's definition, this is sentimental pastoralism: a simple dream of escape to while away a few hours. That's not to say it's a bad thing. Whether or not novels should offer pure escapism is a matter of individual taste.
Do you enjoy fiction that offers pure escape? Or do you prefer a little more darkness and reality mixed into your novels? And if you read Amish fiction, and I've overlooked something, please add it in your comment!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Epiphanies
epiphany (n.)
1. ( initial capital letter ) a Christian festival, observed on January 6, commemorating the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles in the persons of the Magi; Twelfth-day.
2. an appearance or manifestation, esp. of a deity.
3. a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.
As writers, we're always searching for epiphany, in its third definition above. The task of putting together theme, plot and character is so complex that we can't see our way outside the world we're building. Our writing process is a never-ending quest for discernment. We need critique partners and editors to help us recognize the details and connections that elude us as we create our raw material.
I pray for discernment, and sometimes, I get it in the form of an epiphany.
This is the most amazing feeling.
All last week, I was struggling to pull my work-in-progress out of its chaotic, mid-revision state. I prayed nightly for help. I knew something needed to change, but I couldn't see what.
On Saturday morning, I got the answer.
I was going to have to cut two opening chapters of the novel, and reverse a character's attitude on a key plot event.
You know when a film burns up, how a black spot starts and then melts across the whole screen? OK, maybe you have to be over 35 to know that, because I don't think they use celluloid in movie theaters anymore. But for those of you who saw this as children, you may be able to picture it. A film freezes, then black, red and brown crackle across the projected image and leave only a clear whiteness.
That's how it feels to have a story epiphany. The little film that has been playing in your head stops, and burns up, and suddenly you are able to see with a clarity that astounds you.
Why didn't I see it before? It's so obvious!
Even my husband voiced similar thoughts when I told him about changing the character attitude. The change was so clearly right, once I voiced it, that he wondered why he hadn't caught the problem himself.
Here's the coolest part, though.
I don't believe, as the third definition says, that an epiphany is caused by a 'simple, homely, or commonplace experience.'
Epiphany happens when the divine breaks through into our world, just as it did on that first Epiphany two thousand years ago. Epiphany occurs when a little supernatural light falls on the page to give us the help we've been asking for.
How about you? Have you had an epiphany recently? What triggered it?
1. ( initial capital letter ) a Christian festival, observed on January 6, commemorating the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles in the persons of the Magi; Twelfth-day.
2. an appearance or manifestation, esp. of a deity.
3. a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.
As writers, we're always searching for epiphany, in its third definition above. The task of putting together theme, plot and character is so complex that we can't see our way outside the world we're building. Our writing process is a never-ending quest for discernment. We need critique partners and editors to help us recognize the details and connections that elude us as we create our raw material.
I pray for discernment, and sometimes, I get it in the form of an epiphany.
This is the most amazing feeling.
All last week, I was struggling to pull my work-in-progress out of its chaotic, mid-revision state. I prayed nightly for help. I knew something needed to change, but I couldn't see what.
On Saturday morning, I got the answer.
I was going to have to cut two opening chapters of the novel, and reverse a character's attitude on a key plot event.
You know when a film burns up, how a black spot starts and then melts across the whole screen? OK, maybe you have to be over 35 to know that, because I don't think they use celluloid in movie theaters anymore. But for those of you who saw this as children, you may be able to picture it. A film freezes, then black, red and brown crackle across the projected image and leave only a clear whiteness.
That's how it feels to have a story epiphany. The little film that has been playing in your head stops, and burns up, and suddenly you are able to see with a clarity that astounds you.
Why didn't I see it before? It's so obvious!
Even my husband voiced similar thoughts when I told him about changing the character attitude. The change was so clearly right, once I voiced it, that he wondered why he hadn't caught the problem himself.
Here's the coolest part, though.
I don't believe, as the third definition says, that an epiphany is caused by a 'simple, homely, or commonplace experience.'
Epiphany happens when the divine breaks through into our world, just as it did on that first Epiphany two thousand years ago. Epiphany occurs when a little supernatural light falls on the page to give us the help we've been asking for.
How about you? Have you had an epiphany recently? What triggered it?
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